Last Dance for the Bleeding Hearts, Etc.

Simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing I've ever had to write, save an obituary. Sorry for getting High Fidelity on you all, but it has to happen sometime.

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So, the new dance is Me, Teenager. I don't have Real Punks Don't Wear Black handy, but there's a part where he talks about how black music is more about control (James Brown, dancing/Detroit, maybe even the reigns Ayler gets on chaos), while white music is ostensibly about the loss of control (he acknowledges the generalization, but is thinking about stuff like punk or moshing and not necessarily "Spanish Fly"-style fingerworks). I saw Lightning Bolt last night; it wasn't the most on show I've seen by them. It was, however, insanely loud and glorious enough to make me forget everything stowed away in the link at the top of this post (for an hour or so).

Fat guys have a tendency to move horizontally rather than vertically in pits, which makes it really hard for someone of my stature (6'1", about 160) to survive, despite my workout regimen; I got tossed around a lot. Then again, surrender is part of, if not the impetus for the entire experience to begin with. Also, tying your shoes in pits: scary. It all reminded me, as my friends sat on the sidelines straight drankin', that it's really wonderful to get into a pile full of strangers, flail around, and tap into the oceanic via colliding tributaries of hairsweat and heaving dampness(es). And despite my weird pretense that these types of crowds (the ones that want to freak the fuck out sans dance diagram) can be really volatile, I only end up having glorious, smiling experiences. Sure, noize dudes and longhairs aplenty, but also lots of small asian girls, and more than a few guys holding their glasses in their hand above the crowd while they flipped out. A playpen for the plenty cautious, really. I left remembering all the good parts of 17.