Sachi Kitajima Mulkey / Grist Published Dec 23, 2024 Topic Climate + Arts & Culture Share/Republish Copy Link The crowd sways like starlings in murmuration as we wait for the show to start. The relaxed vibe belies the pandamonium about to be unleashed. Metal concerts are like that. To an outsider, they appear violent, and they can be, but to fans like me they are a place of solace. I’ve been attending concerts since I was a teenager; the first was in a dusty parking lot and I never looked back. At the time, I gave no thought to what amplifiers cranked to 10 might do to my hearing, and it didn’t help that I liked being close to the action. Tonight, in Denver, I’ve got earplugs, sensible sneakers, and, because it has been acting up, a brace on my knee. The lights dim and my pupils dilate . The band starts and my adrenaline spikes. The music is loud, but I don’t care. I push toward the stage, the sound becoming a roar, thrumming in my ears. A circle opens in front of me. I’ve reached the pit, where dozens of bodies swirl in a vortex, pushing and colliding with each other in a communal dance called moshing that is both an individual act of catharsis and a collective expression of emotion. A baby metal concert I attended in 2023. Excitement pounds in my chest. It’s been another rough day, in a series of rough days. I’m Arapaho and Shoshone. And like all Indigenous peoples, our land is exploited, our sovereignty denied, our future imperiled. But it’s the accumulation of everyday microaggressions that make me angry. I not only live with this, I write about it, and I can’t help but get mad. I jump in. The ongoing […]