Attending concerts has never been my calling. Instead, I had always chosen to listen to music free of charge, by blasting terrestrial radio stations and illegally downloading tunes (gasp!). I finally broke down last year and forked out $50 bucks to attend a heavy metal concert. Standard for some regular teen, I suppose. But I am more prone to blasting Taylor Swift — and regretfully knowing all the words — than the inaudible screams of enter-your-favourite-heavy-metal-band-here.
Thus, an awkward experience was had when I was hauled by maniac friends to see Lamb of God and a host of other bands I don’t really care to remember. We descended upon the Convention Centre amidst legions of our fellow metalheads, myself being the poser. To shed my imposter image, I awkwardly threw up my right hand in the customary devil horns gesture and proceeded to bob my head in correspondence with the beat. I may have appeared to fit in!
By night’s end, I even voluntarily entered the “Wall of Death” mosh pit, where attendees split in two and charged at each other continually. I went for two trials and was awarded an elbow to the chest for my effort. Having received the hint, I bolted for an opening to get away from the rabid throng. In retrospect, particularly memorable was these metalheads’ fervent enthusiasm. The sweat drenching their bodies helped designate their membership to this vibrant subculture . . . which is more dedication than many other music supporters can say.