But I can’t help but remember when rage was a collective act, when cavernous internal loneliness wasn’t a reason to disengage from the world physically. At their best, these shows were a channel for camaraderie through rebellion, a place to exorcise real-world dismay through art and metaphor.

We were there for the moment. We went all out. We were cringe. We were free, even when it was ugly. There were no screens to break, only lit cigarettes to dodge.