It was 1995. Or was it 1994?
I surveyed the room, angered by the sea of middle-aged music journalists opting to stand around in their horn-rimmed glasses while Sunny Day Real Estate brought their blend of Midwest emo to a few hundred of us at the Knitting Factory.
My buddy and I had waited what seemed like forever to see our favorite band in the Big Apple, and there was no way in hell that these scruffy and stiff “adults” were going to stop us from dancing our balls off.
So we moshed.
And slammed.
It was a pit of two, nowhere near enough elbows and knees flying in the air to sustain the momentum.
We were asked to stop nicely.
We were asked to stop not so nicely.
We were threatened to stop.
After the show, on the E train back to Queens, we talked about our disappointment in the crowd.
“That will NEVER be me,” the 18-year-old me declared.
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