He’s a patch-heavy jean jacket and 6’2” standing straight, but he’s folding violent like an inflatable tube man, his eyes looking glass as they roll over the whole room, but my stare is frozen, turned to stone by the giant Caravaggio Medusa patched on his back like a target. He’s got his arms around his bros, all long-haired white men like him, with nose rings and faces that start puppy-eying “Women’s Rights!” the second their dick gets a bloodhound scent. They aren’t bad men, especially not now, kicklining and dancing and punching each other, a barely upright mess of limbs clacking together, a drum section of their own bone. Maeve’s on-stage singing her heart out, neon-purple hair parting for a sly smile. She sends us a prideful look between her guitar licks. Maeve’s partner, Lulu, gets special winks. Lulu and I’ve already been in the pit, but I drove and can’t drink so I’m not loose like I’d like to be, not putting myself out with those boys over there. But I want to throw myself at them, hit and get hit.  

A mosh pit is a form of dancing. Dancing is what happens when music gets inside you and becomes physical. Different music leads to different possessions; violent music tends to lead to aggression. You aren’t alone in this thought; everyone in the room is feeling it too. An unspoken contract forms: I hit you and you hit me till we both get it out of our systems. Which of the two you enjoy more tends to be about what you bring to the show. Are you angrier at yourself or the world? I usually prefer getting hit, which is why I throw myself in the center, imagining a kickball beneath the sweaty mass that I’ve got to get my hands around like a goalie. After a couple knocks in the head, I walk out and feel cleansed and better about myself. 

The highlight of my nights: a firm kick to the face.  

Wood hits linoleum over by the pool table and Lulu and I periscope-swivel to see. The venue’s small, just a shitty bar, cafeteria floor for easy clean-up and $5 a PBR, making it the perfect place for people whose top priority is drinking in public for cheap. It’s aptly named The Save More Lounge. The pool cue’s been dropped by a shorter guy in a leather jacket, Filipino and 45, a hard face with tiny scars you can’t help but imagine were cut in bar fights in dingy rooms like this. He’s staring down Medusa, but he isn’t frozen like me. He starts a slow, deliberate walk towards the pit. He’s about 15 feet away when the song ends, 5 feet away when the next begins, and as it starts gearing up he starts running. He hits 15 miles per hour and jumps, both feet off the ground, landing a firm, full body kick right to the Gorgon’s teeth. 6’4” hasn’t gotten back into the music yet, so his back’s straight when he takes the impact, absorbing it with nary a foot stumbled forward. Instead, he just starts turning around like someone tapped his shoulder, which is a big problem for our wannabe wrestler. Leather Jacket is somehow still suspended in the air when Jean Jacket starts turning. The Human Torpedo’s two planted feet corkscrew, his spine shoots out like a wine topper. The air’s grooves somehow turn his still-aerial body to face the floor. He falls. His nose gets crushed like an accordion. 

Blood is on the floor when the drums come in. He’s sprawled like a bear carpet and I start hoping that feet will trample him, his body lost in the mosh.  

That doesn’t happen though; the music keeps going but the white boys are getting down, not in the dancing sense, they just want to help the guy to his knees. Medusa-Man takes the role of traffic cop and starts directing the too-drunk to mosh on the other half of the room. At some point someone gets toilet paper for the guy’s nose, which is still gushing, blood dripping off his top lip onto the floor. His eyes are wide-open and vacant. He hasn’t said a word since he hit the ground. 

“Are you OK? Are you OK?” they squawk with the self-absolving fervor of schoolyard morality, hoping the scrape is small enough to forget or big enough that a teacher will take over so they can go back to playing. He’s looking straight up at the ceiling, praying for something to happen. We all try to watch in anticipation, but our other halves are shaking the whole room, and eventually the music starts getting too good and shoes start forgetting. The shuffle starts again, bloody footprints on linoleum, as the aging punk finally stands up. Refusing even a sleeve to wipe his face, he returns quietly to the pool table, sets up another round, and drips red on the white cue ball. 

Two months later and I’m going to see Maeve again. She’s playing Chop Shop, a combination deli-bar-tavern-concertvenue located about a block away from the heart of Wicker Park in Chicago. It’s practically next door to the much more popular Subterranean, a betrayal of the unspoken contract between music venues. There’s dozens of shitty ones scattered across the city with the same set-up: over-priced bar to deter the underpaid and underaged; an all-black paint-job, totally undecorated venue; and a cash-only ticket policy which, handily, an ATM in the front will be happy to upcharge you for. Since they’ve all got the same deal going on, there’s generally some respect for territory and distance. It’s a lot easier to book bands and get people to come to shows when you’re the only place around. That safety net doesn’t stop each one from kitschifying themselves, pursuing self-differentiation like a chorus of identical Hollywood hopefuls: this one’s John Wayne-themed; this one hosts comedy nights; this one needs you to DM for the address so you don’t notice that it’s a shitty basement until you’re already there. Chop Shop’s “innovation” is an all digital ticketing system, which sounds great until you have to download the custom app and make an account and put in your credit card number and try desperately to find a reason, any reason at all to not delete the app immediately from your phone once you leave the venue.  

Maeve’s playing there because a promoter for the place came up to them after the Save More. Promoter offered to include them in a showcase set up by a third-party, the One Giant Leap Showcase, a mysterious entity that sets up 5+ band dockets across the country. Unlike most places, Chop Shop doesn’t offer any upfront pay, just a cut of the presales and nothing more.  

My girlfriend and I walk in and immediately hate it. The inside of Chop Shop feels like it’s trying to sell you a $17 farm-fresh brunch dish that’ll taste like nothing and make you feel sick afterwards. The deli’s closed but the chalkboard menu and too-nice-tile tell you the archetypal employee: curly mustache middle-manager-mindset property-owning self-importance, the type of guy who’d quietly sneak to the stereo system and put on a jazz standard he knows way too much about just to tell the whole party about it.  

We walk roughly three feet into the place and try to scan our tickets at the bouncer. The app doesn’t seem to be working, so he just gives up and lets us into the bar area. No one working here gives a shit. The bar walls are decorated with big black and white posters of Flea and The Black Keys. I imagine who’d be excited by bands like that and come up with less-athletic dads and wine-party moms. I’m horrified to notice that’s exactly who’s standing around. It doesn’t make sense. The flier promised a night of pop punk, a genre you’re obligated to stop liking once you start taking vacations where you have to rent a car, yet the crowd practically reeks of beach-front vacation homes.  

We push our way past the Florida-futured and into the actual venue. It’s bigger than most, as black and unfurnished as the worst of them, but the sound system’s a bit better than you’d expect. It’s a long night of music, starting at 5 and going to 10, but we’re 3 hours late because something told us to dread coming.  

A band I don’t know is playing. The guitarist is wearing an American flag button down. I tune into the music. It sounds like music you actively try to forget. Where the fuck is Maeve? 

I text her and Lulu as my girlfriend and I take turns in the bathroom. They’re separated by gender but the sinks are communal, a bizarro construction that forces you to grab door handles with unwashed, shitty hands. I look at myself in the mirror next to a Wilco Dad, who gives me a smile that I try to return but can’t, totally stuck on the thought of “why the fuck am I at the same concert as him”. I was a very picky child. 

Maeve texts back; we walked right by her. We head to a booth in the bar and her whole band’s taking it up. I smile at the other five members and try desperately to remember which names belong to which face. The band, Calmness, is a big operation even though it’s a solo project. Maeve writes each part for each instrument before assembling the group to play them live. It’s the third band Maeve’s in. She’s busy as hell, breaking my most fantasy-enticing preconception of a musician’s relaxed, bohemian life. I rarely see her outside of concerts, which normally would make me insecure in a friendship, but– 

“Do we want to go to my van?” Lulu asks me quietly, and I’m secure again. I’m feeling the massive dude energy too, a saturation not so much of masculinity as of unthoughtfulness, galloping conversation which unintentionally sidelines anyone without the pre-knowledge to keep up. Lulu nudges Maeve. Maeve understands.  

“Yeah, sure, I think I have enough time before my set.” Calmness is the headliner (best’s always saved for last), so Maeve thinks ‘the whole band will have time to come outside’ and extends the offer. Mistake. Lulu sends me a put-upon glance and a ‘I was trying to tell you something’ glare to Maeve, but it’s too late. Six of us walk out, Finn and DJ picked up from the band.  

Lulu totaled her car a few months back and just got their new one, a mammoth three row white van that goes perfect with her demeanor. They’re clowncore: striped clothes and white makeup. Not just for concerts either, not that you’d expect to find her anywhere else; Lulu’s an official merch person for all their girlfriend’s bands and more. Their Instagram Story is one of the most comprehensive broadcasters of DIY concert flyers from Chicago to St. Louis. They mosh. 

We’re piling into the car and Finn and DJ’s mouth-breathing is grating me. I pull out a pipe; Lulu pulls out theirs. Marijuana’s a social ritual. Everyone’s a bit on edge and bad at talking (it is a pop punk concert, after all), and for the quick to disengage it’s a veritable minefield of stifling silences. The only guaranteed way out: asking if anyone wants to smoke. Everyone perks up when they see that you’re like them. It establishes a commonality, something to talk about. Offering it for free is my go-to antidote to social anxiety; people love you when you give them drugs. Plus, it’s fun in and of itself. Mostly. 

The flower is lit but the talk still isn’t starting. Finn and DJ are quietly mouthing back and forth about some friend of a friend’s new band, Lulu’s thumbing Maeve’s hand, trying to pull her attention from eavesdropping to romantic public handholding. I make eye contact with my girlfriend as I’m passed the pipe and I start feeling ashamed. The smoke’s thick now, not a window down, and the weight of what we’re doing starts bearing down. No talk, no love, no connection, the only binding agent here is a desire to get high. The van transforms from a haven to an opium den. I feel sick. 

Right when I’m about to hair trigger eject like a fighter pilot, Finn realizes Calmness is up and leads an exodus. Lulu wishes Maeve good luck but doesn’t get up, looking at me instead. I stay sitting. 

Maeve and the boys leave and Lulu instantly loosens, turning to us in the backseat with a relieved sigh. “I fucking hate men.” I don’t feel sick anymore. Our bond’s always been founded on a strange commonality, a sense of not wanting to be around the guys. 

We finish another bowl and head in for Maude’s show. It’s real late now, the last band went 30 minutes over, and it seems the over-50 crowd is getting too bone tired to stay. The bar’s almost deserted, but I point at the few people left and ask Lulu “why the fuck are these people at this show?” They tell me that almost all of them are someone’s parents, and six bands in one night, four members a piece, two parents each? It should be a pretty sizable crowd, but it doesn’t seem like any of them are here for Calmness.  

We walk into the venue and it is literally empty. The three of us are the only ones in the crowd. Maeve stalls, tuning way longer than she needs, before yelling into the mic: “Everyone at the bar come on in, it’d really mean a lot. We’re the last of the night and we’re gonna play hard.” She starts with a fury.  

If you’ve never felt the overwhelming embarrassment of hearing live music in an empty room, the competition between dancing out of politeness and being still in self-awareness is painful. On the one hand, there’s music playing and, if it’s good, it pretty naturally makes you want to sync up some part of your body with it. Add to it knowing the people in a band and you a protective instinct makes you want to lead the crowd. Every scripted call for everyone to go wild becomes personalized and accusatory, mudding you with guilt that you can’t muster up the mojo to dance. On the other hand, there’s absolutely no one around you. It’s not just that you want to dance with someone, but it's that there’s no one to help you forget you’re dancing, no other body to focus on. Embarrassment always beats me. Self-consciousness never did me much good. But if you ever see somebody dancing or playing in an empty venue, salute. You owe them your respect. 

I’m convinced at this concert that Calmness has what it takes. The music sounded great even without an audience to hype you into believing it is. Maevegets off stage a bit upset, exchanging what tensed jaw tells you must be harsh words with the Chop Shop owners. She comes over and starts listing all the ways the venue’s just ripped them off: billing them last, dropping the best bands from the roster, and hiring a bunch of ‘off-genre’ groups. She invites us all to go grab a slice of pizza, DJ and Finn too, but they’ve got work early the next day so they dip. Lulu breathes a sigh of relief. “I love DJ but he’s so fucking disgusting. Do you know he drinks like seven Monster Energies a day?” 

A month later and I’m standing outside a venue not worth remembering with DJ. He’s introducing me to his friend, a tall girl who works at a dispensary and does advocacy work on weekends, pitching me to her. 

“I’ve never seen Audrey and not immediately gotten high after!” I can tell it makes a good impression on her, but I wince. DJ’s telling the truth, and god, what does that say about me? An imp in my head sirens: “Addict!” 

We’re smoking out in the open, where conversation tends to move easier, the desire to show off to strangers passing-by how even a snippet of your conversation is eternally memorable. I do well in these scenarios, but you can’t dominate the circle. Everyone’s got to have their turn and prove their stuff, spin a story that proves them not a narc but not a junkie, not a basket-case but not too normal. DJ’s friend introduces herself with a tale about how she ran over a possum while driving on acid. I start trying to commiserate with her, to push past the basic “it was so scary” into something more self-revealing, but the true sensationalism is coming out of DJ’s mouth. I shift my attention.  

DJ tells us about cooking three pounds of camel meat with his coworker during their shift at Domino’s. It wasn’t your average pizzeria: his boss would hand out tabs at the start of shifts and employees would frequently hold birthday parties in the back, an indoor trash-barrel fire providing destructive entertainment. That wasn’t what they used on Camel Meat day though. They took a grill out to the back-alley and called up their friends that were off and started a genuine block party as they burned through the meat. Neither of them had ever worked with camel flesh before and ended up undercooking it. Everyone who ate it spewed.  

DJ takes a sip of his Monster Energy and I remember what Lulu told me. I ask him if it’s true. 

“It’s more like eight, honestly, but they’re sugar-free, usually” 

I continue, “How do you feel towards Monster?”

“Man, I’m here for a good time, not a long time, and I look at it like I look at a cigarette, just ‘Damn, you’re going to kill me, but you’re just so good.’” 

I nod. Those without an instinct for self-preservation are scary, partly because they burn up so fast, partly because they tend to burn brighter and do more interesting things than anyone too concerned with staying alive. I in equal part envy and pity him, but it’s too late at night and I’m too high to indulge in three syllable emotions. The set’s starting anyway. 

Maeve’s other band  is on now, pushing through sound problems. DJ’s the first to be ready, using his opportunity to get a fan to shuttle a PBR his way. He alternates between chugging it and a newly opened white Monster. The band starts and DJ starts shredding. He is an incredible guitarist.  

The music’s really going, the crowd’s feeling good. There’s been a couple openers, all great, and even though it’s a Sunday night at least 40 people are here and ready. The crowd starts jumping, up and down and up and down, and DJ, oh, he’s so beautiful with his six-string white chrome finish.  It’s the same color as his Monster, a perfect aesthetic match, nevermind pimply skin and unhealthy life, video game addiction and too-late nights, he’s feeling it, we’re all feeling it, he’s up and down too, jumping and moving his hand faster than I could ever hope too, fast enough to make my jaw hang slack without even realizing it. 

The femmes go wild. Lulu’s posture changes unfolds from stiff to bounce. The femmes provide for each other: a semi-unspoken safety net and a promise that you can dance without consequences. But the matter isn’t just how many testo junkies are around, it’s what they’re caught up in. There’s that bloodhound scent in the air, they’re searching for something, and when the music’s pumping loud, or when the stage is falling apart, they’re gorged, fat and immobile like a mosquito. They’re allowed to mosh all night; we only do when the moment is right, when begging for a punch is taken as just that and not an invitation for more. It is only at the apex of sound and reactivity, right when everyone’s moving as much as possible, that I becomes you. You, for just a moment, forget yourself. When you once again hold the reins of yourself, jumping in the middle of strangers you’ll never see again, you go “fuck it” and don’t think about sending wrong signals or getting felt up. You know it’s dangerous, at least a bit, but you’ve had a taste now of being outside yourself. You stop thinking and move. 

DJ slams down a power-chord; the crowd screams along to Maeve’s lyrics. He ramps up for a solo, jumps up onto a slightly raised platform, but immediately he’s falling, his foot hitting 45 degrees on the stage’s edge and sending him backwards. He tumbles over all his audio equipment and Maeve’s PBR. The AUX cord and the beer mix together. 

The rest of the band doesn’t stop playing, but the crowd goes silent for a moment. Finn doesn’t stop shredding, but walks slowly over to DJ. He reaches out a stiff leg like a tree branch over rapids. DJ grabs it and rises, puts both hands in the air, raised fists. He is proud. The venue’s sound guy is panicking. The crowd doesn’t notice though; they’re just too happy they got to see it. DJ picks up his guitar and starts again, the crowd loves his sound, punching and kicking and fighting and bleeding, the rest of the song, bolstered by his moment of drunken glory. No one, not the audience or the band, notices he’s not plugged in anymore. 

Audrey Petrozzi is attempting to do her best in Chicago, IL. Her writing has previously appeared in Filmslop, Snaggletooth Magazine, and the Bowdoin Journal of Cinema. She hopes to utilize her writing to make friends with rich and powerful people, and she would be deeply hurt to find out that her writing ever made somebody feel less alone.