There was a moment on Sunday afternoon that sent a jolt of exhileration and anxiety through my gut. I suddenly wondered if I could muster enough strength to withstand a mosh pit. I hadn’t questioned the idea before because the answer was obvious: yes! Or so I thought. I mused upon the idea that I couldn’t make it through the set because quite frankly, it had been seven years. I was physically prepared, but because my idealism had sunken to the state of sea-level, I felt my demise would be my lack of dedication.

From October 1999-September 2000, I saw Rage Against the Machine 8 times. One of my biggest regrets in that stretch was missing them at the El Rey theater. It was a secret show sponsored by KROQ, and I was MIA that evening. My buddies made it, but I fell through. I made it up when we caught the band a few months later at the Roxy, where the disbanded group At The Drive-In opened up for them, (At The Drive-In are now Sparta and The Mars Volta). I remember the only way we described the show to outsiders was to paint a portrait of “walls sweating.” The intensity was always difficult to convey. The agony, claustrophobia, dehydration, exhaustion, pressing bodies, bloody awful smells, and those notorious snails, (shirtless men who have slime as sweat), were all a part of the experience; and you’d never guess that adapting to that type of environment would be beneficial, but it was.

It was June of 2000 and the Democratic National Convention was being held at the famed Staples Center, in Los Angeles, Ca. On the other side of the fence, Rage Against The Machine was scheduled to perform a free show that evening, and before you knew it, over 250,000 people had gathered to proclaim their right to say whatever the fuck was on their minds. I was one of them. Those previous shows were about to culminate into one giant “this is it” at the DNC, and it was to that night to which I traced my confidence and energy.

On Sunday at Coachella, (seven years after that historic evening in Downtown Los Angeles), I waited around for Manu Chao to finish his set. I waited for that backdrop of resistance that we’d grown to admire to rise from the ashes. And I stood there in disbelief that the band who had installed motivation in a young, distracted, and insecure individual, would finally set foot on stage again. That band had prompted the evolution of my individuality, identity, and devotion to learning. Not only did I take sanctuary in books because of them, I began to formulate my own ideals, I learned to fight with my words instead of my fists, and I consciously began to infiltrate the secrets of resistance. If it wasn’t for Rage Against The Machine, and those wonderful revolutionaries I grew to know and admire, then I might not be the man that I am today. It had been seven years since I’d seen some of the radicals I ran into on Sunday at Coachella. Joe’s hair had adopted a salt & pepper nobility, David’s dreads had become as vibrant and radical as the politics of “his” band, and “little Chris” was a grown man now. More than anything, I realized that these people were undeniably a part of my life. They’d become a part of my existence. And we were all there to indulge in “our” band.

Upon entering the pit Sunday evening, I knew it would be a struggle to survive. I knew the raucous awaiting me was far from what I’d experienced before. I knew I had the experience. More than anything, I realized that I belonged there. Like I told my friend, “I felt like I was home.” A Rage pit was right where I needed to be. And to all of those who assumed disdain for that “poor” sound you heard within the first three songs, I can only suggest that you loiter around the real fans next time. We managed to maintain our position, near the rails, near the veins, near the fists that scorched the desert sky. We were right where every fan should have been, and the sound was as powerful as I’d ever heard it.

Come On Feel The Rage [LAWeekly]
Rage Against The Machine Reunites [CNN]