Taking your toddler to a live show sounds like a delightful parenting experience, right? Visions of wide-eyed wonder and joyful dancing fill your head. So, naturally, when “Yo Gabba Gabba Live!” rolled into town, featuring the iconic DJ Lance Rock and the whole colorful crew, I jumped at the chance to create some precious memories with my son. Let me tell you, memories were made, alright. Just maybe not the kind you frame and hang on the wall.
DJ Lance Rock on stage at Yo Gabba Gabba! Live! Get The Sillies Out! tour, Nokia Theatre L.A. Live, Los Angeles, Thanksgiving weekend 2012
From the moment the curtain rose, revealing Muno, Foofa, Brobee, Toodee, and Plex alongside the legendary DJ Lance Rock, it was…intense. Now, I appreciate children’s entertainment. Barney had his moments, and Mr. Rogers was a national treasure. But “Yo Gabba Gabba!” live? It’s an experience that’s burned itself into my brain, and not entirely in a good way. I’m not one for celebrity fan mail, but DJ Lance Rock and company, you’ve inspired some feelings. Strong feelings.
The Costumes: Weebles on Steroids?
Let’s talk costumes. What in the name of children’s television is going on with those outfits? Muno, Foofa, Brobee, Toodee, and Plex look like they were designed by someone on a sugar rush, then inflated to bouncy castle proportions. Watching them bound around stage in those rubbery, vibrant suits, I was genuinely concerned for their well-being. How are they not collapsing from heat exhaustion? They resemble Weebles – you know, those roly-poly toys from back in the day – but in a way that’s more…nightmarish than nostalgic. DJ Lance Rock, bless his soul, at least escaped the full Teletubby treatment. But that orange jumpsuit? It screams 1970s disco reject. It’s a look, alright.
The Music: My Ears Are Still Ringing
And then there was the music. Oh, the music. If you’ve ever wondered what it sounds like when a toddler’s birthday party and a punk rock concert collide, wonder no more. It’s “Yo Gabba Gabba Live!”. I’m pretty sure my eardrums are still vibrating. The songs themselves are… repetitive. Let’s just say that. But what truly amplified the auditory assault was the enthusiastic mother behind me, belting out every lyric at full volume. Meanwhile, her poor daughter was visibly trying to escape the sonic onslaught by covering her ears and kicking my seat. I honestly couldn’t tell if she was protesting the music or her mother’s rendition of it. Between the ear-splitting volume and the off-key singalong, I was yearning for earplugs. And that’s saying something, considering the prices in the lobby gift shop were already making my ears bleed metaphorically. Seriously, guys, preschoolers have sensitive hearing! They can hear a candy wrapper crinkle from across the house. They’ll get “There’s a Party in My Tummy” even if you dial it down a notch or ten.
“Party in My Tummy”: Lyric Suggestion Box, Anyone?
Speaking of “There’s a Party in My Tummy,” is there a limit to how many times a human being can hear “There’s a party in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy” before losing their mind? Apparently not, because they played it approximately 7,000 times. Look, I get it. Repetition is key for little ones. But even preschoolers are capable of grasping slightly more complex lyrical concepts. Throw in a bridge! A chorus variation! Anything! Might I humbly suggest exploring the vast world of actually enjoyable kids’ music? Bare Naked Ladies’ “Snacktime,” The Laurie Berkner Band, Dan Zanes, even the Jack Johnson “Curious George” soundtrack – these are all goldmines. Credit where credit is due, though: Biz Markie was a stroke of genius. Beatboxing saved me from contemplating an early exit via the fire escape. Those ten minutes were pure, unadulterated parental bliss.
Audience Behavior: Lord of the Flies, Preschool Edition
The most shocking part of the whole experience wasn’t the neon costumes or the repetitive tunes; it was the behavior of the adults in the audience. I’ve survived mosh pits at grunge concerts, navigated frat parties, and even braved a sample sale at a designer warehouse. Nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for the chaos of the “Yo Gabba Gabba Live!” audience. Forget the kids – I was expecting toddler meltdowns and the occasional tantrum. But the adults? They were a different breed entirely. Pushing, shoving, cutting in line, snapping at children – it was like a Black Friday sale at a Tickle Me Elmo factory. Parents let their kids scream, cry, kick seats, and generally run wild. One dad’s child wailed non-stop through the entire performance, only finding peace during intermission when the blessed music stopped. I felt that kid’s pain on a spiritual level. I wanted to tap the dad on the shoulder and whisper, “Dude, it’s okay to cut your losses. $70 in tickets is nothing compared to your sanity. Ice cream is calling.” I know, I know, you can’t control other parents, DJ Lance Rock and crew. But for a show that, in theory, promotes positive social behavior for children, the audience was hilariously antisocial.
Merchandise Mania: Glow Sticks at a Preschool Show?
Of course, tours cost money, and merchandise is part of the game. I’m not naive. Stuffed toys and t-shirts are to be expected. My boys even walked away with miniature Plex dolls (miniature because my wallet was already weeping). But the sheer volume and strategic placement of the brightly colored, overpriced swag were masterful. Toys, shirts, glow sticks… glow sticks? Are we at a rave? A Grateful Dead concert for toddlers? And a special shout-out to the entrepreneurial woman patrolling the aisles with a cart of glow sticks, conveniently arriving just as DJ Lance Rock launched into a song about being afraid of the dark. Coincidence? I think not. Marketing genius? Absolutely diabolical.
Despite my litany of complaints, I’ll give you this, “Yo Gabba Gabba!”. You bring the energy. You bring the enthusiasm. And the kids? They ate it up. My IQ may have taken a nosedive, but my son was indeed shaking his sillies out. Lesson learned, though. Until my kids develop a taste for something a little less… intense, we’ll be sticking to music in the car. Maybe Matchbox 20 isn’t too far off.
Sincerely (and slightly traumatized),
A Parent in Seat L20.
