This is a post about my wifesitters, Jim and Sean. What are wifesitters, you ask? And why on earth would a wife need sitting?
To fully understand the concept we have to go back about 20 years to my very first Afghan Whigs show, which took place in 1993 when I was 17 years old. One of my friends was a huge fan of the band, and despite only knowing a song or two, a group of us headed to Maxwell’s in Hoboken to see what they were all about. I was immediately transfixed the moment the band took the stage until they played their last note more than two hours later.
I left Maxwell’s that night with the Gentlemen CD in hand (which then had to be transferred onto tape so I could listen to it in the car—my mother’s 1984 Chevy Cavalier) and from that moment on, The Afghan Whigs scored the soundtrack for my life.
During my senior year of high school, I would belt out “My Curse” driving through Jersey City to and from school every day. In college, my roommate and I would blast “My World is Empty Without You” while cleaning our dorm room at Villanova. When I got my first real job, 1965 was a permanent fixture in my Walkman during my NYC commute.
The Afghan Whigs never hit it big, but their cult following of fans are incredibly passionate about the music. We feel special, like we hold a secret that the rest of the world isn’t worthy of knowing.
Back in 1998, I was dating Paul and he took me to a coffee house to see one if his college buddies, Jim, perform his music. A few songs into the set, Jim sang “Honkey’s Ladder”. I couldn’t believe my ears! Another Afghan Whigs fan! Little did we both know it, but at that very moment a wifesitter was born.
You see, Paul is not a fan of The Afghan Whigs. In fact, due to the great beer spilling incident of 1999 (another story for another day, best told by Jim who does a dramatic reenactment of the scene), I’ve actually banned him from ever going to an Afghan Whigs show again. So Jim and I became fast friends, and by association, my network of Afghan Whigs superfans expanded when I met the rest of Jim’s crew, which included Sean.
For the next couple of years, we went to every Afghan Whigs show we could get ourselves to. It was only fitting that when my phone rang in the middle of the night in 2001, it was Jim on the other end of the line who broke the news that the band had broken up. We were devastated, but it wasn’t long before Dulli was making music with The Twilight Singers. We loved them instantly, of course, and never missed a show when they were in the NYC area.
A lot happened during The Twilight Singers era. Somehow, when we weren’t looking, we became adults. We all got married, bought homes, changed jobs (Paul, Jim and Sean all work together now) and had a whole bunch of kids. Jim and Sean officially earned the title of “wifesitters” at a Twilight Singers show in 2004, when they formed a human shield around my 8-weeks-pregnant self. The band went on at midnight, and there was a rather lanky, sleepy and wobbly gentleman standing in front of us who was bound to tip over. The guys sprung into action and kept me safe throughout the show, and the term “wifesitter” was cemented in history.
Over the last decade we’ve grown to love The Twilight Singers almost as much as The Afghan Whigs. However, last year when Dulli did his acoustic tour and performed some Whigs tunes, we all hoped he was hinting at an inevitable reunion. Our wish came true when the announcement was made earlier this year, and we scooped up tickets to every NYC area show the moment the fan presales went live.
The first show in 13 years is on Wednesday, and like giddy teenagers we text, Tweet and Facebook possible playlists, our theories on first and last songs, and how long we think the show will go (my guess is 2 hours, 15 minutes). Even as I type this, I received a text from Jim that reads, “I’m so excited it’s stupid.”
It’s going to be a long few days between now and Wednesday, but the anticipation is thrilling. My wifesitters will escort me to another Afghan Whigs show. We will get there early, giggle like goofballs outside the venue, maneuver our way as close to the stage we can get, sing and dance our faces off, high five between songs, and pretend there’s “something stuck in my eye” when the band plays “Faded,” just like we’ve done dozens of times before. Then we’ll head home, kiss our respective sleeping children, thank our spouses for holding down the fort while we were out, and unsuccessfully try to sleep as we replay the night over and over again.
I get goosebumps just thinking about it.