The energy is empowering, reckless and therapeutic, and mosh pits are completely voluntary. “I feel like it’s a safe space for people who understand that a certain type of angst comes with society and politics implemented on Black and brown people.” “There’s conversations of angst and speaking out against the system and letting those emotions out,” Edwards says. For Edwards, there’s a freedom of expression in moshing. The anti-authoritarian energy of mosh pits provides a space for emotional release and physical healing, as bands sing about religion, anarchy and politics. “Moshers make sure people don’t get hurt - the intention is not to hurt people but to just have a good time.” But I feel like it’s an outlet for me to let out certain emotions,” Edwards says. “A mosh pit seems intimidating, because when you’re looking on the outside, it seems like a lot of people bumping into each other and being loud. changed the “a” to an “o”) come from the American heavy rock movement in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s when punk and grunge were exposed to the mainstream.Īmaris Edwards, a member of Chicago’s punk scene and a regular mosher at concerts, sees the pits as a safe space. The origins of moshing (originally called “mashing” until Bad Brains singer H.R. Moshing is an intense, collective experience that’s a physical way of matching one’s body and energy to the live music. This diversity is on stage too with a lead singer who has dyed, liberty-spiked hair and dozens of tattoos adorning their body. The perception of angry, testosterone-driven white men in the scene contrasts with the reality of a punk show that embraces an array of races and sexualities.

Now, women are kicking and screaming there too. The pit’s energy is infectious, and men aren’t the only people in the circle right in front of the stage. Feminism took on a new meaning in punk culture, and women now can serve as the lead singers, drummers and instigators of mosh pits at any house show or sold-out festival.

Riot Grrrl, a subcultural ’90s third wave feminist movement, broke this mold in the ‘90s by stopping shows to escort girls to the front safely. In the beginning of punk and male-dominated subcultures, women often stood in the back and watched the band from afar. As my love for punk music deepened – especially for female-fronted bands – I began to hang around barricades and admire the lead front women who sang about the reclamation of their bodies. When I migrated from listening to punk music to entering Chicago’s heavy-punk holy grounds – such as Exit and The Empty Bottle – and abandoned warehouses, I was surprised to find how inclusive the spaces were toward women, people of color and people who are LGBTQ+. Life’s greatest thrill for me may just be the feeling of euphoria that comes from heavy, distorted guitar riffs and singers threatening to burst my eardrums.Īs a woman, my goal was to explore what punk meant on my own terms, and that includes finding safe spaces to freely dance without worrying about harassment from creepy men drenched in alcohol. My fantasy was to bask in the glory of hearing a favorite song played at 50 times the normal volume, as I shouted the lyrics and brushed up against strangers’ sweaty bodies. When I was 13, I daydreamed about dancing amidst sweaty crowds at a rock show, as I listened religiously to L7’s “Bricks Are Heavy” and The Stooges’ “Raw Power” on vinyl. Editor’s note: This article is from the Communication Department’s award-winning Echo magazine.

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