I Don’t Know What Happens to People that Crowd Surf.
“I believe that I am not responsible for the meaningfulness or meaninglessness of crowd-surfing, but that I am responsible for what I do with the joint I’ve got in my sock” -Hermann Hesse, probably
This is not a boast, but I’ve been witness to hundreds of performances of live music. At most of these performances, some young, thin person is lobbed into the air in order to surf the audience. For roughly half of the crowd surfing I’ve seen, the act appears cathartic and emphasizes the oneness that the audience becomes as it pushes the body over a sea of heads. It’s really an amazing engagement with the audience, playing off of the density of the crowd, and feeding the highest energy back to the artist. For the other half of these people-plankers, crowd surfing comes from an aspiration to be seen crowdsurfing- diluting the act to mere cliche. These little narcissists can sometimes seem like human size flower crowns that the other audience members are now obligated to hoist to their idols- forcing me to eyeroll so hard my sockets hurt. However, I try not to dwell too much on the meaning of the crowd surf. I’m more perplexed by the after-surf.
I don’t know what happens to people after security rips their flailing bodies from the audience. I’ve never asked anyone before. After the audience collectively offers the surfer to venue security like a blood sacrifice for a double encore- where does this human go? Are they carried by the scruff of their necks to a side exit? Are they ushered to the front of the house and relegated to watch the rest of the show from the bar? Is there more for this audience member, or is the satisfaction from a blurry snapchat video sufficient?
You may have an answer for me, live music veteran. You may know where the surfer man go. There seems to be boundless knowledge of the mores of live music from those who’ve paid their dues in punk or hardcore scenes. Many of whom were initiated into this world early with an elbow to the eye, or an ass groping while aloft the audience. But I actually don’t want to know the consequences paid to the crowd surfer. I simply do not want to know. I prefer my blissful ignorance, glorifying the surfer as a pioneer of this terra incognita. Any answer I might receive simply would not satisfy, revealing to me nothing but disappointment. Plus, I refuse to confirm the creeping suspicion that it’s a pointless activity with minor consequences, only to inconvenience the rest of the audience.
I imagine the day may come when I overcome my inhibitions and embrace the moment of true understanding. It’d probably be best that I find the information I seek first hand. It may be at a show decades from now. I’ll be pogoing and dancing manically, morally lubed up from alcohol. I hand my cellphone and sunglasses to a friend, signal to my neighbors that I want to go up, and launch myself into the great unknown; My ultimate fate decided by the burly men in yellow Event Staff t-shirts looking strikingly unamused.
