Awesome Freeborn Invasion!

I saw A.F.I. in concert. They came to my town. They played in my school. Freeborn hall was transformed into a circus tent of passionate madness.

I will admit with a healthy dose of shame that this is the first concert concert that I have attended. Everything else involved seats and a concern for acoustics.

The festivities began with a line that stretched around the Memorial Union. I knew I was in for a good time when the streaker sprinted his brisk way across the campus. Let me remind you that it's cold in Davis right now.

I was surrounded by people I wouldn't consider "my type". My piercing is pretty standard. My lack of tattoos or make-up, my serious demeanor, and my aura of virgin cleanliness set me apart from the other bodies. They could probably tell I'd never done this before.

The pat down at the door was lazy, and I'm not sure why I would try to hide anything in the ass area, but she checked it rather enthusiastically... I could have fit a knife and all manner of drugs in my boots. If they cared, they would have had me take them off.

The opening acts were okay. The first featured a stand-up bass and not one, but two ramping mohawks. They were musically talented, even if I don't personally enjoy the dark, throaty style of "singing". The lyrics, from what I could glean, were not as important as the intense speed and heavy chords. That's okay, though. They had a double bass. The second band, which I am told is traditionally despised, mostly out of mounting anticipation to see the main act, actually did suck. The singer, who might have done too many drugs, or might have been naturally vapid-sound, said the band's name at least six times, and I still didn't remember it. The bassist was lame. I was waiting for him to redeam himself, and show that what I was percieving to be bad habit was actually technique that I'd never learned--something totally plausible. But he clung to the same simple progression the way he clung the neck of his instrument--with little technical skill or artistry, and his thumb wrapped around the back, holding down his fingers.

I can't remember how many songs of the second group played, but I know that it was about four more than I would have liked. I do remember, however, that all of the songs had something about being dead in the title. All of them.

There was more waiting, and a good deal of chanting and jostling for position. At this point, I still had no idea what to expect. They started firing up the fog machine, which I feared would prove a little cheesy. I was greatly mistaken. The lights went out and the whole crowd surged forward, screaming.

I have to admit at this point that I have not listened to a whole lot of AFI. I don't know any of their songs by heart. I don't know the names of the songs, I don't know the words. I didn't really know anything except that they were a big name in a small town and that I was offered a ticket. I let the crowd carry me, and I let the music carry me, and I let the excitement take me, and we were one creature writhing at the feet of Davey Havok.

I decided that I am very very glad that I am big. I never really cared one way or another, but I love being built the way I am. I'm tall enough to see over heads, so I had a good view no matter where the crowd swallowed me. I am solidly built, so I could actually move the masses and create ripples in the pit. I wore boots, so I had solid footing whether it was foor or flesh I tred upon. There were a couple times when the backlash from a strong push would come too fast, and the bodies around me would lose balance and start to fall--harmonic frequencies meeting and cancelling, and bodies falling. I managed to lift the falling mass. It was very cool...

It never occurred to me that crowd surfing was done for more than a good time, butI quickly learned that it was being used as an escape when the pit became uncomfortable. Interesting.

I danced. I let the energy of the crowd fill me and I released it in wild flailings. The dynamics of this is amazing, and finding myself next to another person, and then two, and then twenty, and then the whole pit, suddenly jumping and writhing rhythmically, rippling outward from an epicenter, was thrilling.

I kind of wanted to ride the crowd. Some people were better at it than others, some surfing across in on their knees, throwing the horns and leaning back in glorious ecstasy, others rolling clumsily, almost falling through gaps, usually headfirst. To be honest, I really wanted to ride the crowd. I think I'm too big, and by the time I was fully absorbed in the moment, I had pushed myself within four or five body widths of the front.

Davey walked out on the stage. That was really cool, like a man walking on water. People clung to his ankles, screaming his name. They worshipped him. I was under him. I was close enough to reach up and touch him. I worship no man, though, and left my hands at my side and watched.

I wish I'd left my sweatshirt at home. I wish I'd had my hands free. I kind of wish I'd gone alone, too. I was invited by a friend from kendo, and I felt partially responsible for her safety, and partially obliged to stay near. I wish I'd had my hands free.

There reached a point where the dehydration was getting to me. My jeans were absolutely soaked with my sweat. My long sleeved shirt is still wet, sitting in my hamper. Gross. Anyway, where most people complained of being short of breath from having their chest crushed, I was feeling slightly sick. My abdomen is a little higher than most, see, and it was being squeezed. Vomitting would have been uncouth. A faux pas, one might say, and slightly unsanitary. Luckily, just as I was considering pushing my way backward in the pit--slowly, carefully, and unstoppably, unlike the girls who did not know and could not handle what the pit would offer and who desperately pushed toward the outer edges within minutes-- the music slowed to a ballads pace. We caught our breath, and we swayed gently, a forest of giants in that small dark world. One final song, one that even I knew, whipped us into a frenzy again before the show ended and the lights came on, too fast and too jarring for the collective to demand an encore.

I actually think we might have had our encore, but I was too engrossed in the motion of the pit to differentiate. Who knows.

I wish I knew the songs. I wish I could have sung along, could have had an internal anchor for the music. I would have tapped into it so much quicker, and the whole experience would have been that much more potent.

I was soaked, and I stank like a thousand hot bodies. I walked home with my shirt off, and it took twenty minutes of Davis night to bring my core temperature back to normal human levels.

I want to do it again. I want desperately to be in there again. Next time, I'll know the music, no matter which band it is.

A Ferocious Inanity Always Fears Intelligence And Fights Intuition: Another Failed Insight