Under the Big Top # 10: “A Who Album Review: Who Are You”

(Personal reflections inspired by Who songs)

Song: “Who Are You”
Album: Who Are You
Release Date: August, 1978

Who Are You is my favorite Who album.  There, I said it.  Why the defensive positioning? Well, this is far from your standard choice for the avid Who fan.  I would be willing to bet that if all Who aficionados were polled on what their favorite Who album was, a vast majority of the responses would fall into one of three bins:  Who’s Next, Live at Leeds or Quadrophenia.  These are certainly seminal albums; each one very hard to best.  But for reasons inexplicable to me until I gave it some serious contemplation, Who Are You knocks them all off the top of my personal Who-disc pinnacle.  In recognition, my blog entry this week is an album review that, in an unintended way (consciously anyhow), ends up fitting in nicely as a back-to-back with next week’s anticipated “A Who Concert Review: The Last WHO-rah!” (which will be following on the heels of my final attendance at a Who concert next Monday).  Anyhow, here is my attempt to explain the why, when, where, how, and WHO of all things Who Are You.

First a few related memories, since no album can rank at the top of a favorite list without a listen to it conjuring up highlight-reel moments from the past.  My initial memory of Who Are You as an album was listening to it in my Lincoln Mercury Capri about a year after it’s release with lifelong friends Mac and Dave in the parking lot down by our own version of “The Rock”, which was a frequent hangout locale for the old Franklin gang (before houses were built there).  The album was being played in its entirety on one of the local radio stations.  As it played through several of the deeper cuts, Mac and Dave, neither of whom tossed praise out lightly, commented on how good it sounded.  They were both a bit more familiar with the album than I at the time, so I just listened to the music and their commentary.  I was impressed on both accounts.  Not long after, Brother Joe (coincidentally?) bought me the album.

Another memory, a few years later, was also in a vehicle, this one a van belonging to another great friend Luc, who I met my junior year in Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada.  By this time I was well indoctrinated into the world of The Who and Who Are You.  Luc chauffeured an afternoon drive through Gatineau Park near Ottawa during one of many memorable trips north of the border.  Who Are You was blaring on the sound system as we wound our way through the hills and valleys.  The van was packed with Canadian and Stateside friends:  A never forgotten snap shot in time for me.

So, what is it about Who Are You that captures the imagination and has my ranking it so favorably?  This view, after all, is not shared by a majority of the rock critics who have reviewed the album over the years.  Most look at Who Are You as The Who on the way down from the heights of earlier success.  To me however, this linkage to past successes is at the core of why this is a great album.  Indeed, the Who were in the enviable position at this point in their history to capitalize on everything they had learned from that success.  All four charter band members were still on board (though not for much longer), which by 1978 was virtually unheard of for most 60’s bands.  Who Are You in other words, is an album that could only be produced by a band with that kind of experience in tow and as such comes across as an exceptionally rare type of ‘cherry on the top’; particularly for a band with the fragility of characters and interrelations that the Who had.  This is the bridge too far in 99.99% of history’s collaborative achievements. As such, I look at this album as a bonus prize of sorts, a treat (although I still harbor a longing of what could have been beyond that proverbial cherry on top), which comes through in the music big time.  And I’ve always been amazed most critics have overlooked this fact. 

In the history of rock music, there have been other bands poised to take advantage of past experiences and successes in preparation for a new album.  The difference between the Who and many of these other bands, however, was that the Who had not sold out (despite what the title of their 3rd studio album would declare) to the commercial tug and artistic lethargy that eventually comes with fame and fortune.  Personal follies aside, each member of the Who had all remained focused on what motivated them from the beginning - that being the music - allowing the creative process to kick in to higher gear one last time.

The remainder of this album review is broken down by band member, with a focus on what each of them brought to the table in the making of Who Are You:  Pete Townshend first, followed by John Entwistle (the Ox), Roger Daltrey, and Keith Moon. 

Pete Townshend:
Reflecting on the Who in the April, 2004 Rolling Stone issue “50 Greatest Artists of all Time”, Eddie Vedder states “What disturbs me about the Who is the way they smashed through every door of rock & roll, leaving rubble and not much else for the rest of us to lay claim to” (if the 2^nd part of this quote looks familiar, I thank you for noticing, as I also ended up using it in last week’s entry).  This was actually a concern of Pete Townshend’s in the making of Who Are You.  1978 was a period in rock music where the new punk movement was writing-off all music that preceded it….that is, all except the music of the Who.  Punks were embracing the Who, and Townshend hated it.  He wanted Punk and other new music genres to write off the Who as well.  Strictly speaking, Pete Townshend wished to be ‘rendered irrelevant’, believing this was the only way the new music scene could make a name for itself and maybe even rise above what had preceded it. 

This stance put Pete Townshend in a paradox.  Although he was ready to fall on his own sword, he continued to be driven by what kept him in the Who all along:  That the music of the band should be a reflection of their fan base; a mirror for fans to look at and connect with.  This inner drive required effort and creativity.  Townshend was walking a fine line, and came up with a unique solution to say the least: Write good music but cut it to shreds through the lyrics.  The tortured artist was at it again.

Five of the six songs credited to Townshend on Who Are You are about music: “New Song”, “Music Must Change”, “Sister Disco”, “Guitar and Pen” and the title track.  These songs are fascinating because they explore Townshend’s concerns regarding the need for music evolution head on through the lyrics.  In “New Song” (a brilliant tune written to Who fans) for instance, he writes:

“I write the same old song with a few new lines
And everybody wants to cheer it
I write the same old song you heard a few good times
Admit you really want to hear it”

Several of Townshend’s songs on Who Are You ended up too complex for the Who to ever consider performing them live.  My favorite song on the album, “Guitar and Pen” (which is actually about song writing) is the best example of this. It rolls from one phase to another, testing Daltrey’s singing and Townshend’s own phenomenal guitar playing to the hilt (his guitar bridge three quarters through the song emits a human emotion like few guitar phrases I have ever heard)  . “Guitar and Pen” is an absolutely brilliant illustration of how untouchable the Who could be when all the stars were aligned. 

Who Are You gives us hints of things to come for Pete Townshend.  One example is on “Music Must Change” where Roger Daltrey’s singing of the title at several points in the song is quickly followed up by Townshend’s oddity utterance “Chaaaaaange”; a tidbit of expression that would later sound routine on albums like All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes.  These one-time young rock and roll ears did not even hear the interjection upon my earliest listening to this song. 

Pete Townshend’s many contributions to “Sister Disco” are highlights as well.  The song describes a fictional meeting between hospital-bed dying “Disco” and her bedside visitor “Rock”, who promises to carry the torch forward, while in no way conceding that Disco contributed anything substantive to the progression of music.  Townshend sings the bridge…..

Bye, goodbye Sister Disco, now I go

I go where the music fits my soul
And I, I will never let go, I'll never let go
'Til the echo of the street fight has dissolved

….. and ends the song with an acoustic guitar solo, in the process making the song-story soulful.  “Sister Disco” was one of Roger Daltrey’s favorite songs to perform live, and I recall one time in Foxboro Stadium where he accompanied Pete Townshend at the base of the drum platform, both sitting down there as Townshend played those closing notes.  I got a kick out of it, having read earlier that Pete Townshend was in the know regarding Daltrey’s infatuation with the song (Townshend himself more matter-of-fact), and so chuckling to myself about what must have been going through Pete’s head as he plucked away on the strings and looked to his side.

John Entwistle:
Each member of the Who ended up the internal fan of the band at various times in its history.  During the making of Who Are You, it was Entwistle who appeared to play this role. The Ox put in the long hours in the studio, often sticking around well into the evening after everyone else retired for the day. He was ultimately responsible for putting the final touches on the product, a fine polishing that no one else could face, particularly Pete Townshend. 

John Entwistle, “the Ox”, is credited with writing three songs on the album: “905”, “Trick of the Light”, and “Had Enough”.  It was rare for Entwistle, the number two songwriter in the band, to get more than one song on a Who album.  But he pulled it off here partly because he allowed Roger Daltrey (as opposed to himself) to sing two of them:  “Trick of the Light” and “Had Enough”. This gave his songs more cohesion with the rest of the album.  Entwistle’s songs also connected, however, because they were very good.  The music and lyrics of “Had Enough” reach Townshend-ian proportions, and the song ranks among the best in the entire Who catalog.  Then there is “905”, where a passion comes through in the Ox’s singing that I can’t recall hearing in any of his earlier songs.  Just listen to how he delivers the bridge lines:

“I have a feeling deep inside that something is missing”
It’s a feeling in my soul and I can’t help wishing
That one day I’ll discover that we’re living a lie
And I’ll tell the whole world the reason why”

As always, John Entwistle’s bass playing on the entire album is superb.  One of the great things about Who music which is incomparable, is that you can listen to one song 4 times and enjoy it in at least 4 different ways, focusing on a different instrument each time.  On Who Are You this is particularly the case with “Sister Disco”, “New Song”, and “Had Enough”.  On all 3, the individual instruments (including vocals) shine, and the Ox’s bass playing is beyond textbook:  It’s unparalleled.

One final note about John Entwistle and his contributions to Who Are You: This was the last Who album where he would put a concerted effort into his backing vocals. One of the hidden gems of Who music was the backing vocals, particularly the low/high vocal range Entwistle was able to cover.  He stepped aside in the 80’s as the Who brought on more backing singers (while also admitting to the fact that his singing had lost its higher-end range).  It’s a shame this had to happen, as the Townshend/Entwistle backing vocal combination was a powerful one. But it’s there in all its glory on Who Are You (although the Who were already using some of that hired help at this stage).

Roger Daltrey:
Daltrey was always the sober member of the Who, which was needed more than ever during the making of Who Are You:  Moon, Townshend and Entwistle were all on personal collision courses at the time.  Daltrey would ultimately ride out the storm, but his deep passion for the band (likely deeper than anyone’s) was thoroughly challenged.  If a session slipped out of focus and into consumption-centric chaos, ‘Squire’ Daltrey was out the door, heading for the hills in a personal helicopter to regroup at his British country side manor (which included a man-made trout pond).

Roger Daltrey’s singing on the entire Who Are You album is, I believe, a continuation of an amazing streak that started with 1971’s Who’s Next.  Simply put, these are the vocals of a master craftsman.  For example, he is somehow able to sound like John Entwistle (at his best) as he sings Entwistle’s “Trick of the Light”.  Trick of the vocals is more like it.  On the other Entwistle song he sings, “Had Enough”, I love how, at the first of two instances where Daltrey sings “Here comes the end of the world….” (the other being the end of the song), he perfectly leads the Ox’s follow-up bass rumble both smoothly and transitionally. 

It’s often been said that a big reason for the success of the Who was that Pete Townshend found the voice for his music in the person of Roger Daltrey.  This is the album where I connect with those comments the most.  Daltrey shifts gears flawlessly from one emotion to another.  He actually makes himself sound like a booze hound on “New Song” (that “Woooo!” exclamation after “we get hung over but we always survive it” for example).  On “Guitar and Pen”, I love the part where he sneers “And she says that she’d like it ‘with more of a tune’ ”, as he reflects the character of an overly critical mother responding to her sons appeal to how she likes his songwriting (Townshend’s personal childhood playing out there).  In the same song, his lead up to and follow through of…..

But is that what you want, to be rich and be gone?
Could be there's just one thing left in the end
Your guitar and your pen!

….. is simply put, in the moment.

One of the amazing things about Roger Daltrey is related to the fact that he was not as gifted as the others.  However, through his love of the band, he was able to rise to their level.  Pete Townshend is a very gifted singer, and the Who could have been successful as a 3 piece, or simply brought on another vocalist.  Roger Daltrey had to make himself better than Townshend or any other potential Who front man in the singing department:  And boy did he ever.  If he had ended up having to write a resume though, a 3-word document would suffice: Who Are You.

Keith Moon:
Who Are You was Keith Moon’s swan song (overruling the ‘Not to be Taken Away’ declaration written on the chair he sat on for the album cover).  He would die of substance-abuse-related causes only several weeks after the album’s release.  One of the biggest issues that rock critics had with Who Are You was Moon’s drumming.  I’m not sure what they hear truthfully.  Perhaps there is an over-comparison to earlier Who albums.  What I hear though is ferociously good drumming, which remains uniquely identifiable to Keith Moon (the only drumming I could ever pick out of a crowd if I had to).

It’s well known, that it took the other members of the band a while to help Keith Moon get his legs back under him when they reconvened in the studio to produce Who Are You after several years of studio inactivity (Moon had let himself go in the interim).  Pete Townshend even reached a point where he had to threaten to replace Moon if he did not get his act together.  Of course, he knew this to be impossible, but Keith Moon left him no options.  Townshend and the rest of the band (including producer Glyn Johns) had to find some way to get Keith’s butt in gear. 

As it turned out, only one song, “Music Must Change” (which has a unique beat), ended up out of Keith Moon’s reach.  There is no drumming on this song (if you listen close on a good sound system, you can hear Pete Townshend’s miked and in-time footsteps in lieu of drums).  Other than that, I believe Moon went out with a bang (not a whimper) on Who Are You.

‘Moon the Loon’ was the Who’s secret weapon.  They were never the same again without him (although as discussed last week, the mid-90’s addition of Zak Starkey, Ringo’s son, was an unexpected positive jolt that brought some of the Moon magic back).  Considering his no-holds-barred approach to life, I find it both amazing and a blessing that Who Are You is a part of the Keith Moon discography.  I factor that thought into the equation with every listen.

OK, so up till now, I’ve said very little about the title track, which happens to be this week’s Big Top entry (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdLIerfXuZ4). The becoming-legendary story behind the song goes that Pete Townshend, who had just received a very handsome royalty check, confronted two members of the punk band ‘The Sex Pisols’ at a nightclub.  He was disgusted they would even be seen in (what Townshend determined) an old-fart rockers nightclub ("11 hours in the Tin Pan, God there's got to be another way!".)  He proceeded to shout obscenities at them, then pulled out his royalty check and, standing on a table, ripped it up in front of them, yelling “Who Are You!” in the process. 

In the liner notes of the reissued album, Matt Resinicoff (a kindred spirit who gets it) writes “The Who knew that rock can’t peddle easy answers, but it can share the burdens of its listeners; remember, there is no question mark in the title of this recording.”

In other words, Who are You and You are Who!  Magnificent!

Who are You was released in the States on the occasion of my 16th birthday (8/25/78).  Several years later, it was a much needed 2nd wind for me in terms of enjoying Who music.  I was already a year or so into the band’s best known releases (Tommy, Who’s Next, The Kid’s Are Alright), but if this was going to continue, the lesser known albums needed to pull through.  They did, with Who Are You leading the charge.


This entry is for my Dad, who chants "Whooooooo Are You" better than anyone I know.

- Pete

Under the Big Top # 9: “A Symphony of Four”

(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

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