MUSIC LOLLAPALOOZA SOME EVENT-GOERS COMPLAIN THE WHOLE THING HAS BECOME TOO COMMERCIAL

GEORGE, Wash. -- A scrawny, long-haired teen-ager in unhooked overalls backstrokes over a human wave 25,000 people strong. As he nears the stage, one of the grimy hands propelling his body forward snatches off his high-top sneaker, revealing a sweat sock crawling from heel to toes. A security guard reaches over hundreds of raised arms, plucks the waif from the crowd, sets him on his feet and points the way off the median separating bands from fans.

Welcome to stage diving and nine hours of alternative music, side-show activism and temporary tatoos: Lollapalooza, the Baby Buster's very own Wood stock.

This year's U.S. debut of what has become the Superbowl of music festivals was held Saturday at the Gorge, a scenic concert venue that juts out of nowhere from a dusty road near a town named George, Wash.

A fitting location, the Gorge. Only three years ago, before alternative music won Grammys or sold out stadiums, Perry Farrell of the little-known band Jane's Addiction and his manager, Ted Gardner, dreamed up a showcase of cutting edge music and circus-style performers. In a year when many big-name performers had to cancel show dates because of lackluster ticket sales, Lollapalooza surged from nowhere to the big time with acts on the fringe of popular music.

Since then, alternative music has moved from the fringe right to the center of the rock carpet, and Lollapalooza's success is partially responsible.

At this year's festivities, there were 25,000 fans, 200 security guards, about 25 booths, twice as many portable toilets, and, of course, the music. The lineup featured eight headliners Rage Against the Machine, Front 242, Grammy winner Arrested Development, Fishbone, Primus, Dinosaur Jr., Babes in Toyland and Seattle sound grads Alice in Chains and four up and comers.

The numbers are auspicious; the bands, top of the heap. But it only takes one name to bring so many people here: Lollapalooza, a tour that has grown bigger than the sum of its parts.

Sheila may love Babes in Toyland, but she goes to experience Lollapalooza.

Don thinks Alice in Chains is killer, but he drives 300 miles for Lollapalooza.

Brian Moore of Auburn, Wash., is a big fan of Dinosaur Jr. But he paid $37 or rather his mother paid $37 for a ticket to Lollapalooza. And nothing, short of Paula Abdul on the bill or getting grounded, could keep him away.

''It's kind of like Woodstock,'' said Moore, who wasn't even born until nine years after the legendary concert. No matter he knows a happening when he sees one.

Moore inhaled the corn husks smoking on a grill to the right of the spot he had chosen on the ground; nearby, another thrill seeker entered the spaceball, a giant orb that spins in every direction and, sometimes, induces vomit.

Moore's purple and green tie-dyed shirt was saturated, a combination of water, which the security team distributes across the crowd from a humongous blue hose, and moshing sweat.

For the uneducated, moshing is a cousin to slam dancing, and it usually takes place in a human ring, or pit. For alternative illiterates, moshing is bumper cars without the cars. Combat boots are advised.

Although most Lollapaloozers wear their moshing shoes, those not interested in getting in the pit sport sandals, sneakers or, in the case of 9-week-old Jules Villanueva, nothing at all.

''His doctor said it was OK that he come if I put cotton in his ears,'' said his mother, Nia, who had discovered shade behind a big, gray garbage can. ''I've never taken him out in the public, and he's just amazed at all the people.''

Lollapalooza had such sights to show him.

A black-haired girl wearing a black bra and the word ''Re-legalize'' scrawled across her chest gnawed on a turkey drumstick.

At the booth occupied by the Hempstead Company a California-based retailer of clothing made from the natural fiber hemp (which also produces marijuana) a young man whose kelly green mohawk made him look like a rooster in Emerald City wanted to know if a hemp vest would smell like bong water if it got wet.

Then there were nouveau flower children, Dracula wannabes and run-of-the-mill ''Beverly Hills 90210'' look-alikes.

In fact, almost every walk of life had descended on the Gorge. And to hard-core alternative fans, it was not a pretty sight.

''It ain't the early '80s anymore,'' said Dave Fridmann, the bass player for Mercury Rev, one of the bands performing on the smaller stage. ''There's pressure for everyone to be alternative kids. Everyone's so samey samey.''

Fridmann can remember a time when his brand of music was played only on college radio stations or in the bowels of some grungy bar. Part of its appeal was its obscurity. It was never supposed to become popular.

But it became just that with the success of bands like Pearl Jam and Red Hot Chili Peppers both Lollapalooza '92 attractions. Alternative music suddenly found itself topping the charts of top 40 stations and selling out stadiums as quickly as a Madonna concert.

In the wake of its fame, alternative music is searching for its identity, and ''original'' alternative fans are filled with more angst than the lyrics of a Morrissey tune could ever express.

Todd Starkweather has been an alternative lover for most of his 19 years. But he doesn't ascribe to the common belief that the cutting edge has grown dull. The music, he says, is as good as ever. It's everything else the $23 concert shirts, the overpriced and under-iced Pepsi, the smell of consumerism in the air that he can do without at this concert.

''Lollapalooza is simply done for profit rather than grabbing bands from the underground and showing them to the public,'' he said. ''It's really feeding big business and huge corporations.''

Starkweather rebelled. He signed up for security to see the show for free. Well, he didn't exactly see it. He got stuck behind the stage, making sure that those with triangle-shaped badges didn't go in areas restricted to people with square badges.

As a result, he missed seeing his favorite band, Babes in Toyland.

He also missed out on the tangle of people clamoring for smart drinks, the $3 and $4 beverages that taste like chewable Flintstones vitamins.

And he never saw the girl who got the removable tattoo of the Playboy bunny logo applied to her cleavage.

But he heard Babes, and for him, that's what Lollapalooza '93 was all about.

For Fridmann, Lollapalooza was all about touring.

For the bleary-eyed kids who had already fallen fast asleep by the time Primus hit the stage at 10 p.m., Lollapalooza was all about promising their parents that they wouldn't do anything their parents wouldn't do and doing it anyway.

The 25,000 who came to experience Lollapalooza got the best of what they wanted whether it was music, atmosphere or a combination of both and ignored the rest.

Lollapalooza, after all, means ''something outstanding of its kind.''

Among alternative rock extravaganzas, Lollapalooza is indeed lollapalooza.