In my old apartment building, there was a spot in the basement for tenants to leave behind items that were too good for the trash but not good enough to keep. Last summer there was a copy of Flogging Molly, Alive Behind the Green Door, that somebody had left for me to find. The band had been on my radar for years, but I foolishly had never taken the time to get to know them and since this fated discovery, Alive Behind the Green Door has barely been ejected from my cars CD player. The recording is a mere glimpse into what it must have been like to see the band play Molly Malone's every Monday night in Los Angeles all those years ago.
Flogging Molly played at The Fillmore in Silver Spring, MD last Friday night. I knew the concert was going to be crazy, I even went with the impudence of my 18-year-old self and mentally prepared to mosh for the first time in 12 years. As I stood way up front amongst the drunken crowd and waiting for the show to begin, the lights go out, the band takes the stage, the crowd is freaking out, the first notes are played and all hell breaks loose. I wanted to be in the mosh pit and somehow I was at its epicenter. Elbows were flying, bodies were bouncing, feet were kicking; shit was going down.
Flogging Molly played at The Fillmore in Silver Spring, MD last Friday night. I knew the concert was going to be crazy, I even went with the impudence of my 18-year-old self and mentally prepared to mosh for the first time in 12 years. As I stood way up front amongst the drunken crowd and waiting for the show to begin, the lights go out, the band takes the stage, the crowd is freaking out, the first notes are played and all hell breaks loose. I wanted to be in the mosh pit and somehow I was at its epicenter. Elbows were flying, bodies were bouncing, feet were kicking; shit was going down.
I was 18-years-old the last time I enjoyed the thrill of a mosh pit. It was at a Slash's Snake Pit concert and at that time, the thoughts in my head were something like this:
As a 30-year-old in a mosh pit, my thoughts were a bit different:
- This is awesome.
- I just touched Slash's guitar, this is really fucking awesome.
- Holy shit, I just got punched in the head, this is the greatest thing ever.
As a 30-year-old in a mosh pit, my thoughts were a bit different:
- Did I ever get around to updating the beneficiary information on my 401(k) when I got married?
- That 300 lb tattooed man with a mow-hawk is sweaty as fuck and I just touched his arm; what the hell is his problem?
- Does my PPO cover head trauma?
After a couple of songs, I decided to work my way to the edge of the mosh pit and try to enjoy the band while simultaneously pushing back against the bounty of sweaty bodies graciously throwing themselves into the nearest thing on two feet. A few more songs were played before I fought my way to the back of the crowd to replace the five dollar PBR that was sacrificed to the mosh gods about five songs earlier.
With fresh beer in hand, I squeezed my way back into the crowd and was able to circumvent the moshers as I got two rows from the stage. From my new vantage point, I tried to get a free Guinness from the bassist and almost caught a drumstick.
After the encore, the house lights came up and over the PA, the sound of Eric Idle, "Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say..." I couldn't believe it. The band was on stage, dancing to Monty Python's, Always Look On the Bright Side of Life. The crowd whistled along at the appropriate times and not a face was without a smile. As the song ended, some of the band mates came down from the stage to chat with the crowd. As I do with most people, I made awkward small talk with bassist, Nathen Maxwell and accordion player, Matthew Hensley. At this point. I was feeling like a 15-year-old boy and on my way out had to make a stop at the merchandise table to buy a sticker for my bike and a t-shirt of Dave King flipping off the camera, Johnny Cash style.
See Related: Flogging Molly, The Times They Are A Changing
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