Lollapalooza: Rage Against The Machine Kicked Me In The Face

To begin, standing behind a mass hysteria of fifty thousand people doesn’t feel exhilarating. There’s not an instance more humbling—this is coming from someone who has thus far managed to avoid all semblance of natural disasters: avalanches, fires, you name it—capable of forcing me to step back and feel a terrifying sense of smallness and humility. Twenty seconds more of this thought process I would have lost all nerve.

But twenty seconds later I have melded into the crowd. Before moving along a necessary note must be made: A concert like RATM is not a concert like Radiohead. One does not need to line up eight fucking hours early to get semi-close to an iron railing in order to have some taller and wider harlot in front of you walling you from a visual of the stage. You will not be shot vehement looks for moving forward. In fact, someone else may do the work for you. Once you’re in the middle; however, the only way out is up.

It takes a plethora of will power coupled with resounding female allure (C’mon this is Disneyland for testosterone charged males) to reach the center of the crowd four songs into the set, with minor setbacks. Zach pleads several times for the moving majority—as a whole, mind you—to move in reverse. As a collective mass we pace out five tiny steps. The crunched and mangled little girls and boys at the gate can briefly breathe freely. I’m reminded of a t-shirt on a woman with no chest the day prior stating “People have the power.” Zach rants, apparently all for voting for change you can believe in and people cheer. Zach then states the government must be taken down by force…and people cheer. Apparently governmental concerns are to be dealt with later; this is about the music, baby.

We are flushed. Depraved of water, depraved of space, a thousand miles away from any cool night breeze. There is no water to quench our thirst in this barren desert, yet we are pushed down, over into new space by an undertow of people. If you panic, the only way out is up or not at all…so you don’t panic. There is nothing more singularly calming than the brief moment of erudition where you can fight the storm brewing or become part of the whole. The moment is elusive and the crowd is rushing madly and hardly moving at all.

There’s a boy to play protector for a while, shield me from wild elbows and vindictive man-made mosh pits. He and his boy posse—for seemingly angst-filled gentlemen, they’re very nice—warn me not to move forward. “You’re so small.” “You’ll get stepped on.” But I push onward, leaving behind incredulous laughter and mutters regarding “craziness.”

By the time RATM closes their initial set, I’ve made out and am roughly eight rows deep, smack dab in front of Zach’s sweaty frame. I’ve been stepped on, shoved, kicked in the face by a crowd surfer—and I’ve never felt so liberated. It was trendier for the other media members to watch from the safety of their tent.

Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.