I like going to concerts every once in a while.  It reminds me of how much I dislike going to concerts.  Unless, of course, we’re talking about Osaka Orangeade Concern! Bring them back, bring them back! (Know your audience.)  It’s not because I dislike the music that I hate concerts.  It’s because concerts are mostly just noise.  If you don’t know the lyrics, you’re lost because you can’t hear a word.  I was able to hear one word all night last night and that was “Chicago”.  I just don’t understand paying money for something when the music sounds so much better at home.

Pop quiz, hotshot.  How do you get 4,500 white people to congregate in one place?  Throw a Flogging Molly concert, apparently.  I have never seen a more homogenous mass of humanity since the Tea Party rallies.  What is it about Celtic punk music with its foot stomping beats and its mosh pits filled with shaved headed, jackboot wearing, tattooed, young white kids that keep people of color away?  Oh…

I usually stay as far away from mosh pits as possible when attending a concert.  This time, though, the mosh pit opened up right next to me.  There is a really strange honor code that goes on in a mosh pit.  The goal seems to be to flail around wildly and run into other people as much as possible and as hard as possible.  People on the sides of the mosh pit are responsible for pushing the moshers back into the pit.  And by pushing, I mean elbowing.  When someone inevitably falls down, though, a fellow mosher is usually there in no time flat to help the man up.  Its as if they want to hurt each other as much as possible but only if they are standing.

The concert was also attended by the two year old godson of the lead singer, Dave King.  I can only assume that his parents really don’t want him to hear anything past five years old.