It started like most epic tales do – a perfect, peaceful night. Until, we came face to face with the force that threatened to take away what we’d fought so hard to claim.
Our journey started early in the show, all the way at the back, where the musicians looked like Lego figures on a distant shelf. We slowly inched our way forward, slipping through gaps, seizing every opening, and whispering a chorus of “excuse me’s” as the bands played on. Finally, we hit the jackpot with a prime spot in front of the stage.
“Sa wakas!”
My friend and I congratulated each other.
This spot was our trophy, our hard-earned reward. And my empty bladder and I were ready for a solid night with a long lineup of great bands ahead. Great view of the stage, decent breathing space, and people around me just co-existed peacefully.
Then the host announced the next act: QUESO. (Yes. Cheese.)
Suddenly, the air shifted. That name hit like a war horn. Boys in black began materializing in our area. They came in clusters, dressed like they’d raided a uniform shop for moshpit combat gear. Black tees, bandannas/caps, clenched jaws. They flung cryptic hand signs and greeted each other like they belonged to a secret society. It was giving “gangsta moshpit starter pack.” And they kept multiplying.
I took a breath. The band was setting up, and I already knew what was about to go down. Around me, others were also debating whether to stay and defend their precious front-row space or retreat while they still could.
Ten seconds into QUESO’s set. Mayhem.
One minute I was just listening to the music. The next, I was part of an involuntary contact sport. The boys were jumping and slamming into each other, their expressions mirrored orcs at the Battle of Helm’s Deep. It was raw, wild, and strangely poetic – like a choreography of chaos under flashing lights, driven by guttural screams and growls, rumbling bass riffs, and the relentless thunder of drums. My friend and I were shoved, elbowed, slapped by limbs fueled by teenage adrenaline. People started fleeing, and we kept getting pushed back. More than once, I yelped, and asked, politely, then pleadingly, for space. They apologized. Then another rib jab came. Pushing didn’t help either. Mid-set, I was done.
This wasn’t music anymore. This was a warzone.
So we adapted. My friend and I, fed up and bruised, grabbed hold of the situation. Literally. Subtle, stealthy grabs delivered the right amount of pressure and speed while keeping us anonymous in the dark. Not aggressive, just annoying enough to trigger confusion.
And it worked.
Their faces shifted from thug-mode to “who grabbed my ass?” Suspicion spread like wildfire. Boys glanced sideways, whispered to each other, halted their jump arcs to scan their perimeter. Something was happening. Something they couldn’t explain. Like a silent glitch in their rowdy matrix.
Jumping continued, sure, but now there was caution. Tension in their ranks. We negotiated our space without saying a word.
“All warfare is based on deception.” (Sun Tzu)
By the end of the set, the black-brigade brigade dispersed. Louder bands followed, but the chaos had already subsided. We reclaimed our spot and felt a bit of Lapu-Lapu pride after Magellan’s retreat. Somewhere along the way, the music-lover in me had unleashed very subtle yet territorial fighter. The rest of the night unfolded like a well-deserved reward, and we enjoyed the rest of the bands from our reclaimed vantage point.
Great night, that one.
