Heavy Metal Security

Sep 1, 2000 12:00 PM, CAREY ADAMS

A man in his early-20s is being tossed and jostled about in a sea of people, all violently shaking their heads and jumping up and down. Some of them even look to be suffering convulsions. The crowd, including teenagers and young adults, scream as they pass the man over their raised hands, and then toss him over a barricade of steel fencing, about four feet high. When he lands in the waiting hands of three security officials, the crowd cheers.

Wearing no shirt, the man has tattoos laced down both sides of his arm, looks tired and wobbles before pausing to regain his breath. Security officials ask if he has been injured and if he needs some water. He shakes them off and walks back into the barricade, where the frenzied party-goers are tossing another fan into the arms of security.

More than 60 security officers surround the barricaded area - some 100 feet wide and 250 feet deep - but they allow the people-tossing to continue. According to Curt Reed Washington, manager of security for the Georgia Dome in Atlanta, taking a minimalist approach is the best way to provide security for a heavy metal concert.

"That's metal. You first look at this group of people smashing against each other and your reaction is to go out there and stop it, but you realize they are fine and that's the way it is," says Washington.

The scene is the Sanitarium Tour 2000, held in July at the Georgia Dome. The concert had been billed to include heavy metal bands Korn, Kid Rock, System of a Down, Powerman 5000, and Metallica. Unfortunately, Metallica, the headline band, was unable to perform due to an injury sustained by one of its members before the concert. But the news didn't dampen the spirit of nearly 60,000 followers who showed up in Atlanta, wearing baggy pants, white or black T-shirts and every hue of dyed hair, including green and fire-engine red. They are feeling the need to rock.

A bystander might think that letting heavy metal fans "slam dance" - jumping and running into each other - and "head bang" - a violent nodding of the head - is unwise, but Washington says any other approach would defeat the purpose of security.

"If you crack down on them, you may end up with a situation where the fans rebel against security," says Washington. "That could cause a major security problem."

To assist in the security effort - keeping sanity at the Sanitarium Tour - concert promoters placed 625 contract security officers inside the Georgia Dome. Another 103 police officers, representing the police departments of the city of Atlanta, Fulton County and the Georgia World Congress Center Authority, were placed in and around the dome. Furthermore, 44 Georgia State Patrol officers were called upon to work security.

The concert was a six-hour event, but the security detail began long before the 4 p.m. start time. Two hours before the concert begins, young men and women sporting cut-off T-shirts, camouflage pants, chains around their necks, and tattoos encircling various body parts begin showing up at the dome's entrance. An Atlanta policewoman tells those people in line that no one will be admitted with chains or other metallic objects in their possession. No one balks at the restriction.

The concert is unlike others held previously at the Georgia Dome. For the first time, dome officials are allowing open seating. The new policy allows fans to stand in front of the stage, in addition to the option of assigned seats in the dome.

"We built a moat around the open seating area. From there we can evaluate people while they are inside of it and ask them if they need assistance after they come out," says Washington.

The idea of the moat is based on the knowledge that heavy metal concert revelers like to "body surf" - toss people over one another in a crowd. The area inside the mote is known by heavy metal revelers as the mosh pit. The moat lies within ten feet of the stage and is the barrier separating fans from the performers. But the moat is close enough to allow band members to jump into the mosh pit, which they occasionally do.

Once someone has been checked over by security, they are forced to walk around the barricade to get back to one entrance that lies about 125 feet from the stage.

Ten minutes into the concert, a band member of Powerman 5000 asks for people to jump up and down in unison to the rhythm of the music. The whole group of at least 200 people inside the mosh pit jumps up and down with one hand raised in the air. As the concert progresses, the population inside the barricade swells to a few thousand. And the body surfing increases with multiple bodies being tossed around simultaneously.

Although the security group seemed to take a casual approach, they were on alert for anything. One hour into the concert, a boy looking no more than 15 pauses to tie the long black laces of his boots three feet outside the moat's barrier. The laces became untied during his ride on the hands of hundreds of people in the mosh pit a few seconds earlier. Three T-shirted security officers stare at the boy as he reaches down to his ankles. The officers continue to watch until he ties his shoes and walks back into the moat.

At 6 p.m., Kid Rock, a 29-year-old entertainer with blond hair hanging below his shoulders, takes to the stage. He wears red pants and white T-shirt and the crowd explodes in cheers and screams as he makes his entrance with a 4-foot-tall sidekick, who makes an obscene gesture involving his middle finger. The blaring of guitars and drums mix to create a thunderous sound from some 100 black 15-inch-and-larger speakers on stage. The sound envelopes the crowd. The crowd jumps at every thump of the bass as Kid Rock mixes the loud guitar screeching riffs of heavy metal with the rhyming words of rap music. Thirty minutes into Kid Rock's performance, security officers tend to a woman who has passed out just outside the barricade. She is placed in a wheelchair and moved to an open area where paramedics revive her and give her water.

At 6:44 p.m., Kid Rock and his band end their performance and toss a 5-foot-tall, plastic, air-filled object in the shape of a liquor container into the crowd. The crowd bounces the container around like a beach ball.

By the time Korn, a band of five men, enters the stage at 7:14 p.m., revelers are in a continuous state of pushing and jumping up against each other. As Korn blares their songs featuring quick drum arrangements and guitar riffs that go from low to high tones at mind-numbing speeds, the crowd reaches a crescendo of non-stop jumping and shaking. But the insanity of the moment doesn't escape the watchful eyes of the nearby security officers.

At 8:08 p.m., inside the stands two security officers grab an intoxicated man wearing a white T-shirt and toss him about two feet into the waiting arms of two other security officers on the floor level. He is held for a few seconds before being placed in handcuffs by a Georgia State Patrol officer. He was arrested for attempting to start a fight.

As the night progresses, body surfing and subsequent tossing out of the moat continue and the weary, bloodshot looks on the faces of those being tossed out deepen, but each body surfer goes back for more.

According to a state patrol officer, fans were largely well behaved inside the concert area, although three of the bathrooms inside the Georgia Dome "were trashed."

At 8:20 p.m. Korn ends its performance and walks off stage to thunderous applause. The concert is drawing to a close. When it ends after 9 p.m., there have been no serious problems and revelers walk out of the Georgia Dome with renewed state of "metal" in their soul.

"I have to say this went well. I have to thank everyone involved in the security effort," says Washington. "No one overreacted. You look at the people jumping around and you say, Oh God, they are going to kill themselves. But you realize it is just part of the culture and you let it happen. We are pleased that it came off without a hitch."

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