This screed was supposed to appear in June of 2007, but it got lost until now

The Ocean mocked the Big Mexican's previous commands and posturing. He could intimidate the occasional vantage jockey to not block his view during the opening act, but testosterone and a first-come-first-served sensibility will not bar The Ocean. The first few notes were a fuse. Short. The distance between trigger and barrel's mouth. The Ocean exploded. Hot, wet, and concussive.

I was fixed for 2 long hours watching the opener and soundchecks and then in seconds I was swept somewhere new. Forward, back, leaning one way, then the other. Glimpses of the screen, of Tom Morello reverse engineering the guitar, of Zach strangling the mic. I was backwards for some breaths. A heartbeat, and then the surge reversed again. Fist in the air, jump up on the beat and the current will carry you as it crushes you. A tide of vices on your ribs, alternately lifting, then drowning you. Someone falls on you, you domino, it pushes back. Your footing is a dice roll, flat ground, discarded water bottle, or someone's calf. Sometimes you curse the heel landing on your toes, sometimes you are greatful for the added anchoring. Lock your forearms in somewhere and you will stay in that relative position unless they start going opposite directions and your sternum feels like it's about to crack.

I rode the prosperous waves and twisted free of the unfavourable ones. Netting inches at a time, I found myself 3 bodies from the rail and dug in. Elbows between drenched bodies, left leg at full tension against the pressure, I held. There were now only a few hazards. The escapees crowd surfing their way out were surprises from behind, announced by boots and knees at my head and neck. My neighbor's pumping fist implied an equal and opposite plunging elbow. The bald guy in front of me was unaware of the the headbanging etiquette "forward, not backwards". And there was the heat.

Before we left, I had to check 2 different websites for weather reports because they didn't seem possible. During the day, it was nearly 40 degrees (which in the farenheit scale is, I think, "Bar-Cherry-Lemon") It was the kind of weather you cannot handle chocolate in. It stayed warm even through the night, like someone was still tending to the embers.

Now take thousands of human bodies that had been out in the sun for hours and mash them together in a pen. The Ocean was composed of bones, flesh, sweat and breath that blazed and sat hovering. When any breeze of clean air rolled over top of The Ocean, I gasped at the heavens. Event staff would throw watter bottles like grenades into the pit, and hose us with mist, but the relief was always fleeting. I questioned my survival. I thought of escaping, "I could still watch the rest of the set from the back, right?" But I held. In the tumult, against the slippery elbows in my ribs, competing with the shoulders prying at my locked arms, in the haze of sweat fumes condensing on my glasses, I held and witnessed the most important rock show on the planet.

Otto DeFayhe