The World is Just One Big Mosh Pit
Written & Photographed by Syd Wheeler Larsen
On March 7, 2020 I was headed out on my first tour with local noise-punk band Weeping Icon and Philly’s Control Top. Years earlier, I’d met Weeping Icon at a local show and was mesmerized by the power of three femmes making an onslaught of noise; shredding guitar with a vibrator rather than a guitar pick; and performing online and onstage identities with classic New York snark. We’d kept up with each other as my job situation had transitioned from record store girl to music venue girl, so they were keen when I offered to go on the road with them as their merch seller. Only slightly nervous, I prepared by packing extra Elderberry and Emergen-C so that no one got sick on the road.
Less than 8 days later, I returned home from my very first tour, but not under celebratory circumstances. The spread of Covid-19 had made it unsafe and irresponsible for us to continue playing shows. The virus has fucked over all of us in the music industry; I am no exception, but this story is universal. The dark irony of this virus is that it proves: we are all connected. Something that happens half a world away from you does affect you. The same is true in a mosh pit— when one person stage dives, it’s everyone’s responsibility to catch them and keep them afloat. If you don’t participate, someone will get hurt.
Tour had started with a bang at Union Pool in Brooklyn. The venue was packed to the brim, and all I could see from the merch table was constant white flashes from photographers desperately trying to capture Ali’s rank bass face. She leapt offstage and opened up a circle pit; writhing on the floor as she spat out “Covert Contracts”. That was my first indicator of how rowdy the shows would get. A couple days later in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, I snuck away from the merch table to get a better view of Control Top’s set. Between Alex’s whirring arms, I caught a glimpse of blood splattering the drumheads. I ran to the bar and asked for a bar rag and some bandaids for whatever the source of the wound was. It turned out Alex had just nicked their knuckle on the rim of the snare. When you’re drumming that fast, things can get gorey real fast.
As I was packing up merch that night, I overheard a conversation between one of the show photographers and their date. Funny how much of a fly on the wall you can be behind a merch table. “Coronavirus isn’t a big deal for us. It mainly affects older people right? So all the older people will die, but we’ll be fine! It’ll just clear them out.” That was March 8th, and people still thought that their youth would protect them.
The tour barreled on, and each night I fell more and more in love with the bands. Every night, Ali bottle-rocketed into the audience during Control Top’s performance of “Covert Contracts.” She looped a recording of the bass line and set her bass down so her hands were free. Then she whipped the mic cable behind her like a cowgirl cracking the horsewhip and charging into the crowd. Slamming into tables, toppling beer cans, barrel-rolling over nasty venue floors. She grabbed people by the scruff of their necks to scream: “EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE A COMMERCIAL. IT’S A BRAND TO BE CONTROVERSIAL!”
The moment after I snapped this photo, Ali zeroed in on me. She locked in, a hand on the crown of my head as she screamed the next verse. It was then that I understood that I didn’t get to be a passive observer. We’re a tour family, but she can still get in my face and unleash that righteous political anger on me and it’s my job to participate. Ali’s storming through the crowd was a visceral reminder to me that as you go through life you need to stay in your own body, aware of your context. Don’t get complacent! Whether that be at a show, or at the polls. If you get complacent, you’re gonna get bruised as she smashes into you. If you get complacent, the government will continue to take away your rights, and you won’t even realize it until they’re gone. Capitalism will continue to benefit the rich while the rest of us are left scraping by. That’s the message they’d leave on the floor every night.
After New Hampshire, we headed towards the Canadian border. We were slightly worried that customs would go digging through our merch and find Sara’s femme fetish necklaces, lockets she made with nude femmes in various positions, a form of sexual empowerment. We were relieved that customs thought nothing of our little band, nor of the possibility of us bringing a virus into their country, and we crossed with no delay.
“The same is true in a mosh pit— when one person stage dives, it’s everyone’s responsibility to catch them and keep them afloat. If you don’t participate, someone will get hurt.”
In Toronto, we played one of our bigger shows at The Monarch Tavern. A long-haired piercer who’d traveled from Tennessee started the pit up front, and back at the merch table we finally had some fangirls! After Weeping Icon’s set, Alex came up to me at the merch table to share the latest news. The U.S. was barring travel to and from Europe. Al (Control Top’s guitarist) walked up and a frantic conversation ensued about how out of hand this was starting to get. It was tough to get a word in edgewise and calm everyone down, totally useless in fact. When there was a break in their speculation, I offered that the virus might have the positive potential of pulling us together as a global community. I thought that if we could reign in the panic and make smart, healthy choices, we would all be ok. I don’t think the reality of the situation had sunk in for me yet. Alex and Al blinked, and picked up the conversation where they’d left off.
It was only a matter of time until New York shut down. Additionally, I was worried we weren’t going to be able to cross back over after Canada. Weeping Icon kept joking in the car, “Syd, if your venues in New York get shut down you can just stay on the road with us through SXSW!” We still thought we could outrun a global pandemic.
The fear was starting to kick in, but the shows offered relief, even if momentary. While Control Top’s interpretation of punk was very in-your-face, Weeping Icon’s was more in your psyche. The set always began with Sara’s warped screams, run through pedal effects. As they experimented with noise, I heard different things each show: some nights crows squawking, others an apocalyptically heavy drum sample. One night in particular, their cacophonous cackling during “Suits” turned from hysterical laughter to tears. Eventually, I started to parse out what Sara was whispering, in between waves of droning fuzz: “I’m really trying...to perfect the art...of screaming into a paper bag. And I want to look good doing it.” That line pulled together the entire set for me. We’re all screaming into the void of social media and hoping it’ll make us feel heard. “Do you like my content? Does it make you envy what I have?” Sara beseeches during “Like Envy”. The world is projective and we are reflective. When asked about the band name, Sara explains that our icon weeps for the loss of identity that we all suffer in a performative, social media world. The meaning has become more complicated now, in quarantine, as we balance connecting with others in meaningful ways when all we have is technology.
The day the European travel ban went into effect, we pulled up to Deluxx Fluxx in Detroit. The venue had a checkered floor and I moonwalked in as Control Top was soundchecking. Ali was testing her mic levels by rattling off types of fruit, always starting with Watermelon. “Mic check! Watermelon! Mango! Grapefruit!” But her check devolved into reading the news over the PA. That’s when I knew things were looking grim and the tour was inevitably doomed. The global anxiety was so inescapable that it had seeped into our soundcheck, a sacred time of centering yourself in the space. The world was off-kilter.
On March 12th, New York City announced a moratorium on all the venues where I typically work; I would be out of work indefinitely when I returned home. Outside of New York, fans still kept turning out to our shows, just in smaller and smaller numbers. In Detroit, the bars and restaurants surrounding the venue were shutting down. Deluxx Fluxx had placed bottles of homemade hand sanitizer generously around the bar.
After a heavy night in Detroit, we woke up the next day and discussed our thoughts over band breakfast, one of my favorite tour family rituals. But before we could sit down, the restaurant staff fully sanitized the bar. Condiments like ketchup and syrup had to be served in separate small containers. Lani and I shared ricotta strawberry pancakes which, in retrospect, was probably a dumb idea. The next day, we both woke up with a sore throat and thought we were developing Covid. Back at the cafe, we discussed whether people who were still coming out to shows were the reckless ones, the people most likely to spread the virus. It was irresponsible for us to continue gathering crowds, and we had a responsibility as artists to keep our fans safe.
We made one last pit stop before leaving Detroit. While browsing the music section at John K. King Used & Rare Books, I overheard over the store radio, “Hey, could I have someone upstairs check the Christian Apocalypse section for a specific book?” I chuckled at the dark humor of having such a niche genre, but it was also sobering to realize that even Christians might think we were headed towards the Second Coming, the end of days.
On Friday the 13th, we shared our last dance with the folks of Culture Clash Records, a small record shop in Toledo, Ohio. At the time, they had zero reported cases of Covid-19, so we felt a bit safer. Ohioans came out early for our set, which took place amidst stacks of Siouxsie and the Banshees and King Crimson records. That show gave me hope for what was to come in terms of how we adapt to hosting live concerts in a world where we can’t leave the house. The store had set up a live stream with links for at-home viewers to tip each band. People were so generous that night! Supporting us at the merch table, asking for signed vinyl and tee shirts. Even I, the merch seller, got asked for a signature.
“I chuckled at the dark humor of having such a niche genre, but it was also sobering to realize that even Christians might think we were headed towards the Second Coming, the end of days.”
The last hug I received was on Saturday, March 14. Ali and I said goodbye in front of our Cincinnati motel before Control Top rushed off to Philly, returning home from a cancelled tour. She gave me one of those warm grandma hugs with an extra squeeze at the top. I didn’t even get to hug my bandmates goodbye; only elbow bumps through rolled-down car windows. Sara continued to have a fever a week after the tour and got tested for Coronavirus. Lani’s and my symptoms post-pancakes had subsided; we decided it was just the usual tour cold, chalked up to exhaustion. It took days for Sara to get her test results back. When she did, she informed us that we had gotten through tour without contracting the virus. We were all relieved that we hadn’t endangered our partners and housemates by staying on the road.
Back at home, I missed all the strangers who became my friends over eight days on the road. My lonesomeness comes and goes in waves. Sometimes I cry into my breakfast thinking about how alone I am without all the fans, music, and excitement that usually swirl around me. But at the same time, I’m filled with a feeling of warmth and connectedness for the experience we went through, the fans who let us crash on their couches, the venues that gave us food and extra drink tickets. I’m grateful for all these good samaritans who offered a piece of serenity in a chaotic world.
Syd Wheeler Larsen is a music fangirl and merch queen, reigning over venues in NYC. She spends her spare time pretending she’s famous on a (somewhat helpful) cooking show and writing songs about baked goods on her bass. She has only been fired for having pink hair one time in her entire life.