The Pit and the Mats

Running a BJJ Class Like a Punk Show

There’s a moment that happens in both places, if you’re lucky. On stage, it’s when the opening riff hits and you feel the floor start to shake—not from the amps, but from bodies in motion. On the mats, it’s when class starts and a room full of people shift from standing around in gis to suddenly moving like a single organism, diving into whatever jiu-jitsu game we’re playing that day. Same energy. Same electricity. Same sense that something is about to get beautifully chaotic.

I’ve spent time with a bass strapped across my chest in dive bars and DIY venues, but even more time in the crowd, sweating and screaming along with everyone else. Now I spend my days running Rough Hands BJJ. And here’s what I’ve learned: teaching jiu-jitsu and being part of a punk show—whether on stage or in the pit—aren’t just similar. They’re practically the same experience, just with different uniforms and significantly fewer bloody noses. Well, slightly fewer.

The Controlled Chaos

Let’s start with the obvious: both environments traffic in controlled chaos. A mosh pit looks like mayhem to the uninitiated—bodies colliding, people falling, someone’s shoe flying across the room—but anyone who’s been in one knows there are rules. You pick people up when they fall. You pull someone out if they’re in trouble. You push back, but you don’t punch. It’s aggressive, it’s intense, but it’s also fundamentally collaborative.

A BJJ class operates on the same principle. To the outsider watching through the window, it looks like everyone’s trying to strangle each other. And, well, they kind of are. But it’s chaos with guardrails. There’s a shared understanding that we’re here to push each other, to create pressure and solve problems under duress, but nobody’s actually trying to hurt anyone. The moment someone taps, you let go. The moment the round ends, you slap hands. You’re testing each other’s limits while respecting that those limits exist.

As the person running the show—whether I’m counting off a song or designing a game—my job isn’t to eliminate the chaos. It’s to create the conditions where the chaos can happen safely. You set the tempo, you establish the boundaries, and then you let people go wild within them. Too much control and you kill the energy. Too little and someone gets hurt. The sweet spot is right in that middle ground where everyone’s slightly uncomfortable but still feels held by the structure.

The Band Isn’t the Show (But Also, It Is)

Here’s the paradox at the heart of both punk shows and BJJ classes: people show up to see the band, but the band isn’t really the point. Or rather, the band is the point, but only insofar as they create the conditions for something larger to happen.

I’ve experienced this from both sides. When I was on stage, sure, people came to hear the songs. But what made a show memorable wasn’t just how we played—it was what happened in the room. And from the crowd, I felt it even more clearly. The best shows weren’t the ones with the most technical musicianship. They were the ones where you felt like you were part of something. Where the band passed the mic into the audience and some stranger grabbed it and blew the doors off the place. Where you stage-dived for the first time and felt a dozen hands catch you. Where everyone in that room—band and crowd alike—was building the same moment together.

The best shows were the ones where the line between performer and audience got blurry. Where it felt less like the band was playing at people and more like everyone was making something together. The band were facilitators as much as they were the main attraction, and from the pit, you could feel when they understood that.

Running a BJJ class works the same way. Yes, I’m the head coach. I’m the one choosing what we work on, setting the pace, maintaining the structure. People show up to learn from me and my coaching staff. But if I’m doing my job right, I’m not the star of the show—the learning is. The breakthroughs are. That moment when a white belt finally hits a sweep they’ve been struggling with for months, and the entire room erupts in acknowledgment.

I’m not there to be the sage on the stage. I’m there to create the space where multiple learning journeys can happen simultaneously. Some students need me to demonstrate a technique three different ways. Some need to be left alone to figure it out. Some need a training partner who’ll push them. Some need someone who’ll slow down and let them think through the problem. My job is to read the room and adjust—just like adjusting your setlist when you realize the crowd wants to go harder, or wants to catch their breath.

The collaborative environment matters because growth doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in the friction between people, in the problem-solving that occurs when someone counters your favorite move and you have to figure out plan B on the fly. I can teach you the technique, but you have to learn it with your training partners. They’re not just the audience—they’re co-conspirators in the whole endeavor.

Passing the Mic (To Everyone)

One of the best feelings at a punk show is when the band passes the mic into the crowd. There’s this moment of trust—the song could fall apart, someone could freeze up, but instead what usually happens is magic. Some stranger grabs the mic and screams the words with more conviction than the band ever could, because for them, in that moment, the song means everything. The performance becomes theirs. The whole room feels it.

In BJJ, this translates to knowing when to step back and let others—coaches and students alike—take the spotlight. I might be the head coach, but I’m not the expert in everything, and more importantly, expertise lives throughout the room. One of my coaches has a killer crucifix game—when we’re covering back attacks and controls, I hand them the mic. Another coach has a guard passing style that resonates with people differently than mine does—some students just click with their approach in ways they don’t with mine. When it’s their area of expertise, they’re the headliner, and I’m in the back providing support.

But it’s not just about other coaches. Sometimes a purple belt has been obsessing over a specific technique and has insights that even I haven’t considered. Sometimes a blue belt figures out a creative solution to a problem everyone else is struggling with. In those moments, I stop the class. “Hey, show everyone what you just did.” The mic gets passed. The student demonstrates. Everyone learns something they wouldn’t have if I’d insisted on being the only voice in the room.

This serves multiple purposes. First, everyone gets better instruction—they’re learning from whoever’s most qualified to teach that particular thing in that moment. But second, and maybe more importantly, it reinforces that we’re building something collective. That the academy isn’t about one person’s authority or ego. It’s about shared knowledge, communal growth. When students see different people taking point—coaches, training partners, even themselves—they understand that mastery has many faces. That everyone has something to contribute.

It also models something crucial: the willingness to not be the smartest person in the room. To say “actually, so-and-so has a great take on this, let’s hear from them.” That’s not weakness—that’s what makes the whole thing work. A punk show isn’t about one person with a microphone dictating the experience. It’s about everyone in that room—on stage and off—finding the moments where they can add their voice. A good BJJ class is the same.

The Performance Belongs to Everyone

Maybe this is the most important parallel: in both contexts, the beautiful thing that happens isn’t the product of one person’s vision. It’s emergent. It arises from the interaction of many talented people showing up, putting themselves out there, and building something together.

I can write the best technique curriculum in the world, but it means nothing without students who show up and grapple with it—literally. I can drill the perfect sequence, but the magic happens in the spontaneity of rolling, when someone tries something unexpected and suddenly we’re all problem-solving in real time. The white belt who asks the question that makes me reconsider how I teach a concept. The purple belt who hits a variation I’ve never seen before and now we’re all learning. The black belt visitor who drops in and shows us a different approach to a position we thought we understood.

This is what made punk shows special, whether I was playing or in the crowd. The song was never exactly the same twice because the room was different, the energy was different, people responded differently. Maybe someone jumped on stage and the whole momentum shifted. Maybe the PA cut out and the band played acoustic and it became this intimate moment. Maybe you were having the worst day of your life and these three minutes of screaming along to a song about not giving up was exactly what you needed.

You can’t script that. You can only create the conditions for it.

Same Energy, Different Expression

So yeah, running a BJJ class is like being part of a punk show. It’s about creating a container strong enough to hold intensity and chaos, but open enough that people feel free to express themselves. It’s about understanding that you’re not there to be worshipped—you’re there to facilitate something larger than yourself. It’s about trusting your team, sharing the spotlight, and recognizing that the best moments are the ones nobody planned.

When class ends and everyone’s gathering their gear, there’s this moment—tired, sweaty, maybe a little beat up, but also buzzing with that particular satisfaction that comes from having done something hard together. That’s the same feeling I used to get stumbling out of a venue at 2 AM, ears ringing, shirt soaked through, thinking about that one moment in the set where everything clicked. Or loading out gear with the band, all of us riding the same high.

Different stages. Same show. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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If you want to see what controlled chaos looks like on the mats, come train at Rough Hands BJJ.