| Bopping to a Different Beat
One concert, two sisters, two separate events By Jeanne Marie Laskas Sunday, September 21, 2003; Page W43 My sister Claire is not upset about the long line for T-shirts. "Oh, we're not getting T-shirts," she says with authority, zooming past that booth and heading toward the doorway leading to our seats. Now, wait a second here. "We can't go in yet," I say. I need some time to adjust. To absorb the magic. And what does she mean we're not getting T-shirts? This is a unique girls' night: Claire and her 4-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, and me and my girls, Anna, 4, and Sasha, 2. All of us here to see the Wiggles, live. Why on earth would we deny ourselves the pleasure of parading around in matching T-shirts? "You are really excited about this concert," Claire points out. "You're not excited about this concert?" We look at each other. Aliens. She is here for her daughter. I'm here for my kids, too -- but. The Wiggles are sort of like the Monkees for toddlers. Or maybe the Beatles. I think they're geniuses. They're four grown men from Australia who wear brightly colored shirts and sing many silly songs but also some beautiful folk songs. The Wiggles are huge in my house, where everyone has a favorite Wiggle. Anna likes Anthony, the guy in blue, Sasha likes Jeff, the purple guy, and I like Greg, the yellow guy. My husband was assigned Murray, the red guy, because he was the only one left. I am trying to explain this to Claire. I am trying to explain that seeing Greg in person is a big deal for me. He is, after all, the lead singer. I love his voice. Okay, I don't get out much. Um. This is pathetic? "Listen, if this were the Monkees, you would be excited to see Davy Jones," I say. "Not as excited as you would be to see Peter Tork," she says. Fair point. We have different styles. She's the contained sister. I'm more the empty container. Or something. "Let's just get T-shirts, okay?" "Not for us," she says, explaining that she and her husband and three kids have proclaimed themselves a "non-souvenir family." They don't buy them at theme parks or museums either. "This is, what, a religious conviction?" I ask. "You go to an event to experience an event," she says. "Not to buy junk." Her stubbornness on this matter is bothering me. But this is what sisters do. The more they react one way, the more you run the other. I go get T-shirts, and thanks to Claire I also get bobble-head dolls, Anthony, Jeff, Murray, Greg, the complete set. The Wiggles start right on time. My girls are so undone they are holding their hands up to their eyes, peeking through the cracks as if they have to let this in slowly, gradually. Claire and Elizabeth are smiling calmly, bopping their heads to "Wiggly Party." Greg is taller than I thought he would be. And I'm not sure I like him in short sleeves. But maybe I do. I start devising a plan to get backstage to meet him and get his autograph on the bobble-head doll. I mention this to Claire. "We are not doing that," she says. "Repeat: NOT." I think about all the ways people experience concerts and other stadium-style events. Some people go to baseball games and keep box scores, while others go for the beer and companionship. I know a guy who went to six Bruce Springsteen concerts in three weeks, camping out in parking lots. There are lots of ways to be a fan. There are guys at football games with bare painted bellies. Dorothy the Dinosaur, one of the Wiggles' peripheral characters, appears onstage, and so does Wags the Dog. At least I thought they were peripheral. Moms and dads start climbing out of their seats with their kids, and the kids have roses for Dorothy, because Dorothy eats roses. Other kids have dog bones for Wags. I didn't even think to bring roses or bones. On the one hand I feel inadequate, but on the other hand I feel less like a guy at a football game with a painted belly. The hit song "Hot Potato" has my kids bouncing in their seats, so I suggest we all move down to the floor, where there is room to dance. Claire says she's having fun just watching, and Elizabeth says she is, too. That's the thing, they really are happy just observing. My girls and I end up at the foot of the stage, which has turned into something of a toddler mosh pit. We are twirling and jumping and absorbing the joy. I am so close to Greg I can admire his shoes. But mostly I am admiring Murray's eyes, which reveal a most genuine peace. He is playing to the crowd, loving it. Right now he embodies everything I love about these four guys from Australia: the generosity. Their music has no irony, no wink to the grown-ups about how stupid this might or might not be. There is never a crack. This is a kid universe, safe and secure. Afterwards, drenched in sweat, we find Claire and Elizabeth, who say they had a great time. "Such joy these guys bring," Claire says. "Especially that red guy. I love that red guy." Uh-oh. "You love Murray?" I say. "But I just switched to Murray! We can't both love the same guy . . ." "Let's go home," she says. "Let's just go home." |