“I didn’t like you very much when I met you …
And now I like you even less.”
The mosh pit. A beer-soaked, heaving scrum of flailing limbs and tortured groans. Basically a playfight set to music. My 39-year-old self wonders just what the touch sensitive, 8-stone, 16-year-old-me was thinking. A knee in the groin. An elbow in the face. (To quote the Mancunian Bard.) Good times.
As a teenager, moshing was about the only form of exercise I got. They should have put it in P.E. lessons. Far more useful to me than climbing a rope or doing some star jumps.
Diving into any mosh pit at London’s Astoria with my cousins felt like coming home. (Kind of. A mosh pit would be a weird sort of home. But you know what I mean.) And the Stuffies remind me most of those times. A strange, painful bonding process. But every bruise was a sign of affection.
These days it’s all acoustic, alt-country shows at the Queen Elizabeth Hall for me. Not so much moshing at those. Probably just as well. But there’s still a part of me that wants to try that other gig-going rite of passage: the stage dive. Maybe it's time for me to book tickets for the Stuffies reunion tour.
Spotify linky:
The Wonder Stuff – Unbearable
(Regular readers won’t be in the least bit surprised to hear that my Dad hated this song – I’m not picking these deliberately, he just hated a lot of my music.)
Thanks to Holly for inspiring today's post.
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