They say never to meet your heroes. Several years into my twenties, I was beginning to understand why. I had already met several of my heroes, and every time, without fail, I got tongue-tied and said something stupid – the kind of thing you recall when you’re in the shower and suddenly wish you were dead.

So when I was invited to a MoMA screening of Instrument — the documentary about the punk band Fugazi, directed by Jem Cohen — and asked if I wanted to meet co-frontman/guitarist Guy Picciotto afterward, I was hesitant. Guy friggin Picciotto? Aw, MAN. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself yet again, especially in front of this man I so admired. But Fugazi as a band, and Instrument as a film, were both too important to me to let the opportunity pass by. I knew I had to say something, even if it would ruin my showers for years to come.

I fell in love with 13 Songs when I was a freshman at the SUNY Purchase Film Conservatory. I wore the CD out, identifying with the band’s anger and inspired by their integrity. I’ve since parted ways with my beloved CD collection, but it’s still my favorite album, perfect from start to finish.

The following year, our documentary professor – the extraordinary Deanna Kamiel – screened Instrument for us. About two thirds of the class hated it, calling it long and boring and self-indulgent. For me, it was everything – the visuals, the message, the music. Were we even watching the same film? Every frame was imbued with so much energy, so much power. Rarely does a band so vehemently live by what it claims to believe; rarely does the shooting and editing of a film capture the rhythms of music the way this one did.

But there was one scene in particular that really grabbed me. During a live performance about 42 minutes into the film, Guy is shown aggressively slow-dancing with a fan on stage, some dopey-looking kid, then clutching him in an intimate embrace, refusing to let go. Just hugging him, holding him, moving to the music. The fan finally sits Guy down on the corner of the stage, who stares at the floor blankly for a while as the fan kind of hovers around him in confusion.

When I was introduced to Guy, the first thing I told him was how that moment changed the way I thought about film and art. It struck me as a shining, literal example of an artist’s ability to connect with his audience – to reach out, touch someone, and hold on for dear life – and of film's unique ability to capture and focus our attention on a single moment in time.

Guy looked at me in surprise. He told me that no one had ever mentioned that scene to him before, and he never understood why; although this was the first time he'd watched the film in 10 years, it always struck him how strange that moment was. I asked him what was going through his mind when it happened. He said that the fan had been causing a lot of tension during the show, and to diffuse it Guy decided to dance with him on stage. Then he got overheated and kind of fainted, and he doesn't remember much else. 

As someone who’s fainted several times, I told him I could relate to that feeling — it’s scary and it sucks. I couldn’t imagine watching it from the outside looking in, but I’m grateful that Jem Cohen chose to include it in the final edit. The beauty of those images, of that moment of connection, could’ve easily been lost in time; instead they’re forever burned into my memory.

We walked through the museum for a bit and he asked me about film school and if I was making films now. I asked him how he felt watching the doc now that he wasn't with the band anymore. He said it made him sad, and that he hadn’t been doing much lately since Vic Chesnutt died, but he really wanted to get more productive again. After a few minutes, we exchanged warm goodbyes and he left.

I remained where I stood for a moment, basking in the glow of our own brief connection. They say never to meet your heroes, but I’m so glad I got to meet mine.