Fifteen years ago, I was no stranger to a moshpit. I was eighteen, and without the responsibilities nor the creeping aches of a mostly desk-bound thirty-three-year-old journalist, I could throw myself into these mock-brawls at rock concerts with reckless abandon.
Clad in my best (or tattiest) black, baggy Iron Maiden T-shirt, I moshed at any gig I could, from obscure hardcore garage bands in tiny metal-music pubs, all the way to huge festival concerts for the likes of Metallica, entering moshes with hundreds of participants.
