When Mudhoney played the Metro in '99, I made a somewhat deliberate effort to dress like my early '90s self with the intent of braving the moshpit. I'd stopped moshing around '94 when moshpits became overrun with idiots. But the night of that concert it hit me that once I stopped moshing, I started dressing like a girl. I no longer had to dress for defense: no more leather jacket, Doc Marten's, pants with lots of pockets so I wouldn't have to carry a purse.
I had a sociology TA who posited that the social rules for moshing are just
as detailed as those for waltzing. Unfortunately, some people at the Buzzcocks
show last Friday at the Metro need a refresher course on the rules. Specifically,
if you want to crash into other people, go to the moshpit where, by
implied collective contract, others have agreed to be crashed into. Do not
be a moshpit unto yourself.
When I become Queen of the World, I will decree that no one can mosh unless
their IQ exceeds their body weight. Until then, I'll stick to wearing miniskirts
and open shoes and remaining on the fringes of the pit.