Concerts. I love them.

Girls in fishnets and gratuitous eyeliner throb their hips to the opening music. Like moths to the dirty old porch light on the back of a motor home, they stay where the energy pulses. It's a 'vibe' thing, they say if you ask, even if the band isn't out yet.

I find the small knot of people I know after visually scouring the floor. Of course they aren't there, they're out, enjoying the night air and the crisp bite of a cigarette before the show starts. I hate cigarettes, but the air is one thing I can go for. I step outside, acquaint myself with the kids in battle-scarred jackets and dirty dreadlocks, their scuffed up boots next to my Vans, I feel somewhat out of place. Nobody seems to notice but me.

We reenter the venue, as the chatter outside dies down. I chug down an iced drink outside the floor, they don't allow outside food or drink. Damn, and I was hoping to bring my liquid refreshment to the heat and beat of the floor. Oh well, another time, maybe.

The background music pales to the sound of the band tuning. A scruffy bunch, not exactly the synchronized-shirt-wearing and tribal-drumming type, a nice change from the opening band. Before the band opens, we are treated to a speech. An odd change of pace from the frantic sound of the openers, but nonetheless appreciated. The mood perks up as the speaker leaves and the band enters.

The crowd stands, and clusters together. We push and shove to the front, then reach an equilibrium as the band takes their places, as the tuning dims and the lights fade.

Slowly at first, the music begins. Sweeping, orchestral. Then a pause, a break. Powerful sounds from the stage. The crowd naturally reacts, from their swaying to a more pushed rhythm, the beat picks up and the feet follow. Lyrics about oceans and beasts and running and guns are distilled to their deepest, most chaotic meaning. Yelling and screaming and we scream and yell back. Question and answer, the most pure of all interviews are conducted on the mosh floor.

Another song starts, with a rough three way chorus, grating and loud and beautiful and I am thrown into the pit. Smelling that sweet tang of sweat, pushing against people I've never met. A thrill, a power that you can't really describe, like falling off a tall cliff. You are scared and excited and happy all at once, and yet too singularly-minded to even notice. If you fall, you know you will be picked up, shoved back in the tangle of bodies. It's a special type of friendship you make in the pit, a kind that is completely built off of pushing and hitting and mutual understanding.

Close-quarters with my comrades in shove, we scream at the stage. You scream, we scream, our throats hurt together and we will never ever regret it when it ends. Screaming so hard that your head hurts, yelling out your anger and fury and emotion until there's nothing left and you scream more anyways because you can and that's the best part. Screaming and shoving and making split-second enemies with your longtime friends.

The song ends with a roar that can be heard over all the crowd, a roar that the crowd is returning twofold anyway. The energy of the song dies with the last note, like the death rattle of a dying crow. Forced analogies by forced brain by forced fingers rough from pocket sweat and throwing my battle-buddies into the fray. Many apologies.

The set goes on forever, but no time at all. Cliche, I know, but accurate. As the 'last' song rolls around, we all know we can force an encore out anyway, but we dance and shove like this is the end. Hell, it might be the end. We might all die anyway, but at least we had fun. Eyeliners around dark eyes are smudged, Colorado coveralls are barely hanging on to stick frames, jackets are off and the scent of human is all in the air. I throw a girl into the pit, I see her face, she's smiling, it's all worth it. Maybe she likes me, I think. She's attractive, I think. Then she's gone, another body in the violent wrestle on the floor in front of the band.

A scream, a growl, a melody and one more voice tying it all together belt from the stage. Not technically good, but nobody cares and it's the best music we've ever heard at that moment. Best music we've heard ever, so spouts our music-drowned brain. There is nothing better than this. There is nothing better than this moment. All of our lives have led up to this, and we'll forget the rush by the next day. We'll remember the songs, the mosh, maybe even what we did with our friends. But the rush is a one-time thing, we remember it's there, we don't remember it.

As the real last song ends, and the band begins to pack up, we make our way out of the corona of the floor to the welcome chill of the outside air. Seeing others we know, tired and drenched and stinking of sweat, we greet each other like veterans. We are veterans, our wars were merely seconds long and our bullets were glances and our bombs were fists. It was a good fight, the congratulations are passed around and crude jokes are exchanged. The night begins to wind down for some, but for many it's just starting.