Let the Man Dance!

I watched with fascination as the scene on the dance floor unfolded before my eyes. I was watching The Barons (whose picture is on the left) play and enjoying their show from various angles of the room at Mojo 13. (That's the hip little dive-bar-gone-punk-rock venue that has brought music to my ears for a couple of months now.) I found myself standing by a sitting mustachioed man in a plain white T-shirt drinking his beer and secretly smoking a cigarette (despite Delaware's recent ban). He was friendly enough to make small talk with me as we both watched the band rip through their set. Appearing to be around my age, which is a rising 39, he motioned to the low-key audience that stood about 20 feet back from the foot-high stage. He mentioned the fact that the 50-odd people were relatively motionless even though the band was kicking out some high-speed, world-class punk rock. "They're barely bopping their heads," I replied.

Although the music drowned out the conversation where we stood five feet from the corner of the stage, I heard him say he had some history with punk rock. He shouted, "Dare me to show ..." The rest was overpowered by The Barons' raucous assault and the damaged cilia in my right ear. He gave me a mischievous grin and flew from his seat, bouncing around the wide open space on the dance floor in front of the stage while the band continued to tear it up. In old-school pogo style, he bounced on his feet about six time, with a bottle of beer sloshing in one hand and his cigarette glowing in the other. (A regular seizureman!) On about his seventh bounce, one of the larger, younger fellows in the front row, apparently annoyed by this older concertgoer's recklessness, gave him a hearty shove that literally decked the bouncing man. In a flash, he hit the wooden floor hard with his head and back. His cigarette flared up in a big puff of smoke and sparks, and his beer gurgled onto the floor. Stunned by this sudden turn of events, he lay motionless for several seconds, staring dumbfoundedly at the ceiling.

When he regained his wits, he looked to the man who had flattened him with an inquisitive but forgiving look and reached up his hand with man-to-man, mosh pit camaraderie. I was disheartened to see the initial disgust and denial on the face of the fellow who had provided the bouncing dancer with the flattening blow. Perhaps he had been splashed by the beer, or disapproved of his cigarette, but the extended hesitation before he begrudgingly hoisted his fellow music fan to his feet spoke huge volumes about the unnecessary chasm between people who have more in common than differences, and the missed opportunities for shared fun, dancing and music. My heart went out to the guy who had the bravado to pogo in the face of the complacent audience, and I was disappointed by his defeat at their hands. Dancing was unofficially banished for the night at the moment his head hit the floor, never to reappear for the rest of the evening.

Once the bouncing man was back on his feet, he made his way to the bar in the next room. Minutes later, he was nowhere to be seen again, undoubtedly sporting a hefty new lump on the back of his noggin.

Then I remembered a strange thing: There was a similar incident earlier in the evening on the dance floor that had passed right by me until I found I had something else to compare it to.

While watching the speedcore intensity of Prone to Violence, a band (whose picture is below) that reminds me of FEAR on speed (with a much better guitar player), two lively fellows stepped onto the dance floor between the audience's standing and the band's thrashing, and individually banged their heads frantically while stomping around trying to spark a mosh. Their acts of controlled aggressive behavior went barely noticed by the audience and subsided after the song ended. Since I was holding a pint of fresh draft, I was happy that the belly-butting and body flinging didn't spill a drop. Although this first move to charge up the dance floor at Mojo 13 with some activity failed to produce more than two sweaty rowdies, it was a valiant try. (Better luck next time my seizureman brethren.) Shortly after the band finished its set, I noticed one of the headbangers standing outside of the club chatting with his friends. Although he seemed to be pleasantly conversing, a fresh spattering of blood was strewn across the front of his T-shirt. Could he have been the first victim of the anti-dance vigilantes?

Perhaps I have it all wrong and this bloggy talk of rigged elections and dubious excuses for war has my mind swirling in a conspiratorial blur. But, beyond their mutual affection for dancing at punk rock shows, I noticed another commonality between the two victims of pain I witnessed that night: Both wore plain white T-shirts. Hmmm. Was it the dancing that singled them out for injury, or could it have been their logolessness?

Do you have the strength to buck convention? Do you have the courage to go undefined while all the rest sport emblems to mark their identities? Are you brave enough to dance while others stand still? It was only a few months ago when I saw an innovative skinhead at Bankshots (another Wilmington live music venue) dare to add karate kicks to slam dancing as his own personal statement, so don't believe it when the timid tell you that Delawareans don't dance.

Good luck fellow seizuremen and seizurewomen. May the pogo be with you.