Dear Wally 73 Ringo Starr first concert for Hattie

My two and a half year old daughter and I went to see her first rock concert. I felt it was an important rite of passage and I wanted it to be special as it might define her later when she is inevitably sitting around a bonfire with friends and the subject of first concerts comes up. I didn’t want it to be something shameful and fleeting like Miley Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers (or whoever replaces them in 9 years).
We saw Ringo Starr and his all star band at Bethel Woods- the hollowed site of the Woodstock concert in 1969, which is cool in its own right if you ask this wanna-be Hippie. And you saw us apparently. I was the guy in shorts.
I wanted her to see the Beatles, my all time favorite band. If I could deliver to her or anyone the entire intact Beatles, daddy wouldn’t be driving a Subaru.
Some parenting can unfairly boil down to imposing ones values and perspective (and wishes) on one’s child. That, of course, is not necessarily a good thing. I’m aware of this temptation, but decided to take a gamble, selling her on the promise of a blanket and picnic.
At almost 3, she’s frequently a contrarian in language, though not necessarily in sentiment. Plenty of times she defines things and people with a binary declaration of appreciation, as in “I love….” Or “I don’t like…” And those can flip flop inside of seconds.
On the car ride over, she queried me from the back. “Who is Ringo?”
I tried to explain that he was a Beatle and immediately realized the error from her confused look. I chucked it back from insect into terms she can relate to these days: “He’s a very nice man,” I said. “He plays the guitar” (Which is a stretch of the truth, I know, but explaining the drums would require more concentration than I could spare while driving.)
“He plays guitar like you?” She asked. I might be doing him a disservice but I think Ringo plays guitar as poorly as I do so I said yes. The association felt grand.
“I don’t like Ringo,” she declared stubbornly.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t really either.”
Now If Paul McCartney was within 500 miles, I’d consider getting a large box of diapers a bigger picnic basket and making a weekend of it. Paul, you see is my favorite Beatle. Then George. Then John. Then Ringo.
I think your Beatle preference reveals a lot. It’s possibly an entire other essay.
But, seeing ANY Beatle felt incredibly important to me. It was high on my bucket list. On Dec 8, 1981, after years and years of singing along to them in the shower and car, I closed my bedroom door and played all my Beatles records in tribute to John Lennon. And I cried. I was 15.
Taking my daughter to see a member of the phenomenon I listened to at her tender age seemed like the very most important thing to do. I literally got so excited that I started worrying Ringo might have a heart attack and not make it to the show.
But Ringo was there in fine form. The guard at the entrance gate was so happy to see my smiling young baby girl on my shoulders that he let us in for free.
The music was spot on and just hearing Ringo sing felt as comforting as listening to an old friend on the phone. I’d heard his voice so many times on records, 8 track tapes, CDs and the radio over the years that the familiarity was precious.
Hattie had a great time. Shoes came off, she was running and dancing on the grass chasing other small kids whose parents, like me, had one eye on the stage and one eye on our kids.
The unspoken bonding that happens at any concerts is always special. You go because you love the music. Music crosses socio-economic racial borders gracefully. But at this show, the depth of connection felt tectonic. For the Beatles have a well-deserved place in the musical canon. Their music a gift to all walks of life, all sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Indeed, by the folks represented that night, all generations, shapes sizes and ages. Ringo was an integral part of that experience no matter where on your ‘Beatles List” he is.
He tried out cuts from his new, forthcoming CD. We were all polite. But we were not there for that. When he played Beatles tunes, people went berserk. I felt like I might need to hand a few of Hattie’s diapers out to fully grown women there was that much excitement.
Hattie said to me as we left, “I love Ringo.” To which I replied, irresponsibly imposing my values on another, “Like Ringo. Love Paul.”