it’s always a damned microcosm

It is no secret that I love and respect the Tiny Punky Bassplayer but last night, with her band, felt like physical evidence she’s changing the world. It’s not just cause our charter plans were drafted by the same ombudsman; I could see her presence affecting the cool girls in the front row, who took her photo with disposable cameras and carefully watched her hands hit frets. People, take it from Jessica Hopper: SMILING AT INDIVIDUAL AUDIENCE MEMBERS FROM THE STAGE, especially when your primary fanbase is still riding the age-rail between Barbies and driving, IS A SUPER RADICAL ACT. Smiling at people from the stage backs it up when Al points out we’re all human beings up here.
About six clean-cut teen-dudes formed a spotty mosh pit, ramming into Sean and me by centrifugal force. I felt torn between the old familiar thrust of annoyance and show-invasion—and wanting to join in, just to prove a point. Even after years of fielding this scenario, being shoved around by boys twice my size (now 1/2 my age), my instincts haven’t changed. My subconscious mind did the same old softshoe, telling me to act tuff, to ignore my fear, pretend I’m not assailed by this unraveling violence and testosterone—because for a girl to penetrate the pit, even with eyes glued shut, earns her respect in this world. Shows you can weather the bruises—physical proof you can hang with the dudes who are running shit. Mosh pits are not very populist. Dance Club, co-ed feminist/ situationist dance troupe to which I once belonged, tried to bust apart the exclusionary nature of punk shows by infiltrating pits with booty-bass choreography, but we essentially stopped operating after all the death threats on PDX hardcore message boards.
I ended up with a bruised arm. When the mini-pit dissipated, I stood mom-like in their wake, busting some half-club snaps and subdued rhythm nation footwork, because anyway, seeing my cool best friend play bass on stage made me proud and happy.