Walking into a basement club in Camden, the sound of the guitar hits you in the gut, along with the singer’s full-throated, death-metal growl. In the middle of the crowd is a circle of thrashing bodies, hair flying, limbs everywhere, bouncing off each other. The mosh pit. “I got flung about five feet earlier tonight but people pick you back up,” one of them, Jake, tells me. “It’s a good way to get out the stress of the week.”
“Friendly violence,” is how gig-goers James and Angelina describe the energy of the pit. “Achy feet, chafing, people’s sweat dripping from the ceiling,” adds their friend Sam wryly. “It’s not altogether pleasant, but it’s just what you’re compelled to do when you hear the music.”
