"This Song is called..."
You shout and scream and sweat and grin, packed in so tight that you swap sweat with all the other rejects around you. Fists wave in the air, and the heats comes in waves from all directions, radiated from a hundred other punk mutants, crammed together , sweaty shaved chimps, hooting and creaming at the man-mountain on stage.
"1, 2, 3, 4!"
The songs come on relentless. The noise it a juggernaut. It batters. It grinds. It Roars. Your ear drums collapse into a tinnitus whine in the first violent minutes of the onslaught, and it doesn't let up for a second. THe air is pounded by the body heat and the sound to furnace intensity, and it drives out the oxygen. You suck hot lungfuls of carbon dioxide and tired cigarette smoke. You metabolise hysteria to keep upright.
"This song is..."
At some point in the evening, your forebrain shut down. You've lost all coherent perception of time. there was only the noise and the heat the screaming men on stage, and the sweat on your face. The Noise rolls you up in a blanket of humid salty air and shakes you like a terrier shakes a rat.
Out of the broiling mass of flailing arms and steam a girl stumbles clutching her nose. Her face all screwed up with the memory of knuckle impact, she looks suprised and shoked. Foolish. Such things are going to happen if you venture up front.
With your lizard brain calling all the shots, there's no time to cogitate further, because...
"1, 2, 3, 4!"
When it's over, you collapse. Your spine melts, the external heartbeat of the music fades and ebbs now the after shock of the encore has past. You burst out into the outside as weak and feeble as anewborn calf. The foreign sweat cools and sticks to your skin. Your ears whine and buzz with memory of abusive decibels. Your face cracks as you try to smile. Another good gig.
You shout and scream and sweat and grin, packed in so tight that you swap sweat with all the other rejects around you. Fists wave in the air, and the heats comes in waves from all directions, radiated from a hundred other punk mutants, crammed together , sweaty shaved chimps, hooting and creaming at the man-mountain on stage.
"1, 2, 3, 4!"
The songs come on relentless. The noise it a juggernaut. It batters. It grinds. It Roars. Your ear drums collapse into a tinnitus whine in the first violent minutes of the onslaught, and it doesn't let up for a second. THe air is pounded by the body heat and the sound to furnace intensity, and it drives out the oxygen. You suck hot lungfuls of carbon dioxide and tired cigarette smoke. You metabolise hysteria to keep upright.
"This song is..."
At some point in the evening, your forebrain shut down. You've lost all coherent perception of time. there was only the noise and the heat the screaming men on stage, and the sweat on your face. The Noise rolls you up in a blanket of humid salty air and shakes you like a terrier shakes a rat.
Out of the broiling mass of flailing arms and steam a girl stumbles clutching her nose. Her face all screwed up with the memory of knuckle impact, she looks suprised and shoked. Foolish. Such things are going to happen if you venture up front.
With your lizard brain calling all the shots, there's no time to cogitate further, because...
"1, 2, 3, 4!"
When it's over, you collapse. Your spine melts, the external heartbeat of the music fades and ebbs now the after shock of the encore has past. You burst out into the outside as weak and feeble as anewborn calf. The foreign sweat cools and sticks to your skin. Your ears whine and buzz with memory of abusive decibels. Your face cracks as you try to smile. Another good gig.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
though i may be takenf Zoe to teh cambrige one
oh yes
zoe
again