Remember the story of that old photograph? It was taken at some show in the run-down Bowery years ago. There's this boy sitting in the middle of some trashed moshpit right below the stage. No one's left but him and he's sitting there in this chair, his mouth open and screaming.
You can almost hear it if you stare hard enough. Everyone else was gone, but here's this boy with blood on his face from a pulled piercing, keg cups surround his tired shoes, cigarette butts line the floors, and he's just there in the thick of it - alone and screaming to some invisible moon, some greater madness.
It's just a picture really, but it tears your heart out all the same.
It's what it's like I suppose; pogo-dancing insanity, some band destroying the already torn cloth speakers with curses and riffs, ripped piercings, blood, drool, the yellow fuzz from keg cups splashing in eyes and crying... and just for that moment, everyone is in the same place long enough to feel the shit and glory of some fantastically well-orchestrated abuse.
In the end there's just that one person left over for it all to come back to, the one person left who just eats it all, hating it, loving it, slipping away and coming back all over again, sitting there in that empty room and screaming.
How do you top that? It's not the photographer I admire, it's the boy.