Let's Get Warped

December 1, 2009
By mariel garcia BRONZE, Phoenix, Arizona
mariel garcia BRONZE, Phoenix, Arizona
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

It is like total release. It is being in a place where all of your worries are shed, if only for half an hour. It is rocking hard, and living it up, because, of course, it only happens once in your city every year. For a single glorious day, a kid, or the kid inside of anyone can be unleashed: mosh, 2-step, thrash, crowd surf, drink, jump around, and smoke.
The sun is beaming like a mad man, almost as if its intention is to melt us all. This feeling is amplified three-fold by the black top that we are all standing over, it makes my skin as though my skin is drying up and shrinking off my body, and I am not the only one. Girls with alabaster skin are burned to a bright road flare red and boys with warm olive skin transform to the color of a tanned leather couch. The sky is clear, and no breeze to be felt, the air is bone dry. The stage is a goliath, imposing with its matte black color as it towers high above us all. Suddenly we see people on the stage, dancing about and around the multicolored wires and amps that flood the stage. And then as if there was a secret cue given, with hardly a word we gather like animals to a watering hole in the Sahara, ready to quench ourselves. As we all begin to move closer and closer over the staggering heat of the parking lot black top, the air becomes sticky and moist from the perspiration emanating from our parched bodies. As the sweat trickles down faces and backs, the excitement builds until there is a loud buzz.

Suddenly my nose is attacked by a myriad of smells. First the distinct scent of cannabis and cigarettes flood the air, as the stark white smoke slips through chapped lips and shrouds nostrils in tiny clouds. Next, the pungent odor of sun warmed beer, with an appearance similar to pee, can be smelled. The beer that was spilled on the black top was especially noticeable, which quickly evaporated to cover us in its bitter stench. Then, slowly, steadily, as we all pack tighter and tighter the reek of sweat, which I had become promptly numbed to, begins to makes itself increasingly apparent. The closer we congregate, the more we sweat; and by now we are so close to one and other that nearly all bodies are touching or pressed together: the music starts.
The massive black speakers at the head of the crowd begin to beat a tremendous bass that I can feel in my gut. The sound moves through my entire body, shaking my skull, with the unique voice of Craig Owens. He shouts and hypes the crowd, as the music begins, so do we. With an insane punch, the sounds of the band pulsate through me, rattling my stomach as I rock my whole body. We all begin to jump and move - our heads swing in all directions, destroying hours of carefully arranged scenester hair. The huge crowd of small individuals together, we are like a living cell, bursting with a craving for more energy: More music.
As the music intensifies with the enticing sound of guitar, bass, vocals, and drumming in a blaring harmony, I find myself being shoved, pushed, and nearly knocked down. The mosh pit had begun. Despite us all moving in a frenzy, fighting each other off one and two at a time, there is a sense of rowdy playfulness. Some people break off, and noisy fists, arms, and legs rip through the air like the swift blade of a windmill, as some 2-step, while others just plain thrash. As some kids go up above the crowd, five dollar uncapped bottles of cold water go flying above our drenched heads, bringing a sudden euphoric, tingling sensation that feels like release from the sun’s angry rays, if only for five seconds.
The music reaches a climax and our attention is called. The whole crowd synchronizes in words and movements. We are one, if only for a moment. It is nine hours spent in the phoenix sun, my lungs soaked with second hand smoke and feeling as though I stepped out of a pool, just so I can experience this place. No one should ever attempt to sugar coat the grittiness of the crowd with pretty words, because, it’s the grittiness makes it all the more worth it. All of those things add to the crowd and the experience that will make me remember till I am old, and bring me back to even the 30th tour.
Feeling the lyrics physically beating through me, I can’t help but feel free. Dehydrated and probably a little funny from the second hand, I feel light and hazy, but in the clearest way. Blazing heat, sweat saturated soggy clothes clinging to our bodies, while the heat is burning through my shoes, I feel levity. Here I feel happy, excited, energized, in my element, all of the things that good music should make you feel. Here, in the crowd, it’s the people that make the place what it is. Without the people, you just have an empty place, that is alone and quiet. I was the place I loved. They were the place I loved. We are what makes the crowd what it is, a bunch of incredibly psyched fans getting together to celebrate what we love. We are the place, the event, the feeling: the details.

The author's comments:
This piece was descriptive essay I did for class, describing the crowds at warped tour which I have come to love so much.

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