Women in Punk Rock: The Changing Role of a Grrrl in the Pit

I've realized recently that this principle holds true not just for rugby, but for other things as well. For many years now I've had a deep interest in punk music, the scene that goes with it, and the individuals involved in making the music happen. As I've gotten older, my role in this scene has begun to shift significantly. At the ripe old age of 22, I can look back and reminisce about the old days, the days of reckless youth and bodily abandonment, the days when a black eye was something to be proud of, the days when I was a lusty youth of about, oh, seventeen. Although I've never been a particularly angry person in any sense, I understood what my friend had meant as soon as I moved the context from rugby to the mosh pit.

When I first got into the punk scene at 17 or so, I had all the typical teen angst that one would expect from a relatively rich white girl from the suburbs. I hated where I had come from, I resented the comfortable life of my bourgeois parents, and I particularly hated everything about my trendy, all-white, preppie suburban high school. [As an aside, if you know anything about the Portland, Oregon area, you probably know that the worst possible suburb to admit you're from is Beaverton. It's a relentless joke among Portlandians that the strip mall and big hair didn't really originate in New Jersey, but Beaverton. My parents lived right on the border, but guess where I went to high school?] What better way to rebel against all the girls with better clothes and richer dates than to immerse myself in a scene that claimed to be in opposition to the very place from which I had come? However, I was never angry at my background or my cush life, just embarrassed by it. So where did all the animosity come from when I stepped into the pit?

The mosh pit itself is an interesting phenomenon to observe. It generally consists of several very large, very sweaty shirt-less men, at least one woman in spiked heels, a couple women in their bras, and a cornucopia of kids, teens, and sketchy men in their 30's. It's rare that I go to a show and find a woman smaller than me in the pit. As it is, I get elbowed in the face more than I see the band, so any girl shorter than me is risking some serious bodily damage. I remember at 17 how black eyes were trophies, blood was like gold, and bruises and abrasions came with the territory. Back then, I could throw myself into the center of the pit with the best of them, arms folded against my chest to protect the lung area and ricochet other dancers away from me, while at the same time keeping alert for crowd surfers who inevitably wore combat boots and always managed to kick people in the back of the head. The compression of bodies, the loud music, and frequently the alcohol was a formula for energy which affected everyone in the area. Even taking anger out of the equation, the mosh pit was a beautiful method of venting frustration and hostility through a grueling physical ritual. ÊI could look around the small club and see people of all sizes and colors grinding to the same beat, moving in the same groove, and pleasantly pounding the hell out of each other, all with dazed smiles on their faces.

But apparently I missed a group of people in my observations as a youth. Though I never saw them at the time, I'm sure they must have been there: people a few years older than me, looking mildly uncomfortable, and perhaps just a tiny bit out of place. I'm sure they must have been there when I was in the pit, because that's who I am now, standing just outside the pit, watching everyone else and wondering just when it was that I got so old. Either 22 is much older than I think it is, or the crowd has gotten much younger in the five years I've been in the scene. When I was 17, I remember being on the young side; all the people I met were 20 or 21. Now I've finally reached the age I wanted to be, and suddenly the average age has dropped to 13 or 14. I frequently stand by myself in the beer garden, looking at the crowd and thinking that I used to baby-sit some of these kids. At one show, the band did an old cover of a Duran Duran song and introduced it by saying, "This next one is for all of you who grew up in the 80's." I surveyed the room and said to no one in particular, "He must be talking just to me."

So the scene is getting younger and I'm certainly not. I no longer hope for black eyes, not afraid of getting hurt really, but knowing that I have some kind of business or academic meeting the next day. I still enjoy going to shows, of course, and I still dance in my own cautious way. But what I like best of all, is watching the scene. My life has changed since I was the rebellious 17 year old in the suburbs. I no longer have the time to see three or four shows a week (I'm living in an area where less than one good show comes through in a month anyway), and I've found other ways to vent my frustration with life. However, I've discovered that though I'm not as in to it myself anymore, I really like to see other grrrls my size tossing themselves around for all they're worth. At a recent show, I saw a friend of mine (we'll call her "Ashley") as the band was about to go on. As they came on stage, she asked "Aren't you going to come up front?"

"You go on," I replied, "sometimes it's just as much fun to watch."

"Watching is for the old, Ami, and peeping toms."