The first time I felt social anxiety leave my body in public, I was being pushed around in a crowd at a Thursday show. I was sixteen and alone in Manhattan. I told my mom I was at a friend’s house. I only knew a few Thursday songs, which my high school guidance counselor had shown me, but I didn’t need to be familiar with the music to enjoy the reckless movement, the collective excitement communicated through flailing limbs.
I became obsessed with moshing after that. I didn’t want to go to any shows where it didn’t happen. Live music that prompted the audience to stand still wasn’t live music to me; the audience had to be a part of the performance, live music was supposed to break the barrier between the musician and the fans. I loved watching people jump onto the stage just to dive right off. This happened most at local venues on Long Island I frequented—Revolution Bar, which shut down during the pandemic and was turned into a church, and Amityville Music Hall, right down the street from it.
I love music the same way I love being drunk; it’s a power I can submit to, and in return, it frees me. I don’t drink anymore for this reason. For all of 2022, I showed up to concerts drunk, flinging my body around in crowds, uncaring of injury. I was trying to reach some transcendental state. I liked falling, because people would always pick me back up; I liked relinquishing control and responsibility, relying on others to save me. One night, I broke my foot; another time, I hurt my knees so bad I couldn’t walk for two weeks.
John Maus is known for his erratic stage presence, not unlike Ian Curtis’, which he refers to as the hysterical body. It is an attempt at authenticity; he jumps up and down, sometimes punching the air, an uncomfortable spectacle. You feel almost embarrassed or voyeuristic watching him, then you feel envious because he looks liberated. “I believe that’s what we all really want,” he said about it in a Pitchfork interview, “is to see one another and be seen.” Though he’s on a pedestal, he’s not performing—he’s being as vulnerable as possible.
Shows are simultaneously a hard and easy place to forget about peoples’ perception of you. It’s hard because there are so many people; you’re being perceived at all angles. In addition, shows are often social events more than they are about the music. People are there just to say they were there, just to prove it with an Instagram story.
However, if the show is really powerful, none of this matters. You not only forget you’re being perceived, but you forget your existence altogether, and all that exists is the music and the movement. And this is, in my opinion, one of the best experiences—a pure deconstructing of the ego. This happens most in the rough tide of a fervent, united crowd, committed to the heat of the moment. You are no longer individuals; you’re working toward becoming one unit, one wave of passion.
I’ve been thinking about this since seeing Fiddlehead at Amityville Music Hall the other weekend. I saw them there in 2019, and I’ve watched as they take their songs to bigger rooms, where the magic often gets lost. I felt pure awe on Sunday night, witnessing these massive dudes jumping on each others’ heads to scream into Patrick Flynn’s mic. Similarly, my other favorite show of 2023 was Turnstile at a 350-cap venue in Baltimore, one guy swinging from the railing of the balcony, just blissful mayhem. I’m happy both bands are getting the appreciation they deserve, but it’s bittersweet, because there is nothing like these intimate shows in tiny rooms where we’re temporarily free of our egos and moving toward something spiritual and real. So much of life is subconscious performance, and the best art will crack our façade, bring us closer to our true selves.
In other news:
I reviewed Blake Butler’s Molly for Hobart. I recommend this book to everyone.
I wrote my first article for The Hard Times. I know all of my exes are proud of me.
I reviewed the new Full Of Hell and Nothing album. Obviously, recommend.
Also, I hope you enjoy the cover photo for this post, which, if you look closely, depicts me crowdsurfing to Citizen.