(Personal reflections inspired by Who songs)
Song: “The Punk Meets
the Godfather”
Album: Quadrophenia
Release Date: October,
1973
If you have ever watched Amadeus, you will recall the sequence
where Salieri, gasping in awe as he watches Mozart conduct his opera Marriage of Figaro, spies the Emperor
yawning out of the corner of his eye. Well,
this and other scenes from the movie were some of the first thoughts that came
to mind this past Sunday, not long after slipping disc one of Quadrophenia into my car’s CD
player. The parallels soon became
obvious, and I honed in on this interrelationship with each replay of the Who’s
most transcendent album. And so,
interjected into my entry this week will be some of the best Salieri (F. Murray
Abraham) and Mozart (Tom Hulce) lines in Amadeus,
all pertaining to Mozart’s music. Hopefully
the intimation will become evident.
Salieri: “And music, finished as no music is ever
finished. Displace one note and there would be diminishment. Displace one
phrase and the structure would fall!”
I can relate somewhat to the doomed
Salieri, as I have often been transfixed by the great music of others, with Quadrophenia being the album that has probably
caused this sensation the most (although I must say it is not my favorite Who
album; that I will get to soon enough – and no, it’s not Tommy). However, as was the
case with Mozart’s best works at the time of their unveiling, where he would
frequently run into public ambivalence (including the nodding-off emperor), Quadrophenia continues to fall short of what
I believe to be its proper place in the grand pantheon of musical achievements. Although the general reception has always
been a rather positive one, a plethora of “Top List” snubs abound, including
the otherwise exemplary musical reference book 1,000 Recordings to Hear Before You Die by Tom Moon (no relation to
Keith as far as I know). Moon does recognize two Who albums, Tommy and Who’s Next, but the greatest of them all is left off the list.
Salieri: “I think you overestimate our dear
Viennese, my friend (Mozart). You know you
didn't even give them a good *bang* at the end of songs, to let them know when
to clap”
The Who’s Quadrophenia shares this frequent slight with Pink Floyd’s comparable
opus The Wall. I’ve heard all the criticism: Grandiose, too audacious, over ambitious,
a “crisis of concept”. Ah yes, the
concept; as with all of Pete Townshend’s big ideas, it’s a bit complex. On the surface, the storyline is pretty
straightforward: We are supposed to sympathize with the protagonist
Jimmy, a young working class Brit just out of secondary school, with no plans
to speak of and a series of monotonous jobs that scream conformity. It’s a period piece, capturing the mod scene
of mid-60s London (and Brighton on the southern coast of England, where Jimmy
and his fellow mods would make motor bike forays to on long holiday weekends. The entirety of sides 3 and 4 play out at
this ocean-side resort town – Jimmy alone with his highly charged thoughts - propelling
us to the climatic conclusion). Mods were
a subculture of the period and they spent all their money on GS Scooters, pills
(uppers), clothes (“Zoot suit, white
jacket with side vents 5 inches long”) and “hair cut neat”. Jimmy
is a compromised and lost soul for the most part, but the Who get us to relate
to his plight through the music. We feel
his angst, his confusion, and ultimately his longing for something better.
Mozart: “Come
on now, be honest! Which one of you wouldn't rather listen to his hairdresser
than Hercules? Or Horatius, or Orpheus... people so lofty they sound as if they
shit marble!”
But there’s also this concept of four. Jimmy suffers from “Quadrophenia” or
schizophrenia compounded (Townshend later admitted he undermined the
seriousness of the mental disorder by attempting to coin a seemingly more severe
fictitious one). Interwoven through the
album are theme songs for the four members of the Who, reflecting each of
Jimmy’s four “Quadrophenic” personas: Roger Daltrey as tough guy (“Helpless
Dancer”), John Entwistle as romantic (“Is
it me for a moment”), Keith Moon as bloody lunatic (“Bellboy”), and Pete Townshend
as a beggar, a hypocrite (“Love Reign O’er Me”). (* Side Note: I believe I covered the entire
gambit of these personalities in one night at my bachelor party). Then there was the quadrophonic sound, an
early attempt at surround sound, with different acoustics coming out of four
corners of the room based on speaker positioning. There were plenty of sounds too, and not just
the Who but also Townshend’s pre-recorded effects that kick in right out of the
gate on “I Am the Sea” and connect the listener with the time period and the
mood: Tea kettles, ocean, seagulls, rain, wind, train switchyards, a BBC news reporter,
etc.
Mozart: “In a play if more than one person speaks at
the same time, it’s just noise; no one can understand a word. But with opera,
with music... with music you can have twenty individuals all talking at the
same time, and it's not noise, it's a perfect harmony!”
And then
there’s the music itself. Great music
can make any story profound (which has me believing that time will ultimately rectify
and override the negative reviews and oversights of the past, which is already
playing itself out). Here we have a
parade of individual and collective jaw-dropping contributions. Quadrophenia
gives us some of Pete Townshend’s most virtuoso guitar playing. Quadrophenia gives us Roger Daltrey’s most
majestic vocals. Quadrophenia gives us some of the best bass (John Entwistle) and drums
(Keith Moon) ever recorded. Quadrophenia
gives us this amazingly unique ability of the Who to switch off the lead
instrument on a dime, and I’m not just talking lead guitar: Drums take the lead at times and at other
times the bass takes the lead (in both cases, this is pretty much unheard of beyond
the realm of the Who). This is Rock and
Roll personified; a symphony of sound (including the Entwistle horns and Townshend
strings) and done almost entirely by the four bandmates alone! To these ears, Quadrophenia is your quintessential “stranded on a desert island”
album (or Mars, where the Mark Watney character in The Martian book, which I am reading now, somehow endures despite
being straddled with a bad collection of disco music). Quadrophenia
was what Eddie Vedder primarily was referring to when he honored the Who in a Rolling
Stone Magazine 2004 article as “leaving
rubble and not much else for the rest of us to lay claim to”.
Salieri: “It was clear to me that sound I had
heard in the Archbishop's palace had been no accident. Here again was the very
voice of God! I was staring through the cage of those meticulous ink-strokes at
an absolute beauty”
I have loved Quadrophenia since the early 80s, but for well over a decade it was
a pipe dream to think I would ever see this album performed live by the band
that created it. The first and only go-around
for the Who in terms of a live tour of Quadrophenia
was right after its release in 1973, and it was a borderline disaster, with synthesizer
backing tapes failing and Pete Townshend railing. The band eventually scrapped much of the
album and replaced the deeper cuts with more standard pre-Quadrophenia fare. Subsequently,
the Who had moved on (and by the time I was enjoying this album they had for
all intents and purposes, disbanded). But
for the fans, it was as if the band had given up on their magnum opus as a live
act before ever really giving it a chance.
To top off the improbability of a reprise, Keith Moon was now dead! There was simply no possibility that the Who
could ever emulate his contributions in a way that would capture the lightning-in-a
bottle aura of the studio effort. Just
no way! Kenny Jones would not have been up
to the task as Moon’s first replacement.
Neither would have Simon Phillips (although I do not want to take away from
either of their talents, as each contributed in their own way to make those
rarified Who tours in the 80s quite satisfying.
Yet neither had the ability or the hutzpah to pull off the Keith Moon organized-chaos
style that would be essential to a live performance of Quadrophenia. But for
goodness sake, who could?).
Salieri: “That was Mozart. That! That giggling
dirty-minded creature I had just seen, crawling on the floor!”
It was this state of mind I was in when in
1996 the Who regrouped for the first time in seven years to perform Quadrophenia in its totality at the
Prince’s Trust charity event in Hyde Park, London. Reviews were off the charts
and included very promising commentary on the new drummer, Ringo’s boy Zak Starkey,
who had his own style but sounded “not like his Dad, but like Keith Moon” (by
some strange twist of fate, Zak’s lessons on the drums were taught to him by
Moon and not the Fab Four drummer…..or at least the lessons he inherited). Not
soon after Hyde Park, a six night residence at Madison Square Garden was
announced. This was exciting; a real happening. I had to go.
The Manhattan-based Ticketmaster was inundated with calls upon the
announcement. No chance of getting
through there. Working off a little
voice in my head (and perhaps a bit of desperation), I called Ticketmaster in
Boston. I got right through and with bated
breath, asked if they had Madison Square Garden tickets. They did!
I purchased 4 (there’s that number again) and quickly relayed the
message to good friend Kurt, who did the same.
Salieri: “Through my influence, I saw to it Don
Giovanni was played only five times in Vienna. But in secret, I went to every
one of those five, worshipping sounds I alone seem to hear.”
Some of my favorite memories of that show
were actually the lead up to it. First
off; it started sinking in pretty quickly that I was going to be hearing live
rarities. I’ve always had a Who concert wish list: “Slip Kid”, “Daily Records”,
“New Song” to name a few (which still remain on the docket). There was a time when that concert wish list was
much more expansive though, and included most of Quadrophenia: “Cut My Hair”, “The Punk Meets the Godfather”, “The
Rock”, “Bell Boy”…. the list goes on. Now
we were going to see all these songs live, performed in their original conceptual
order by the Who themselves!
Salieri: “The restored third act was bold, brilliant.
The fourth... was astounding.”
Another great memory was when I reached out
to Becca and Dave; my cousin and great friend.
When I got their voice mail, it popped in my head to leave a Who-type
message without saying exactly what I had secured. I imitated as best I could the entirety of
the short opening track, “I Am the Sea”, ocean sound effects and all. Timing was tricky and important, but I think
I nailed it. Becca called me back the
next day at work before I had arrived, and left an ecstatic and moving
reply. I saved that message for years
(until our phone system changed), replaying it on the occasion when I wanted to
feel the moment again.
Salieri: “On the page it looked like nothing. The
beginning simple, almost comic. Just a pulse. Bassoons and basset horns, like a
rusty squeezebox. And then suddenly, high above it, an oboe. A single note,
hanging there, unwavering. Until a clarinet took over and sweetened it into a
phrase of such delight!”
And then there was the ride down to Manhattan (what is
it about these New York excursions?), Dave driving with Becca in the front,
Nancy and I in the back (we would meet the rest of the crew in Greenwich
Village). About half way thru Connecticut as we entered the gravitational
pull of the Big Apple, Dave casually reached into a side compartment, slipped
disk one of Quadrophenia out of its
sleeve, and popped it into the his hi-fi player. Then he turned up the volume….as in way up. As in conversation-impossible up! It was clearly time to get focused on the
task at hand. The remainder of the ride
proved to be almost as intense as the real event later that evening. Dave’s timing was impeccable; we sucked in
the riveting sound of Quadrophenia
all the way to the city. The high-volume
ride was also a reminder of many of our great road trip over the years, which
at that stage in our lives were already beginning to thin out.
Salieri: “This
was no composition by a performing monkey! This was a music I'd never heard.
Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing, it had me trembling.”
The concert itself was fantastic. Zak Starkey played up to his billing. I recall closing my eyes at one moment early
in the show and feeling for the first time what a mid-70s Who show must have
sounded like. It was stunning. John Entwistle’s bass playing was superb. Roger Daltrey, sporting a mid-60s-style
pop-art bull’s-eye eye-patch to cover a bad wound (courtesy of a Gary Glitter
swinging microphone stand during rehearsals) was magnificent. Pete Townshend was omnipresent. Billy Idol, one of the “guest stars” strutted
out to sing “Bell Boy” and, to my surprise, mastered it with the same Cockney-Accent-swagger that Keith Moon had done on the original (which, by
the way, was a rare treat for Who fans; that being hearing the caterwauling Keith
Moon singing a lead vocal). Idol’s
ad-lib “Fuckkkkkkkk iiiiiitttttttttt!!!”
in mid-riff, to emphasize this pathetic moment in the story, hit me to the
degree that, well…..that I remember it to this day.
Mozart: “It's unbelievable; the director has
actually torn up a huge section of my music. They say I have to rewrite the
opera. But it's perfect as it is! I can't rewrite what's perfect!”
Other Who albums have been resurrected
these past few months, but Quadrophenia
was never that far away from the vest.
Like the Basement Tapes, Exile on Main Street, and All Things Must Pass, this album is
always within arm’s reach. It cuts
across most of my own period-piece bonds: My “Brother Bouv” friendship, my Kurt
friendship, and my Mac friendship; then, now and everywhere in between. When I listen, it reinforces other more
general bonds as well: Dad’s spiritual
quest, friend Bob’s wanderlust, friend Mac’s non-conformity, brother Fred’s soul
searching, Nancy’s perfect honesty, friend Kurt’s passion for love, sister Amy’s
connection with all that is awe-inspiring, Mom’s wonderful generosity. It reinforces all of my personal bonds.
Salieri: “I heard the music of true forgiveness
filling the theater; conferring on all who sat there, perfect absolution. God
was singing through this little man to all the world, unstoppable”
I had to pick a song off of Quadrophenia for this week’s Big Top
entry. I thought long and hard and
finally settled on “The Punk Meets the Godfather” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1tFRmQuYWE
). The song is one of many pivotal points
in the storyline; keying in on the relationship between the supposedly learned
rock star (ok, the Who) and an avid fan (Jimmy – the “Punk”) and it is one of a
handful of moments in Quadrophenia where
Jimmy reaches a point of disillusionment, recognized here by the rock star (“Godfather”)
with Pete Townshend singing the key refrain:
I have to be careful not to preach
I can’t pretend that I can teach,
And yet I lived your future out
By pounding stages like a clown.
And on the dance floor broken glass,
And bloody faces slowly pass,
The numbered seats in empty rows,
It all belongs to me you know.
“The Punk Meets the Godfather” is the Who
at their humble best. It’s a perfect
example of what distinguishes them from so many of their contemporaries and
continues to send shivers down my spine with every listen. It’s one of the many all-too critiqued loose
ends to Quadrophenia, but that’s fine
by me: This allows us to stitch it all
together ourselves. Mozart himself was
likely looking down with pride when this piece was composed.
Mozart: “Forgive me, Majesty. I am a vulgar man!
But I assure you, my music is not.”
When I purchased Quadrophenia all those years ago and began to realize its
brilliance, I took all of it in, including the cover, the booklet, and the
lengthy liner notes. As I read those
notes, I found myself just slightly off kilter with one aspect: The parental angle. In contrast to Jimmy, I had a wonderful
upbringing. Would this be an
irreconcilable breach in terms of my connecting with the concept? When I reached the end, I got my answer: “No one
in this story is meant to represent anyone either living or dead, particularly
not the Mum and Dad. Our Mums and Dad
are all very nice and live in bungalows which we bought for them in the Outer
Hebrides)”.
Just another fascinating piece of my
relation to this album.
Replicating Mozart symphonies can be a
challenge but because all notes are put to sheet in precise fashion, it’s
proved to be doable. Rock is
different. The best rock music is
unrepeatable: At least in this day and
age. Perhaps someone will figure it out
another couple of hundred years down the road.
Replicating the spectacle of Quadrophenia
will be a major challenge though. Can it
be done?
I’m thinking that only Mozart (and maybe
even Salieri) knows for sure.
- Pete
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Under the Big Top # 8: “Access Who-llywood”
(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
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 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
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