In the beginning was the pit.
Yesterday, I did something I hadn't done in a quarter century. To be entirely frank, that quarter century has gone so fast that I didn't realize how much I missed it.
I moshed.
It was the perfect 'dance' for Generation X; a simplistic jumping motion, bouncing into other flannel-covered, Birkenstock-wearing, holey-blue-jeaned grungers, like molecules under high heat and pressure. Moshing was wild abandonment to a moment of uncaring. The 90's were a time of transition, from the overly-synthesized 80's to the crunching, distorted guitars. The music reflected this transition: the nostalgic syrup of Baby Boomers, fresh from Disco and its tight polyester, to under-dressed and overly-simple catchy tunes and lyrics. Gone were the days of Toto and their rains in Africa; in was Weezer and their mournful retelling of the ruination of a sweater.
While yesterday I moshed with a group of teenagers to the greatest grunge song of all - Smells Like Teen Spirit - my thoughts floated back to a day, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
In October of 1994, I was a bartender at the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) in Waverly, Iowa. On the north side of town, the VFW was a quiet, smoky dive, decorated with the autumn colors of the seventies - bright oranges, chocolatey browns, tans and a smattering of faded yellow. The mottled carpet was worn thin in places and holes created from long dead cigarettes pocked the material, especially around the pool table. On the long south wall was a juke box with a coin slot.
One song for a quarter. Eight songs for a dollar! The discs were tracks straight from the 70's: Steppenwolf, Kansas, Led Zeppelin, the Eagles.
On most nights the faithful few, three or four WWII veterans and their wives would pull up to the bar stools and order their drinks (which we got to know very quickly) and then the women would retreat to a table while the guys would tell stories and tease the bartenders. They came for the camaraderie and the conversation, not to mention the incredibly cheap drinks which their $20 yearly memberships bought them.
One night, as Don and Ray (I still remember their names) were chatting with my brother and I behind the bar, Don said, 'Why don't you bring some of your friends down here? Liven the place up a little bit?'
'You mean that's legal? Even if they aren't veterans?'
Don raised an overly long, curly eyebrow and snorted. 'As long as they pay their dues, we'd love to have them.'
To be fair, $20 seemed like a lot of money in those days. For a college student on a budget, it could buy 1/3 of a college text book or five cases of Grainbelt Beer (free t-shirt included!). Ryan and I decided to invite a few of our closest friends and see what they would do.
The next weekend, we brought half a dozen of our preppiest friends - ones that scrubbed up pretty nice so as not to frighten the veterans and their wives. One friend, Eric, walked through the door and his eyes lit up. Suddenly, it appeared as if he'd walked into Nirvana: 70's furniture, 70's music, 70 year old people, 75 cent draughts of beer! Eric strode confidently across the room and without further ado slapped a $20 bill on the counter. 'Make me a member and give me a beer!' Within seconds of his membership, Eric and Don, a suspender wearing man with a protruding gut, were in avid conversation about life and all that it meant.
Fast forward four months.
It's February of 1995. The bitter cold winter of the midwest had settled in. Mounds of snow were heaped on the corners of streets. The wind had a bite that stung. But I didn't feel it, because the VFW was the site of a concert unlike they'd ever had before.
For four months, word at Wartburg had spread. The VFW was THE place to be on weekends and Wednesdays. The half dozen preppies in the beginning grew to one hundred and fifty memberships. Almost nightly, college students were driving to the south side of town, away from the dance club on the main drag, to drink beer and talk to old people. In fact, it wasn't just an increase in college students wanting to drink cheaper, more older folks were coming in to check out the noise and the laughter.
On that magical night, though, there was a lineup at the bar twelve deep. The juke box was ringing out a song about a magic carpet ride; a score of veterans were chatting with college students clinking glasses and and asking the young ones to talk a little louder. We were running out of cheeseballs and onion rings, and for some reason, the owner of the VFW had purchased pickled eggs which were being gobbled quickly. There was so much excitement that night because above us, on the second level, was a dance floor, and the band was getting ready to play.
Generally, musical groups that played at VFW's lean in the Big Band direction, but that night - that most memorable night - Sweatlodge, made up of Wartburg's own students, was playing. The sound began to thump through the floor, glorious thrashing sounds of grunge. As the students two-fisted their cheap beers and headed up the stairs, I caught Don's raised eyebrow. 'You should go check it out,' I said.
He shrugged, grinned, and nodded and limped his way after Eric who had, unsurprisingly, begun wearing matching suspenders to Don. These two unlikely twins marched up the stairs. After a while, when the rush for beer had ended, I could tell the moshing had begun above us because the ceiling was starting to bounce. Dust filtered down on us from the antiquated (and most likely) Asbestos flavored tiles above us. I looked at Ryan. He said, 'I hope the building holds.'
When almost everyone had gone upstairs, I told Ryan I was going to see what was going on. I dropped my bartending towel on the sink, lifted the bar barrier, and took the steps two at a time. With each step, the music got louder and louder, harsh, scratching guitars, thumping bass, out of control drums and the throaty, vibratoed voice of Mike Jensen singing about going to a Happy Chef to dance around. People were moshing as if their life depended on it. Sweat and happiness dripped from the phalanx of Gen Xers, but then I found Don and Eric positioned at the edge. Eric was teaching the 70+ year old veteran how to mosh.
And so yesterday, when Smells Like Teen Spirit blared from the speakers, I couldn't help but start bouncing, and sweating, and laughing. I closed my eyes and remembered a time gone by, what it was like when life seemed easier and less fraught with drama and stress. I jumped and jostled people, people, like in 1995, who were only in your life for a short while so we needed to bump into them more often.
Life is a mosh pit. It really is. Don't stop bumping into them.
It's Nirvana.
