I remember when I was in ninth grade and we were deep into the reign of alternative music and the concept of moshing seemed really cool. That was also back when the thought of actually touching a boy was so titillating that I was willing to risk life and limb just to brush up against a real, live one, even if he was a disgusting, sweaty, hormone-fueled mess in a Tool shirt. That was also back before I had any real concept of not being invincible.

Except, as I soon learned once I started going to concerts, moshing is nothing to get mixed up in. I am not a delicate flower by any means, but life is too freaking short to find yourself getting elbowed in the nose while you’re innocently trying to bob your head to your favorite song — no matter how fast-paced it is. So at shows, if there is even any hint of a shoving match, you’ll find me creeping away from the teeming mass and finding a space along the wall, laughing the the ‘roidheads and maternally wishing they’d chill out because, really, what is there to get all riled up about?

So I guess my absence from the moshing scene is how I completely missed out on learning what a Wall of Death is.

Rise Against, who were doing an already bang-up job of getting their crowd worked up when I walked up mid-set, suggested that everyone get ready to form a Wall of Death.

I was walking away when I heard this Wall of Death proposal go out over the PA, and turned right around. “Wall of Death?” I thought in my special in-my-mind-only accent. “That sounds quaint! Why don’t I stick around?”

Tim McIlrath, Rise Against’s front man, was asking people to form a big empty space down the middle of the crowd, all the way up to the stage. “Awesome,” my useless, completely irrational brain said. “This is a great photo opportunity.”

You can see where this is going.

Laugh, chumps. Laugh. Go ahead.

I spotted Commercial Appeal photog Mark Weber and we were both shrugging our shoulders about this so-called Wall of Death. It looked harmless enough to us. I kind of halfway hoped it meant people would be taking turns dancing down the big clearing toward the stage, like they do in those teen movies that are never anything like real life.

So I made my way down the clearing and snapped exactly two pictures before I realized that I had, essentially, signed my own death warrant. McIlrath gave his crowd the go sign and the two sides of the clearing ran at each other with the kind of fury usually reserved for brief scenes in trailers of movies about medieval battles. It didn’t take long for me to hit the ground, and all sorts of strange and depressing and frantic things started running through my mind (in my normal accent). My first instinct was to cover the very expensive lens I’m renting from LensRentals. My second thought was OH MY GOD, THIS IS HOW PEOPLE DIE AND GET ON THE NEWS.

From then on out, it was just me stunned, on the ground, people stomping all over me. I’m pretty sure I flashed some onlookers (stupid miniskirt). And I’m also pretty sure Mark got some sweet pics of my ongoing crisis and near death, that, had I died, might have been used to comfort my parents because it would have lessened the loss knowing you lost a child so stupid as to get herself caught up in that mess. I look forward to seeing those.

Some helpful fellow helped me to my feet (I was total dead weight; sorry about that, dude) and I realized I’d lost both my flip-flops (SEE?! GALOSHES ARE IMPERATIVE). I begged and pleaded and ducked my way out of the madness and into the calmer fringes. My camera and my lens were safe, a plug had been taken out of my knee, I was bleeding down my leg, and people were looking at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet. And for that five minutes, I’m pretty sure I was the dumbest person on the planet.

I was able to recover one flip-flop, and then sat by the fence to wait for the crowd to thin out so I could go hunt for the other. Sadly, it is lost to the whims of time and very angry punk-rock fans.

I limped back, busted and bruised and feeling generally sheepish, back to the media trailer to show off my battle wounds. Diane, the BSMF director, very kindly dispatched someone to get flip-flops from a vendor on site so that I may continue my journey to observe and report. That was very, very cool of her and has saved my feet from certain rot.

But I’m steering clear of the crowds.

— Lindsey