(Personal reflections inspired by Who songs)
Song: “You Better You
Bet”
Album: Face Dances
Release Date: March,
1981
Hang around Boston long enough and you’re
bound to run into Peter Wolf. The former
WBCN disc jockey and one-time lead singer for the J. Geils band is ubiquitous;
a man of the streets. And he stands out,
usually dressed head to toe in black, including his long dark hair and derby
hat. On the three or four occasions that
I’ve seen Wolf in the Hub, he was alone, which had me thinking then (and now)
that he was observing, taking in the hustle and bustle, with the hopes it would
all set off a creative spark. Despite
the fact that he came across as amiable and approachable, however, I let him be,
aside from a nod and smile of recognition.
I did not want to interrupt wherever he was in that mental process.
The Who have always come across in this open-door
manner, particularly Keith Moon and Pete Townshend. Many stories and anecdotes have been written
about their accessibility. Moon, who was
regularly out and about, would more often than not have an entourage with him,
but still had a reputation as approachable.
As for Townshend, he’s typically been viewed (and reviewed) as more
erratic in regards to his public appearances (which he also utilizes for
inspiration). But there was a period in
the late 70s and early 80s where he was an uptown London fixture, frequently
alone and relatively easy to connect with if you were in the right place at the
right time. This was also the case when
he was on the road with the Who during this stretch. Unlike Peter Wolf, however, Pete Townshend’s forays
in those days were more along the lines of the desperate and binging variety.
Accessibility (or lack thereof) is part of
the human condition. We all put up walls
throughout our lives, in both the literal and figurative sense. There are big walls and small walls and any
size wall in between, masking this, that, or the other thing; a fundamental
need to maintain some level of privacy. This
is normal, to a degree. It’s more
telling when those walls are either built so high as to make us virtually
unrecognizable or alternatively, stripped down to the point where we are
willing to bare our soul without inhibition, or at least somewhere close to
it. There are numerous reasons that can
lead to these extremes, mostly of traumatic nature. One of these is the process of grieving.
When Keith Moon died tragically in 1978 of a drug overdose (more
specifically - and ironically - an overdose of anti-drug medication to combat
his addictions) his bandmates struggled mightily. Moon was a one of a kind drummer and a force
of nature. He was also renowned for his endearing
qualities. John Entwistle,
Pete Townshend, and Roger Daltrey - three dramatically different (and strong) personalities
with dramatically different convictions - all had one indisputable thing in
common: A love for Keith Moon. Moon brought out the friend in John, the fun
in Pete and the fidelity in Roger. His
death was a major blow to the band and despite a common will to carry on; their
extremely unique and fragile chemistry had been tainted. It would take but a handful
of years for it to all play out, but the die had been cast: Keith Moon’s death
was the beginning of the end for the Who as a mass-appeal creative entity (although
they would continue to have their magical moments on stage).
For the young Who fan (I was still a
teenager at the time), it was fascinating in a solemn sort of way to see how
the grieving process played out on record.
Public figures can be revealing when it comes to our own private lives,
particularly in times of personal crisis.
Yet, until Roger Daltrey sang “Under a Raging Moon” on his 1985 solo
album of the same name, there was nothing overt about Moon’s death in Who-related
lyrics. But it was there in a big way if
you were willing to read the tea leaves, starting with Pete Townshend’s Empty Glass album in 1980, and carrying
through several other efforts, including the first post-Moon Who album, Face Dances. This was the period that gained Townshend the
reputation as being at his prolific best when he was struggling.
Face Dances was Pete Townshend’s last concerted effort at making
a quality Who album, perhaps done partly out of foolish pride to prove to the
world that he and the rest of the band (including newcomer Kenny Jones) could
do it without Keith Moon. On the album
we get to hear how each band member grieves.
John Entwistle’s
lyrics are angry. Pete Townshend’s lyrics
are harum-scarum. Roger Daltrey comes
across as gravely concerned, like a doting parent (particularly for Townshend,
who was on a fast track to join Moon in the hereafter). Daltrey ordinarily had final say on what
songs would end up on a Who album and some of the Townshend songs (and in turn
lyrics) he chooses to include (and in turn sing) on Face Dances were atypical of him (for example “Cache Cache”, is about
a homeless evening for Pete Townshend where he ends up sleeping in a London zoo
– not standard Daltrey fare). Roger Daltrey
was, for all intents and purposes, compromising; likely in an attempt to
empathize with Townshend’s grieving plight. He seems and sounds anxious not to lose
another friend and bandmate.
Some of my favorite Who tracks are
on Face Dances, including “Don’t Let
Go the Coat” (at its core a spiritual longing), “Daily Records” (about the
absurdity of adult life as a rock star) and “Another Tricky Day” (an apropos
title after you take in the lyrics). There
is accessibility throughout this album, at least in the Townshend tracks. It’s almost as if he’s reaching out to the
fans: “I’m a schlep like you, and by the
way, I’ll be in your neck of the woods at some point. Look me up, and be prepared to get deep and
personal. No pussy-footin here. Oh, and we are pulling an all-nighter” This
is what Face Dances feels like when
you give it a good listen: Another
honest-days effort from this legendary band.
What if the Who had just ended it
with Keith Moon’s death, like Led Zeppelin did when John Bonham died? Well, it would have been an amazing
gesture. After all, they were on top of
the world in 1978 with the release of a masterful album (Who Are You), two movies (The
Kids are Alright and Quadrophenia)
and an ever-expanding fan base (even the punks loved them). A decision to call it quits would probably
have been better for their legacy. But
such a decision would have left many people longing, including that huge
contingent that were just starting to get into them (like myself) and I don’t
believe the Who wanted that. Some say it
was money or other egocentric reasons that they carried on, but I think it was
way more complex than that. First of all
the Who saw the charitable possibilities in what they had (in music circles, Pete
Townshend, like Neil Young, is very well known for his almsgiving). I also believe they had come to the
realization that this spectacle they had created was far bigger than themselves,
and who were they to tear it all down? Townshend
actually tried a few times, but out of what appears to be a sheer sense of duty
(and maybe even a calling, as is the case with Bob Dylan’s “Never Ending Tour”),
he could never leave it for good.
Another big piece of this “keep on
keepin’ on” effort was that the Who had reached a point where you got the sense
that this band needed their fans as much as their fans needed them. I can personally attest that this is the
case, as it has always been a palpable feeling I get when I attend Who concerts
(which is one of the factors that makes this band so fantastic). One particular Great Woods show in Mansfield
in July, 2000, I had one of those rare cathartic concert moments that resonated
in this way. It was during the performance
of the catchy first track on Face Dances,
“You Better You Bet” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AuVfIP9F2Y ). (Side Note: Friends and family who are not
all that familiar with the Who find it surprising when they come to the
realization that “You Better You Bet” is a Who song. I agree that it doesn’t really sound like the
Who in the ‘traditional’ sense).
I had always liked “You Better You
Bet”, but I had never loved it. Usually at a concert, be it any band, you
grin and bear it in regards to a “ho-hum” song; a chance to hit the restroom
perhaps. For whatever reason, I sat back and took it in. I’m telling you, it paid off. As Roger Daltrey sang “When I say I love you, you say you better” I suddenly got an
overwhelming sense that this was an appeal to the crowd. And not only that, but it was an appeal with
a specific purpose: A need by the Who to reach out to the fans to help properly
eulogize Keith Moon’s passing (and no, I was not in an altered state). Folks, let me tell you: THIS IS WHY YOU
ATTEND CONCERTS! …. when you can make a dramatic connection that hits you like
a ton of bricks!
Later, in a 2012 New Yorker article (“Pete Townshend’s War”) I got a glimpse
of this connection. In it, Townshend
laments “I never properly mourned for Keith”. Well I’m not sure about that: One of the spot-on obituaries of all time from
my perspective was from Townshend where he included the comment “we still have
his music”, which was huge considering 1) the fact that Keith Moon did not write
any of the Who’s music and yet Townshend was willing to concede his exceptional
effect and 2) the quantity of music the Who were able to produce with the manic
and ultimately fleeting Moon. However, I get his point. Pete Townshend did everything he could to
drown out Moon’s death. In the long run he finally succumbed to true grief. It took a gazillion real faces dancing
elatedly in front of him, but he finally faced it. So did Roger Daltrey for that matter, and
John Entwistle, as well as “the lot of us” fans. We did it together.
Face
Dances
actually had a title track which did not make it on to the final album (ending
up on Pete Townshend’s phenomenal 1982 solo album All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes). It’s a song about isolation, being alone with
no one to turn to. The “face dancing” is
Pete Townshend looking in a mirror, trying to reassure himself that he’s got
what it takes to make a difference with those close to him. I think that cathartic moment for me watching
the Who perform “You Better You Bet” was related: “Well, in times of trouble, let it be known
that your ceaseless touring and performing in front of large crowds is not in
vein because at least you got us dancing faces to turn to. You better you bet!”
Listening to Face Dances now, after years of leaving it on the shelf, it’s
interesting pondering over the dichotomy of how I heard it then and now. Back then when I was 19 years old, I was naïve
to the ways of the world in particular, and specifically what the Who were
dealing with at that time with Keith Moon’s passing. I only knew that I heard a tiny angle of the
truth, and when you hear quality in music, any music, you just know it. Now when I listen, I can relate to grieving,
as can everyone I send this blog series out to on a regular basis. This entry is in recognition to all those we
have lost and is also a reminder that when we face dance in the mirror, we are
not alone.
- Pete
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Under the Big Top # 7: “A Change of Plans”
(Personal reflections inspired by Who songs)
Song: “The Song is Over”
Album: Who’s Next
Release Date: August, 1971
A multitude of Who’s Who reference books have recognized the Who for their many contributions to the music world. Up there on the short list of most frequently mentioned Who-biography topics would be the making of two monumental concept double albums, Tommy and Quadrophenia, each a product of the mind of Pete Townshend (I’ll get around to both of these sooner or later). However, tucked smack dab in the middle of these 1969 (Tommy) and 1973 (Quadrophenia) master-achievements was a 3rd Who concept double album that never saw the light of day. It was Lifehouse and it was the most ambitious of them all.
I am not even going to attempt to explain Lifehouse here (I may try later, seeing as light bulbs have occasionally flickered in that Who corner of my brain when it comes to comprehending this concept), other than to say that at its core, this is a futuristic story about a polluted, Orwellian world where Rock music is used by a small minority of liberated people in the still-intact countryside to try and free the subjugated, quasi-brainwashed people in the cities. There is much more to it than that however, involving life suits and fan participation, and finding your musical note, and test tubes and something Pete Townshend called “the Grid” (yes, along with Al Gore, Townshend can make a case for having created the internet).
Unfortunately, nobody got it, including the rest of the band (after one particularly confusing stretch, an exacerbated Roger Daltrey told Pete Townshend that he did not have enough rope). And so, after an extraordinary effort which took a heavy monetary and mental toll (including a Townshend nervous breakdown), the concept was abandoned. In its place - after considerable cajoling from their new dynamic producer Glynn Johns - the Who ended up releasing a single album of the best tracks from the scrapped concept album, which became the critically-acclaimed, consumer-proclaimed Who’s Next. The band would never be the same again. This album catapulted them into the stratosphere in terms of their sound, which included a stretch from 1971 (the year the album was released) up to Keith Moon’s death in 1978, where the Who would be positively incomparable.
Most rock fans never looked back. But like Pete Townshend, I’ve seen myself as more of a purist holdout who would have preferred the finished product. Don’t get me wrong: Who’s Next is a phenomenal album. But when it comes to these kind of close-but-no-cigar stories, I’m usually of the mindset “oh, what could have been”. This thought lingers whenever I hear any song from what was to be Lifehouse (which includes Who’s Next songs and other songs that eventually made their way onto several compilation albums). But after thinking through it more all of this week as I listened to Who’s Next, I’ve had a change of heart: Sometimes when you are willing to take a journey into the unknown, you end up somewhere completely unexpected and seemingly unfortunate, but when you look back later you realize it really could not have worked out any better.
Song: “The Song is Over”
Album: Who’s Next
Release Date: August, 1971
Part 1
A multitude of Who’s Who reference books have recognized the Who for their many contributions to the music world. Up there on the short list of most frequently mentioned Who-biography topics would be the making of two monumental concept double albums, Tommy and Quadrophenia, each a product of the mind of Pete Townshend (I’ll get around to both of these sooner or later). However, tucked smack dab in the middle of these 1969 (Tommy) and 1973 (Quadrophenia) master-achievements was a 3rd Who concept double album that never saw the light of day. It was Lifehouse and it was the most ambitious of them all.
I am not even going to attempt to explain Lifehouse here (I may try later, seeing as light bulbs have occasionally flickered in that Who corner of my brain when it comes to comprehending this concept), other than to say that at its core, this is a futuristic story about a polluted, Orwellian world where Rock music is used by a small minority of liberated people in the still-intact countryside to try and free the subjugated, quasi-brainwashed people in the cities. There is much more to it than that however, involving life suits and fan participation, and finding your musical note, and test tubes and something Pete Townshend called “the Grid” (yes, along with Al Gore, Townshend can make a case for having created the internet).
Unfortunately, nobody got it, including the rest of the band (after one particularly confusing stretch, an exacerbated Roger Daltrey told Pete Townshend that he did not have enough rope). And so, after an extraordinary effort which took a heavy monetary and mental toll (including a Townshend nervous breakdown), the concept was abandoned. In its place - after considerable cajoling from their new dynamic producer Glynn Johns - the Who ended up releasing a single album of the best tracks from the scrapped concept album, which became the critically-acclaimed, consumer-proclaimed Who’s Next. The band would never be the same again. This album catapulted them into the stratosphere in terms of their sound, which included a stretch from 1971 (the year the album was released) up to Keith Moon’s death in 1978, where the Who would be positively incomparable.
Most rock fans never looked back. But like Pete Townshend, I’ve seen myself as more of a purist holdout who would have preferred the finished product. Don’t get me wrong: Who’s Next is a phenomenal album. But when it comes to these kind of close-but-no-cigar stories, I’m usually of the mindset “oh, what could have been”. This thought lingers whenever I hear any song from what was to be Lifehouse (which includes Who’s Next songs and other songs that eventually made their way onto several compilation albums). But after thinking through it more all of this week as I listened to Who’s Next, I’ve had a change of heart: Sometimes when you are willing to take a journey into the unknown, you end up somewhere completely unexpected and seemingly unfortunate, but when you look back later you realize it really could not have worked out any better.
Part 2
During the summer
of 2009, Nancy and I took the family on a three-week cross country trip. In terms of lodging, camping and the like, we
winged it; never planning a single night’s stay until that given day. We simply did not want reservations to
dictate our pace, our direction, or our schedule (I credit Nancy for being my
accomplice and having the faith to let this trip and many of our other
excursions play out this way). After the
journey, my sister Jen asked how that approach worked. I answered by summarizing the trip in
general, telling her that 90% of it was exhilarating, with significant aspects above
and beyond what I believe would have happened if everything had been planned
out. The other 10% of the time I
described as painful: A couple of long
night drives in search of a place to stay; memories of pouring rain, lightning
and detours; a truck-stop wee-hours nap in the parking lot side by side with 18
wheelers; the worst of sites to choose from in a few campgrounds; and a couple
of shady motels. This is clearly not an
approach for everyone, but I’ll say this:
A majority of our stays were magnificent, and virtually all of our
memories of this trip are great ones; even strangely enough, those 10% moments
of hardship that we needed to battle through.
I had been down
this irregular road before, which included two trips across Europe (one with great
friend Bob Mainguy, the other with Nancy), and a handful of regional road trips
with friends and family. Dad was known
to wing it as well, which just may be where I got this affliction. All these memories are wonderful, despite the
fact that they share an element of surprise, suspense, and the occasional
struggle. I guess I like to hang out
with people who are co-conspirators when it comes to leaving open the possibilities.
One memory that epitomizes what a curve ball can do to your original notion of how things should go, played out in New York City in the early part of 1983. It was part of a winter-break road trip that started in Ottawa, Canada (where I was going to school at the time) and along with me, included college chum’s Steve Vance, Tom Murphy and the aforementioned Bob Mainguy, all Canadians (although calling Bob a Canuck is stretching it, but he always liked that distinction, so I will oblige). After hitting Winooski, Vermont (St Michael’s College, longtime friend Mac, and ‘Winterfest’), Cape Cod, Boston, and Franklin (the last 3 thanks to Mom and Dad who hosted 4 grubs for 3 nights) we rolled into the Big Apple to hook up with another group of Canadians who had holed up there for the entire week at the Milford Plaza Hotel on W 45th Street. We had all planned on the four of us to crash on the floors in their hotel rooms that evening, and with that in mind the entire group of us went out for a night on the town, catching some great comedy at a night club.
When we got back to the hotel to spend the night however, a bouncer at the elevators had other ideas. Checking for reservations, he refused to let us room-crashers go up the elevator (this is the only time I have ever seen security at an elevator in all the years I’ve stayed at hotels). We pleaded our case, emphasizing that we had no money or credit cards on us (these were the days when bank machines were few and far between too) and that our car was locked up in a gated-garage for the night. Our plea went for naught. We wandered out into the streets at 2 am. The lone guy in the Milford Plaza Hotel crowd we hooked up with, “Chicago Jim”, came down to the alley where we were regrouping and handed us a bottle of Canadian Rye to help keep us warm in the winter air. The bottle was housed in a brown paper bag. We were now officially nomadic denizens of the city streets. Someone yelled at us from a 3rd story window. A prostitute passed by with a proposition. Tom asked for her student rates.
The all-nighter ended in a bus terminal on 42nd Street. I spent most of the time there talking to a homeless guy. Believe it or not, a night stay at the Trump Towers down the road would have paled in comparison. We greeted the dapples of early morning light along with other downtrodden souls in our midst. Something about the experience immediately resonated with me though. We wandered into Central Park and eventually headed toward “The Lake” on the West side. This was by the Dakota Apartments where John Lennon lived and where he had been shot and killed two years earlier (this area in the park has since been named Strawberry Fields in Lennon’s honor, and is where he had done several videos with Yoko for songs on their Double Fantasy album). There, in front of the Dakota, we found an old abandoned row boat with a hole in it, which we quickly figured out we could temporarily plug up with a tight fitting glove (as the saying goes, if the glove don’t fit, you must jump ship!). Three of us rowed that boat across The Lake. The 4th among us, Steve, took a picture from a foot bridge using Bob’s camera. It’s a picture that captures an amazing memory for me (I would have to say that in relation to the John Lennon murder, I needed this).
My favorite of Bob’s photos of that early morning, however, is linked with this entry. It’s actually one of my all-time favorite pictures partly because it has an “album cover” feel about it. It shows Steve (sitting bottom), Tom (standing middle) and me (on the pillar top) at the Southwest entry to Central Park. A little touch up, a few liner notes and credits, and we’d be ready to roll for the record stores (oh, I suppose some music would help too).
Part 3
Album covers. This is one of the positive consequences of the aborted Lifehouse concept. It is without doubt that something grandiose would have been schemed up if Lifehouse had been seen to its completion. Instead, we have a shot of the Who taking a leak on an obelisk; a cover that has been often credited as one of the greatest of all time. This was not planned. It was a spur of the moment Keith Moon idea as the Who were driving through an old English mining town. What is captured is a wasteland, and in some ways it encapsulates the Lifehouse plot now that I think about it.
Another positive consequence is the inclusion of a John Entwistle song on Who’s Next, “My Wife”, which would become a staple on Who tours for years to come. There is no way this gets included in Lifehouse. My thinking now is that the Who needed this contribution to keep things more democratic: Pete Townshend was running away with the songwriting show. “My Wife” may not fit into Lifehouse, but it sure works on the loosely constructed (yet musically tight) Who’s Next. (Side Note: “My Wife”, which is a hilarious take on what happens when a husband gets in trouble, contains the lyrics “All I did was have a bit too much to drink and I picked the wrong precinct”. I used to think Entwistle sang “and I picked the wrong clichés”. I kinda like my interpretation better).
Another consequence was the humbling of Pete Townshend. Without the failure of Lifehouse, I don’t believe we would have seen Who By Numbers or Who Are You or Face Dances or Empty Glass or All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes or White City, or a handful of other releases. At least not in the contrite form that Who fans know and love.
Most importantly is what is left to the imagination. Townshend’s Lifehouse intentions were a movie first, and if Who’s Next retains anything from the original concept it is a visceral visual effect. When I listened to these songs this week, they came soaring at me like the opening scene in The Sound of Music. The beauty of Who’s Next is not the scrapings of a concept; that’s secondary. The real beauty is the music and how it can make you feel.
I believe the ambition of Lifehouse unleashed a creative spirit in the Who that would not have occurred otherwise, showing us that there can be positive results that come out of the Icarus Factor. This is showcased throughout Who’s Next, but the tune that brings it all together for me is “The Song is Over” (I just discovered this week that this was supposed to be the closer to the movie). Pete Townshend’s vocal sections of the song sound like a solo acoustic number. This contrasts with the Roger Daltrey vocal sections, which includes the Who in full glory (Townshend passes the torch to Daltrey with the lyrics “I’m gonna sing out” whereby Daltrey kicks in with a skyrocketing “I’ll sing my song to the wide open spaces. I sing my heart out to the infinite sea”).
Who’s Next was Daltrey’s real coming out party: He had now risen to the level of his bandmates – Who Level - joining Townshend, Entwistle and Moon in the ether. His vocals in this song are otherworldly. The 4-ring Big Top Circus was now in full swing. As for those other 2 guys (Entwistle and Moon), the closing 25 seconds to “The Song is Over” (starting at 5:26 of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NgYudFmmOl4) is likely the most-oft repeated stretch of music I’ve ever rewound to hear over again (including a number of times this week). It’s an Ox/Moon roller coaster performance done in astounding synchronization. Whenever I hear it, and the rest of “The Song is Over”, I can immerse myself into that visual cinematic world that has been left to the imagination.
There is so much more to Who’s Next, including three of the Who’s most beloved hits, and of course, “Bargain”. But I’ll leave it at that for now. These songs will need to be covered in their own Big Top entries at a later date.
Conclusion
In the lead up to that transcendent road trip with Bob, Steve and Tom all those years ago, there was quite a bit of discussion in the dorm halls about what everyone was going to do for their break. I recall a roommate who was comparing our plans to the plans that were unfolding with four other dorm-mates. This foursome was an organized bunch, and they had everything ironed out for their trip to Miami Beach, right down, we presumed, to their pillow cases. Our roommate, a rather tidy, structured fellow himself, envisioned pending disaster and discord for us, tranquility and harmony for them.
It turned out the opposite.
I want to close with a note of gratitude to Bob for sending a digital copy of the Central Park ‘album cover’ photo this week. I had not seen it in many a year. This blog entry is tribute to Bob’s understanding that those times needed to be captured for posterity sake, when none of the rest of us had the foresight.
- Pete
One memory that epitomizes what a curve ball can do to your original notion of how things should go, played out in New York City in the early part of 1983. It was part of a winter-break road trip that started in Ottawa, Canada (where I was going to school at the time) and along with me, included college chum’s Steve Vance, Tom Murphy and the aforementioned Bob Mainguy, all Canadians (although calling Bob a Canuck is stretching it, but he always liked that distinction, so I will oblige). After hitting Winooski, Vermont (St Michael’s College, longtime friend Mac, and ‘Winterfest’), Cape Cod, Boston, and Franklin (the last 3 thanks to Mom and Dad who hosted 4 grubs for 3 nights) we rolled into the Big Apple to hook up with another group of Canadians who had holed up there for the entire week at the Milford Plaza Hotel on W 45th Street. We had all planned on the four of us to crash on the floors in their hotel rooms that evening, and with that in mind the entire group of us went out for a night on the town, catching some great comedy at a night club.
When we got back to the hotel to spend the night however, a bouncer at the elevators had other ideas. Checking for reservations, he refused to let us room-crashers go up the elevator (this is the only time I have ever seen security at an elevator in all the years I’ve stayed at hotels). We pleaded our case, emphasizing that we had no money or credit cards on us (these were the days when bank machines were few and far between too) and that our car was locked up in a gated-garage for the night. Our plea went for naught. We wandered out into the streets at 2 am. The lone guy in the Milford Plaza Hotel crowd we hooked up with, “Chicago Jim”, came down to the alley where we were regrouping and handed us a bottle of Canadian Rye to help keep us warm in the winter air. The bottle was housed in a brown paper bag. We were now officially nomadic denizens of the city streets. Someone yelled at us from a 3rd story window. A prostitute passed by with a proposition. Tom asked for her student rates.
The all-nighter ended in a bus terminal on 42nd Street. I spent most of the time there talking to a homeless guy. Believe it or not, a night stay at the Trump Towers down the road would have paled in comparison. We greeted the dapples of early morning light along with other downtrodden souls in our midst. Something about the experience immediately resonated with me though. We wandered into Central Park and eventually headed toward “The Lake” on the West side. This was by the Dakota Apartments where John Lennon lived and where he had been shot and killed two years earlier (this area in the park has since been named Strawberry Fields in Lennon’s honor, and is where he had done several videos with Yoko for songs on their Double Fantasy album). There, in front of the Dakota, we found an old abandoned row boat with a hole in it, which we quickly figured out we could temporarily plug up with a tight fitting glove (as the saying goes, if the glove don’t fit, you must jump ship!). Three of us rowed that boat across The Lake. The 4th among us, Steve, took a picture from a foot bridge using Bob’s camera. It’s a picture that captures an amazing memory for me (I would have to say that in relation to the John Lennon murder, I needed this).
My favorite of Bob’s photos of that early morning, however, is linked with this entry. It’s actually one of my all-time favorite pictures partly because it has an “album cover” feel about it. It shows Steve (sitting bottom), Tom (standing middle) and me (on the pillar top) at the Southwest entry to Central Park. A little touch up, a few liner notes and credits, and we’d be ready to roll for the record stores (oh, I suppose some music would help too).
Part 3
Album covers. This is one of the positive consequences of the aborted Lifehouse concept. It is without doubt that something grandiose would have been schemed up if Lifehouse had been seen to its completion. Instead, we have a shot of the Who taking a leak on an obelisk; a cover that has been often credited as one of the greatest of all time. This was not planned. It was a spur of the moment Keith Moon idea as the Who were driving through an old English mining town. What is captured is a wasteland, and in some ways it encapsulates the Lifehouse plot now that I think about it.
Another positive consequence is the inclusion of a John Entwistle song on Who’s Next, “My Wife”, which would become a staple on Who tours for years to come. There is no way this gets included in Lifehouse. My thinking now is that the Who needed this contribution to keep things more democratic: Pete Townshend was running away with the songwriting show. “My Wife” may not fit into Lifehouse, but it sure works on the loosely constructed (yet musically tight) Who’s Next. (Side Note: “My Wife”, which is a hilarious take on what happens when a husband gets in trouble, contains the lyrics “All I did was have a bit too much to drink and I picked the wrong precinct”. I used to think Entwistle sang “and I picked the wrong clichés”. I kinda like my interpretation better).
Another consequence was the humbling of Pete Townshend. Without the failure of Lifehouse, I don’t believe we would have seen Who By Numbers or Who Are You or Face Dances or Empty Glass or All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes or White City, or a handful of other releases. At least not in the contrite form that Who fans know and love.
Most importantly is what is left to the imagination. Townshend’s Lifehouse intentions were a movie first, and if Who’s Next retains anything from the original concept it is a visceral visual effect. When I listened to these songs this week, they came soaring at me like the opening scene in The Sound of Music. The beauty of Who’s Next is not the scrapings of a concept; that’s secondary. The real beauty is the music and how it can make you feel.
I believe the ambition of Lifehouse unleashed a creative spirit in the Who that would not have occurred otherwise, showing us that there can be positive results that come out of the Icarus Factor. This is showcased throughout Who’s Next, but the tune that brings it all together for me is “The Song is Over” (I just discovered this week that this was supposed to be the closer to the movie). Pete Townshend’s vocal sections of the song sound like a solo acoustic number. This contrasts with the Roger Daltrey vocal sections, which includes the Who in full glory (Townshend passes the torch to Daltrey with the lyrics “I’m gonna sing out” whereby Daltrey kicks in with a skyrocketing “I’ll sing my song to the wide open spaces. I sing my heart out to the infinite sea”).
Who’s Next was Daltrey’s real coming out party: He had now risen to the level of his bandmates – Who Level - joining Townshend, Entwistle and Moon in the ether. His vocals in this song are otherworldly. The 4-ring Big Top Circus was now in full swing. As for those other 2 guys (Entwistle and Moon), the closing 25 seconds to “The Song is Over” (starting at 5:26 of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NgYudFmmOl4) is likely the most-oft repeated stretch of music I’ve ever rewound to hear over again (including a number of times this week). It’s an Ox/Moon roller coaster performance done in astounding synchronization. Whenever I hear it, and the rest of “The Song is Over”, I can immerse myself into that visual cinematic world that has been left to the imagination.
There is so much more to Who’s Next, including three of the Who’s most beloved hits, and of course, “Bargain”. But I’ll leave it at that for now. These songs will need to be covered in their own Big Top entries at a later date.
Conclusion
In the lead up to that transcendent road trip with Bob, Steve and Tom all those years ago, there was quite a bit of discussion in the dorm halls about what everyone was going to do for their break. I recall a roommate who was comparing our plans to the plans that were unfolding with four other dorm-mates. This foursome was an organized bunch, and they had everything ironed out for their trip to Miami Beach, right down, we presumed, to their pillow cases. Our roommate, a rather tidy, structured fellow himself, envisioned pending disaster and discord for us, tranquility and harmony for them.
It turned out the opposite.
I want to close with a note of gratitude to Bob for sending a digital copy of the Central Park ‘album cover’ photo this week. I had not seen it in many a year. This blog entry is tribute to Bob’s understanding that those times needed to be captured for posterity sake, when none of the rest of us had the foresight.
- Pete
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Under the Big Top # 6: “A Texas Two Step”
(Personal reflections inspired by Who songs)
Song: “Keep Me Turning”
Album: Rough Mix
Release Date: September, 1977
Texas was everything I expected it to be when I first visited the Lone Star State in 1993: Big, and proud, bold and loud. Perhaps the image had been imprinted to such a degree beforehand that it was impossible to break out of this stereotypical conclusion; 30 years of a Northern Yankee upbringing could do that to you. And yet, it’s not like I’d been a local yokel to that point. Mom and Dad had taken the family on numerous summer vacations outside the region. I’d already been to Europe a few times too, and spent a year in Canada. These trips came with preconceived notions on what to expect at the various destinations, and each weighed up to a reputation in one form or another. But they all threw curve balls at me too. Not Texas.
From the get go I had done my best to blend in, arriving at San Antonio’s airport sporting my Dad’s impressive vanilla-white Stetson cowboy hat, which I would wear much of my time there. Dad had purchased the hat 10 years earlier, a memento from Boston College’s Cotton Bowl victory in Dallas during the Doug Flutie glory years; a trip he shares great memories with my brother’s Fred and Joe (all three are BC grads). In the interim Dad had made the most of that Stetson, wearing it out and about the streets of Franklin, Massachusetts when the fancy took him (which was often in the first year or two). Now the hat was making the trek back to more familiar countryside.
I had made the short flight in from New Orleans, post work conference, and since my lovely wife Nancy was not due to arrive for an hour or so from home, I set out to find her Uncle on my own, who had planned on meeting us there. Mario was a native of San Antonio, his latter-year military career stationed on Lackland Air Force Base. He and his gracious wife Mary would be hosting us for several days before Nancy and I tackled the tail end of our vacation out at Big Bend National Park in the far western part of the state. At that moment in the airport, I had yet to meet Mario and Mary. Having watched Tedesco family homemade videos and photos however, I thought I had a pretty good idea what they looked like. And so when I spotted a tall slender fellow in his 60s, with white hair, side burns and moustache, standing by the baggage claim area with a younger guy whom I presumed to be Nancy’s cousin’s husband, and each of them appearing to be scanning the crowd, I assumed I had my man. I walked up and said “Mario?” The imposter stared at me a moment and then, glancing over at his companion, uttered something incoherent (at least for me) in his Texas drawl before letting out a sarcastic cackle. What the…..?! He made it sound as if I had asked the stupidest question of all time. I never got an answer.
Welcome to Texas!
First impressions can be indelible, and that one unfortunately was a negative one. As the visit unfolded though, other more positive Texas-style experiences played out that quickly made up for it. Family-lead tours of the Alamo and other Missions, the River Walk and the Japanese Tea Garden, along with the friendly confines of Mario and Mary, along with Nancy’s cousin Vanessa and her husband John’s homes, all got me back on the right track. No stone was left unturned on that trip.
One seemingly innocuous memory that has persisted to this day took place at Fiesta Texas (now Six Flags Fiesta Texas) just north of the city; a massive theme park with an inescapable Lone Star theme. This was evident from the moment we passed through the turnstiles around noontime that weekday all the way through to the evening festivities, reaffirming that no other State puts an emphasis on ‘State’ quite like Texas. A predictable component of this theme was what was piping through speakers all across the park; that being downhome country music. After a while, it just kind of settled into the background - elevator ‘muzak’ as far as I was concerned. This, along with the whole Texas vibe, is likely the reason why it didn’t quite register right off when I heard a familiar song coming out of those speaker; a Pete Townshend hidden-treasure cover version of the Don Williams song “Till the Rivers all Run Dry”.
As I geared up for this inevitable Who blog series several months back, I recalled my thought process on the Rolling Stones series (“Stepping Stones”) four years ago, when I made the decision early on that none of their solo works would be included in my reflections. My thinking was that the Stones are an entity unto themselves, and any deviation from that (i.e. Keith Richards marvelous Talk is Cheap solo album) would detract from that singular focus. Same goes for the Who. An objective with both (and a future Beatles blog, hopefully) is to marvel over the type of creativity that can come with longstanding collective spirit (in somewhat of a contrast to the Neil Young series two years ago and a future-hopeful Bob Dylan series, which celebrate the individual).
There’s something different here, however, that is unavoidable to me. All these series are partly about a return to and goodbye (in terms of in-depth listening) to these musicians I have truly enjoyed by immersing myself in their music for a full solid year - no distractions with public radio or sports talk or other music - and dedicating my writing for that year to what their music has done for me. For this series, I’ve decided that I would be remiss to not include Pete Townshend’s solo works. There are a number of reasons why. First of all, Townshend’s solo albums are a huge part of the equation for me. Secondly they are excellent. Thirdly, they are interwoven into the Who story. Fourthly, they are interwoven into my story. And finally, it makes it all a bit more challenging and fun. In turn, I see this as an overlap of the collective and the individual that I can identify with.
Side Note: I think Pete Townshend should be considered for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a solo artist: If Ringo can do it for goodness sake, why not Pete?
“Till the Rivers All Run Dry” is a cut off the Pete Townshend/Ronnie Lane 1977 collaborative album Rough Mix. It was Townshend’s first real public musical foray from the Who, and he did it at the bequest of Lane, who was originally just looking for a loan. PT’s offering instead was a joint venture. Ronnie Lane and Pete Townshend had several things in common. Lane was the bass player for the Small Faces in the 60s. If any other band besides the Who associated themselves with the “mod” scene in London in the mid-60s, it was the Small Faces. The two bands also hit the road together, which included an infamous 1968 Australian tour (let me put it this way, the Who would not go back to Australia for 40 years).
Their strongest connection though was faith based. Both were devoted to the teachings of Meher Baba (who may be best known in pop culture for coining the term “don’t worry, be happy” and of course occupying half the song title “Baba O’Riley”). Similar to the Beatles, Pete Townshend turned to India for spiritual guidance. For three of the Beatles it was a short-lived fab fad (George Harrison being the exception). Not so Townshend, who remains a follower to this day (Ronnie Lane, who was suffering from the early stages of multiple sclerosis when Rough Mix was produced also remained devoted to Baba. He would eventually succumb to the disease in 1997).
Meher Baba ties are everywhere in Pete Townshend’s music, from “Bargain” to Tommy (“Listening to You”) to “Don’t Let Go the Coat” to “Empty Glass” to the “Who Are You” chorus to the middle section in “Behind Blue Eyes” to “Faith in Something Bigger”. These are some of Townshend’s best compositions, so I’ve always been under the belief that there has to be something there; an added force that makes them shine. With a general focus on what is good and right, Pete Townshend’s faith through his music has helped me with my own Catholic faith.
I have thoroughly enjoyed listening to Rough Mix this week. Much of it is faith based, but far from an in-your-face way. As with most great artists, Pete Townshend (and Ronnie Lane) leaves wiggle room for self-interpretation. And there’s enough variety on the album with other topics to keep the album fresh from beginning to end. “My Baby Gives it Away”, the opening number, is about as upbeat of a tempo as you are ever going to hear on a pop song (Charlie Watts on drums). “Nowhere to Run” climbed my personal song-ladder this week (the lyrics “Michael’s rowing? Where’s he going?” > a reference to the “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” civil war negro spiritual perhaps?). “Heart to Hang Onto” is a touching shout-out to those wandering souls among us. “Street in the City” is a classy orchestral score with Townshend’s father in law Ted Astley.
My Big Top entry is one of those Meher Baba inspired numbers, “Keep Me Turning” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nv6aKElzEH8). To turn means to repent. “Don’t you leave me to the very last!” Pete Townshend sings in his magnificent angelic falsetto. Over the upcoming decade Townshend would roll out a litany of songs with an “Amazing Grace”, Prodigal Son theme to them. “Keep Me Turning” was an early indication of this direction in his song writing.
So, why was hearing “Till the Rivers All Run Dry” (which also has “Amazing Grace” connotations) on those Fiesta Texas speakers stuck with me all this time? It is after all a country song (which I did not even think about until that moment; I just considered it a great tune). Thinking about it now, I believe I would have been equally charmed if I’d heard it in any theme park around the country. But I heard it deep in the heart of Texas, a place I probably needed a little reassurance from in terms of common humanity. In hindsight, that moment just may have helped to remove a measure of inner bias toward all humanity.
- Pete
Song: “Keep Me Turning”
Album: Rough Mix
Release Date: September, 1977
Texas was everything I expected it to be when I first visited the Lone Star State in 1993: Big, and proud, bold and loud. Perhaps the image had been imprinted to such a degree beforehand that it was impossible to break out of this stereotypical conclusion; 30 years of a Northern Yankee upbringing could do that to you. And yet, it’s not like I’d been a local yokel to that point. Mom and Dad had taken the family on numerous summer vacations outside the region. I’d already been to Europe a few times too, and spent a year in Canada. These trips came with preconceived notions on what to expect at the various destinations, and each weighed up to a reputation in one form or another. But they all threw curve balls at me too. Not Texas.
From the get go I had done my best to blend in, arriving at San Antonio’s airport sporting my Dad’s impressive vanilla-white Stetson cowboy hat, which I would wear much of my time there. Dad had purchased the hat 10 years earlier, a memento from Boston College’s Cotton Bowl victory in Dallas during the Doug Flutie glory years; a trip he shares great memories with my brother’s Fred and Joe (all three are BC grads). In the interim Dad had made the most of that Stetson, wearing it out and about the streets of Franklin, Massachusetts when the fancy took him (which was often in the first year or two). Now the hat was making the trek back to more familiar countryside.
I had made the short flight in from New Orleans, post work conference, and since my lovely wife Nancy was not due to arrive for an hour or so from home, I set out to find her Uncle on my own, who had planned on meeting us there. Mario was a native of San Antonio, his latter-year military career stationed on Lackland Air Force Base. He and his gracious wife Mary would be hosting us for several days before Nancy and I tackled the tail end of our vacation out at Big Bend National Park in the far western part of the state. At that moment in the airport, I had yet to meet Mario and Mary. Having watched Tedesco family homemade videos and photos however, I thought I had a pretty good idea what they looked like. And so when I spotted a tall slender fellow in his 60s, with white hair, side burns and moustache, standing by the baggage claim area with a younger guy whom I presumed to be Nancy’s cousin’s husband, and each of them appearing to be scanning the crowd, I assumed I had my man. I walked up and said “Mario?” The imposter stared at me a moment and then, glancing over at his companion, uttered something incoherent (at least for me) in his Texas drawl before letting out a sarcastic cackle. What the…..?! He made it sound as if I had asked the stupidest question of all time. I never got an answer.
Welcome to Texas!
First impressions can be indelible, and that one unfortunately was a negative one. As the visit unfolded though, other more positive Texas-style experiences played out that quickly made up for it. Family-lead tours of the Alamo and other Missions, the River Walk and the Japanese Tea Garden, along with the friendly confines of Mario and Mary, along with Nancy’s cousin Vanessa and her husband John’s homes, all got me back on the right track. No stone was left unturned on that trip.
One seemingly innocuous memory that has persisted to this day took place at Fiesta Texas (now Six Flags Fiesta Texas) just north of the city; a massive theme park with an inescapable Lone Star theme. This was evident from the moment we passed through the turnstiles around noontime that weekday all the way through to the evening festivities, reaffirming that no other State puts an emphasis on ‘State’ quite like Texas. A predictable component of this theme was what was piping through speakers all across the park; that being downhome country music. After a while, it just kind of settled into the background - elevator ‘muzak’ as far as I was concerned. This, along with the whole Texas vibe, is likely the reason why it didn’t quite register right off when I heard a familiar song coming out of those speaker; a Pete Townshend hidden-treasure cover version of the Don Williams song “Till the Rivers all Run Dry”.
As I geared up for this inevitable Who blog series several months back, I recalled my thought process on the Rolling Stones series (“Stepping Stones”) four years ago, when I made the decision early on that none of their solo works would be included in my reflections. My thinking was that the Stones are an entity unto themselves, and any deviation from that (i.e. Keith Richards marvelous Talk is Cheap solo album) would detract from that singular focus. Same goes for the Who. An objective with both (and a future Beatles blog, hopefully) is to marvel over the type of creativity that can come with longstanding collective spirit (in somewhat of a contrast to the Neil Young series two years ago and a future-hopeful Bob Dylan series, which celebrate the individual).
There’s something different here, however, that is unavoidable to me. All these series are partly about a return to and goodbye (in terms of in-depth listening) to these musicians I have truly enjoyed by immersing myself in their music for a full solid year - no distractions with public radio or sports talk or other music - and dedicating my writing for that year to what their music has done for me. For this series, I’ve decided that I would be remiss to not include Pete Townshend’s solo works. There are a number of reasons why. First of all, Townshend’s solo albums are a huge part of the equation for me. Secondly they are excellent. Thirdly, they are interwoven into the Who story. Fourthly, they are interwoven into my story. And finally, it makes it all a bit more challenging and fun. In turn, I see this as an overlap of the collective and the individual that I can identify with.
Side Note: I think Pete Townshend should be considered for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a solo artist: If Ringo can do it for goodness sake, why not Pete?
“Till the Rivers All Run Dry” is a cut off the Pete Townshend/Ronnie Lane 1977 collaborative album Rough Mix. It was Townshend’s first real public musical foray from the Who, and he did it at the bequest of Lane, who was originally just looking for a loan. PT’s offering instead was a joint venture. Ronnie Lane and Pete Townshend had several things in common. Lane was the bass player for the Small Faces in the 60s. If any other band besides the Who associated themselves with the “mod” scene in London in the mid-60s, it was the Small Faces. The two bands also hit the road together, which included an infamous 1968 Australian tour (let me put it this way, the Who would not go back to Australia for 40 years).
Their strongest connection though was faith based. Both were devoted to the teachings of Meher Baba (who may be best known in pop culture for coining the term “don’t worry, be happy” and of course occupying half the song title “Baba O’Riley”). Similar to the Beatles, Pete Townshend turned to India for spiritual guidance. For three of the Beatles it was a short-lived fab fad (George Harrison being the exception). Not so Townshend, who remains a follower to this day (Ronnie Lane, who was suffering from the early stages of multiple sclerosis when Rough Mix was produced also remained devoted to Baba. He would eventually succumb to the disease in 1997).
Meher Baba ties are everywhere in Pete Townshend’s music, from “Bargain” to Tommy (“Listening to You”) to “Don’t Let Go the Coat” to “Empty Glass” to the “Who Are You” chorus to the middle section in “Behind Blue Eyes” to “Faith in Something Bigger”. These are some of Townshend’s best compositions, so I’ve always been under the belief that there has to be something there; an added force that makes them shine. With a general focus on what is good and right, Pete Townshend’s faith through his music has helped me with my own Catholic faith.
I have thoroughly enjoyed listening to Rough Mix this week. Much of it is faith based, but far from an in-your-face way. As with most great artists, Pete Townshend (and Ronnie Lane) leaves wiggle room for self-interpretation. And there’s enough variety on the album with other topics to keep the album fresh from beginning to end. “My Baby Gives it Away”, the opening number, is about as upbeat of a tempo as you are ever going to hear on a pop song (Charlie Watts on drums). “Nowhere to Run” climbed my personal song-ladder this week (the lyrics “Michael’s rowing? Where’s he going?” > a reference to the “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” civil war negro spiritual perhaps?). “Heart to Hang Onto” is a touching shout-out to those wandering souls among us. “Street in the City” is a classy orchestral score with Townshend’s father in law Ted Astley.
My Big Top entry is one of those Meher Baba inspired numbers, “Keep Me Turning” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nv6aKElzEH8). To turn means to repent. “Don’t you leave me to the very last!” Pete Townshend sings in his magnificent angelic falsetto. Over the upcoming decade Townshend would roll out a litany of songs with an “Amazing Grace”, Prodigal Son theme to them. “Keep Me Turning” was an early indication of this direction in his song writing.
So, why was hearing “Till the Rivers All Run Dry” (which also has “Amazing Grace” connotations) on those Fiesta Texas speakers stuck with me all this time? It is after all a country song (which I did not even think about until that moment; I just considered it a great tune). Thinking about it now, I believe I would have been equally charmed if I’d heard it in any theme park around the country. But I heard it deep in the heart of Texas, a place I probably needed a little reassurance from in terms of common humanity. In hindsight, that moment just may have helped to remove a measure of inner bias toward all humanity.
- Pete
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Under the Big Top # 5: “Of Wit and War”
(Personal reflections inspired by Who songs)
Song: “I Can See For Miles”
Album: The Who Sell Out
Release Date: December, 1967
In the weeks prior to the 2016 New Year, I began jotting down notes in preparation for this blog series on the Who. One note read “Woodstock, that heavy sound”. As with several other pieces of chicken scratch, I did not have much to work with. My only thoughts at the time I jotted those words down were related to the first few times I watched The Kids Are Alright (see Big Top # 2), a film which captured my fascination in all aspects excepting for the highlight footage of the Who’s set at Woodstock. Those first viewings of that footage the music felt too intense, too over the top. But eventually I came around to recognizing both brilliance and artistry, and just this week, what I see as an underlying meaning of that performance in the early twilight hours on the 3rd day of that big event on Yasgur’s Farm in 1969. Coming at the time it did, the insight caught me by surprise, because this week I found myself listening to The Who Sell Out, a 1967 studio offering by the Who which, at face value, appeared light years from the intensity of Woodstock.
The Who will likely go down in history as a serious, powerful, force-of-nature of a band. And yet, like the Beatles, they also knew how to have fun and could charm their fans with tremendous wit. A great showcase of this was The Who Sell Out, an album which included commercial “jingles” in between songs (as such, “Sell Out” is referring to the alternate definition of the term; “a betrayal of a cause for personal advancement”, and not “the selling of an entire stock of tickets to an event”. Needless to say, this was all done tongue in cheek). The jingles, which included splendid self-made promos for products like guitar strings, deodorant, baked beans, and acne cream (“Henry Pond had no fun; he had a face like a currant bun”), were done in grateful tribute to off-shore “pirate radio” stations, especially Wonderful Radio London, which gave the Who a tremendous boost in their early years through routine airplay of their songs, but had been forced off the air in 1967 by a new law passed in Parliament that effectively wiped them out.
The Who Sell Out as a whole is a solid affair and could be viewed as the band’s lone offering to the psychedelic gods. There are several standout tracks, including “Tattoo” (which turned out to be a great live staple for the Who for many years), “Maryanne with the Shaky Hand”, “Our Love Was, Is” and one of the few top-10 hits in the Who’s career, “I Can See for Miles” - this week’s Big Top entry, which I will get to later. There is also an intriguing number at albums end, “Rael”, a lengthy multi-part song, which got me rolling with this week’s focus on Woodstock.
“Rael” was the remnant of an aborted concept (later fleshed out more on the Who’s 2006 album Endless Wire), a fictional Pete Townshend narrative, with the setting being modern-day Israel (hence the title), which at the time of the making of The Who Sellout was under siege by its neighbors, culminating in the “Six-Day War”. The anxieties of pending war and the patriotism of this one character are captured in “Rael”. Pieces of the music, specifically those from the more zealous parts of the storyline, were later used on the Tommy song “Sparks”, which was performed by the Who at Woodstock and which is a part of their set that is captured on The Kids Are Alright (I did some research…. it turns out, Townshend grew up with Jewish tenants in his parents’ home, who took him under their wing during his parent’s tumultuous relationship. Later, Pete Townshend found himself relating with Zionism).
This was my first real hint to where I wanted to go with that “heavy” Woodstock sound.
Keith Richards and Pete Townshend approached their respective biographies, Life (2010) and Who I Am (2012), in very different ways, but one commonality was their early impressions on post-war London; the chaos, the rubble, and the struggles of everyday life. As an American who never had to experience anything so close to home as this, it can be hard to relate. But for Brit, German, French, Russian, and any other number of European youth growing up in the late 40s, who may have read these or any number of others books written about this period, it must have sounded all too real.
I was a history major in college though, and since I found the world wars and their aftershocks to be of particular fascination, I loaded up on courses that focused on these time periods, and read quite a bit on my own time as well. One course I took my sophomore year that had a lasting impression, was a Post War Literature course, which contrasted European literature and cinema, primarily from the late 40s and 50s, with that of the USA. The course was taught by Dr. Ellen Schiff, who was Jewish, and whose family had experienced personal tragedies during the Holocaust. The syllabus included heavy European works of realism such as Franz Kafka’s The Trial (1925), Albert Camus’ The Plague (1947), Eugene Ionesco’s Rhinoceros (1959), Elie Wiesel’s Night (1960), and Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot (1953), and matched these against the a world of American optimism - bordering on fantasy; think It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). The drive-home message for us American students was just how weighted down and tangled up Europe had become by these wars, having taken place on their home turf. It worked, at least for me.
One assignment near the end of the course was to give an oral presentation on the ramifications beyond those early post-war years, in both Europe and America. I chose to focus on the turmoil of the late 60’s, with a particular emphasis on the music and musicians of that period. A premise was that a far greater percentage than the norm of this music was uniquely timeless. I explained that the reason for this was what appeared to be an almost desperate search for truth beyond the trauma, shame, secrecy, denial and fantasy in the decades preceding it, especially in Europe. The artists that searched for this truth in the 50s, those European authors and playwrights on that syllabus for example, were being usurped by young rock musicians. And the generation doing this was the children of those who fought in the war, who seemed to be trying, whether knowingly or not, to overcome their parents and their own trauma.
Some of the musicians who lead this effort were John Lennon, Pete Townshend, Neil Young, Ray Davies, Roger Waters and Bob Dylan. There were some big differences in their passions, ideologies, backgrounds, and motivations, but each seemed to be striving for truth through their music, which during periods in their respective careers, centered on the effects of war. Pete Townshend was no pacifist. Neither was he a war monger. However, he confronted the topic head on, and this is what unfolds so masterfully at Woodstock in the opening “Sparks” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHpdcMXJj7Q) and through to the very end of their set. On the album, Tommy, “Sparks” takes place near the beginning of the “rock opera”; a story that plays out like a post-World War II Shakespearian tragedy, revolving around an English family and its self-and-society-inflicted mental and spiritual wounds. The entire album builds on that burden (with the son Tommy ultimately overcoming it all). It’s what you hear in the live renditions of Tommy. And the original ideas look to have been germinated with “Rael”.
Woodstock meant many things to many people, but I think the Who got it right more than anyone. They were one of a small handful of British acts that were well outnumbered by North American ones. Americans were dealing with Vietnam at the time. Those in attendance were a bit beyond the flower power of the years prior, and now facing a stark reality as friends and family members were coming home in traumatized states of mind and body bags. The Brits had already been through all of this (and then some) a quarter century earlier. The Who tapped into the mood at Woodstock seamlessly because they were on that ride from the beginning. Even their early stuff; instrument destruction and songs of desperate odd-balls, teen angst and the like could be seen as a lead-up to the reason behind that “that heavy sound”. And yes, even that effortless clear-headed English wit, seen and heard in Technicolor on The Who Sell Out, could be.
When I think of the Who concerts I attended over the years, I realize now that I got to see this mood on a handful of occasions. The band went back to that Woodstock sound for parts of their sets in the years before Entwistle died in 2002, and now I believe what they were doing was resurrecting that old musical personification of war and it’s after effects. It really showed at the ‘Concert for New York’ after 911, where the Who were head and shoulders beyond everyone else. The band was in the moment, and the firefighters and police officers in the front rows knew this: You could almost feel their amazement through the television (and they would show their appreciation years later, serenading Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey through a rendition of “Baba O’Riley” at the Kennedy Center Honors in 2008).
Put it all together, and this week’s Big Top entry, “I Can See for Miles” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppU_XBruB4 ) takes on new meaning. Yes, the Who could indeed see through the miles, as well as the decades and the generations. They were able to do this because they stuck to their ideals, which played out so vividly in front of half a million wet and muddy souls in the Catskills of Upper State New York on that early summer morning of 1969.
- Pete
Song: “I Can See For Miles”
Album: The Who Sell Out
Release Date: December, 1967
In the weeks prior to the 2016 New Year, I began jotting down notes in preparation for this blog series on the Who. One note read “Woodstock, that heavy sound”. As with several other pieces of chicken scratch, I did not have much to work with. My only thoughts at the time I jotted those words down were related to the first few times I watched The Kids Are Alright (see Big Top # 2), a film which captured my fascination in all aspects excepting for the highlight footage of the Who’s set at Woodstock. Those first viewings of that footage the music felt too intense, too over the top. But eventually I came around to recognizing both brilliance and artistry, and just this week, what I see as an underlying meaning of that performance in the early twilight hours on the 3rd day of that big event on Yasgur’s Farm in 1969. Coming at the time it did, the insight caught me by surprise, because this week I found myself listening to The Who Sell Out, a 1967 studio offering by the Who which, at face value, appeared light years from the intensity of Woodstock.
The Who will likely go down in history as a serious, powerful, force-of-nature of a band. And yet, like the Beatles, they also knew how to have fun and could charm their fans with tremendous wit. A great showcase of this was The Who Sell Out, an album which included commercial “jingles” in between songs (as such, “Sell Out” is referring to the alternate definition of the term; “a betrayal of a cause for personal advancement”, and not “the selling of an entire stock of tickets to an event”. Needless to say, this was all done tongue in cheek). The jingles, which included splendid self-made promos for products like guitar strings, deodorant, baked beans, and acne cream (“Henry Pond had no fun; he had a face like a currant bun”), were done in grateful tribute to off-shore “pirate radio” stations, especially Wonderful Radio London, which gave the Who a tremendous boost in their early years through routine airplay of their songs, but had been forced off the air in 1967 by a new law passed in Parliament that effectively wiped them out.
- Side Note: As a young adult growing up in the Boston area in the late 70s and early 80s, I could appreciate good radio, having listened incessantly to WBCN, 104.1 FM; a very entertaining and enlightening radio station which I have talked about before in this blog. The DJ with the most clout on BCN was, Charles Laquidara, who was a force in the region in all things activist and charitable (though occasionally done off color) during his 30 years on the local airways. Laquidara included The Who Sell Out as a top-ten favorite album in a Boston Globe article around that period, which makes sense considering the radio tie-in. Not long after his public endorsement, I bought the album.
The Who Sell Out as a whole is a solid affair and could be viewed as the band’s lone offering to the psychedelic gods. There are several standout tracks, including “Tattoo” (which turned out to be a great live staple for the Who for many years), “Maryanne with the Shaky Hand”, “Our Love Was, Is” and one of the few top-10 hits in the Who’s career, “I Can See for Miles” - this week’s Big Top entry, which I will get to later. There is also an intriguing number at albums end, “Rael”, a lengthy multi-part song, which got me rolling with this week’s focus on Woodstock.
“Rael” was the remnant of an aborted concept (later fleshed out more on the Who’s 2006 album Endless Wire), a fictional Pete Townshend narrative, with the setting being modern-day Israel (hence the title), which at the time of the making of The Who Sellout was under siege by its neighbors, culminating in the “Six-Day War”. The anxieties of pending war and the patriotism of this one character are captured in “Rael”. Pieces of the music, specifically those from the more zealous parts of the storyline, were later used on the Tommy song “Sparks”, which was performed by the Who at Woodstock and which is a part of their set that is captured on The Kids Are Alright (I did some research…. it turns out, Townshend grew up with Jewish tenants in his parents’ home, who took him under their wing during his parent’s tumultuous relationship. Later, Pete Townshend found himself relating with Zionism).
This was my first real hint to where I wanted to go with that “heavy” Woodstock sound.
Keith Richards and Pete Townshend approached their respective biographies, Life (2010) and Who I Am (2012), in very different ways, but one commonality was their early impressions on post-war London; the chaos, the rubble, and the struggles of everyday life. As an American who never had to experience anything so close to home as this, it can be hard to relate. But for Brit, German, French, Russian, and any other number of European youth growing up in the late 40s, who may have read these or any number of others books written about this period, it must have sounded all too real.
I was a history major in college though, and since I found the world wars and their aftershocks to be of particular fascination, I loaded up on courses that focused on these time periods, and read quite a bit on my own time as well. One course I took my sophomore year that had a lasting impression, was a Post War Literature course, which contrasted European literature and cinema, primarily from the late 40s and 50s, with that of the USA. The course was taught by Dr. Ellen Schiff, who was Jewish, and whose family had experienced personal tragedies during the Holocaust. The syllabus included heavy European works of realism such as Franz Kafka’s The Trial (1925), Albert Camus’ The Plague (1947), Eugene Ionesco’s Rhinoceros (1959), Elie Wiesel’s Night (1960), and Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot (1953), and matched these against the a world of American optimism - bordering on fantasy; think It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). The drive-home message for us American students was just how weighted down and tangled up Europe had become by these wars, having taken place on their home turf. It worked, at least for me.
One assignment near the end of the course was to give an oral presentation on the ramifications beyond those early post-war years, in both Europe and America. I chose to focus on the turmoil of the late 60’s, with a particular emphasis on the music and musicians of that period. A premise was that a far greater percentage than the norm of this music was uniquely timeless. I explained that the reason for this was what appeared to be an almost desperate search for truth beyond the trauma, shame, secrecy, denial and fantasy in the decades preceding it, especially in Europe. The artists that searched for this truth in the 50s, those European authors and playwrights on that syllabus for example, were being usurped by young rock musicians. And the generation doing this was the children of those who fought in the war, who seemed to be trying, whether knowingly or not, to overcome their parents and their own trauma.
Some of the musicians who lead this effort were John Lennon, Pete Townshend, Neil Young, Ray Davies, Roger Waters and Bob Dylan. There were some big differences in their passions, ideologies, backgrounds, and motivations, but each seemed to be striving for truth through their music, which during periods in their respective careers, centered on the effects of war. Pete Townshend was no pacifist. Neither was he a war monger. However, he confronted the topic head on, and this is what unfolds so masterfully at Woodstock in the opening “Sparks” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHpdcMXJj7Q) and through to the very end of their set. On the album, Tommy, “Sparks” takes place near the beginning of the “rock opera”; a story that plays out like a post-World War II Shakespearian tragedy, revolving around an English family and its self-and-society-inflicted mental and spiritual wounds. The entire album builds on that burden (with the son Tommy ultimately overcoming it all). It’s what you hear in the live renditions of Tommy. And the original ideas look to have been germinated with “Rael”.
Woodstock meant many things to many people, but I think the Who got it right more than anyone. They were one of a small handful of British acts that were well outnumbered by North American ones. Americans were dealing with Vietnam at the time. Those in attendance were a bit beyond the flower power of the years prior, and now facing a stark reality as friends and family members were coming home in traumatized states of mind and body bags. The Brits had already been through all of this (and then some) a quarter century earlier. The Who tapped into the mood at Woodstock seamlessly because they were on that ride from the beginning. Even their early stuff; instrument destruction and songs of desperate odd-balls, teen angst and the like could be seen as a lead-up to the reason behind that “that heavy sound”. And yes, even that effortless clear-headed English wit, seen and heard in Technicolor on The Who Sell Out, could be.
When I think of the Who concerts I attended over the years, I realize now that I got to see this mood on a handful of occasions. The band went back to that Woodstock sound for parts of their sets in the years before Entwistle died in 2002, and now I believe what they were doing was resurrecting that old musical personification of war and it’s after effects. It really showed at the ‘Concert for New York’ after 911, where the Who were head and shoulders beyond everyone else. The band was in the moment, and the firefighters and police officers in the front rows knew this: You could almost feel their amazement through the television (and they would show their appreciation years later, serenading Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey through a rendition of “Baba O’Riley” at the Kennedy Center Honors in 2008).
Put it all together, and this week’s Big Top entry, “I Can See for Miles” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppU_XBruB4 ) takes on new meaning. Yes, the Who could indeed see through the miles, as well as the decades and the generations. They were able to do this because they stuck to their ideals, which played out so vividly in front of half a million wet and muddy souls in the Catskills of Upper State New York on that early summer morning of 1969.
- Pete
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)