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Nissan observations, Wash.Post review



Hey, Everyone!
    In case you didn't see it, the Washington Post ran what I thought was a 
backhanded review of the Nissan show, which is copied below. I was there -- 
courtesy of Kent in Atlanta -- THANK YOU, KENT, and I'll get the check to you 
shortly -- and after having seen our boys five times now since 1980, this was 
by far the most energetic and passionate show yet (though the Quad show I saw 
at Nissan in '97 was perhaps my favorite, due to the fact that it was Quad). 
I took my wife and a best friend/Rolling Stones devotee in one more effort to 
convince him that, indeed, the Who are and always will be the world's 
greatest rock and roll band, and I think we nearly won him over. He's still 
talking about it -- "I never knew Pete was such an amazing guitarist," says 
he, who believes the sun rises and sets (mostly sets) on Keith Richards. And 
we were out on the lawn! Standing, let it be noted. 
    Anywho, I've been feeling mighty rejuvenated myself by St. Pete et. al., 
inasmuch as here they are, a bunch of mid-50s guys who by all rights should 
be off tending their proper English gardens or sponsoring inner-city polo 
leagues, and yet there has been this amazing -- truly astounding -- creative 
outpouring from Pete, Rog, and John, and they are playing -- along with the 
Keith clone Zak -- with an energy and verve that should make us all feel 20 
years younger. By this tour and all that is to come, they are putting to rest 
the critics who carp again and again on the MG line we all have heard 
umpteen-bajillion times, saying in essence, "getting old is a state of mind, 
folks, and we'll be damned if we're going to go gently or quiet into that 
good night." Or something like that. 
    For this 40-year-old who's been feeling kinda creaky lately (no doubt 
thanks in part to his 3-year-old daughter (who attended Quad in utero at my 
insistence) and 5-month-old son (who was at Nissan and was rocking right 
along with the band, singing and flailing and everything)), TED+Z+R have 
really brought me back up, given me inspiration, and provided such joy and 
energy in my life, and that's not a bad day's work in anyone's book, I think.
    You folks on the list are super -- I really love the posts from Brian, 
Schrade, Kevin in Vt., and everyone else. Keep it up, and keep on Who-ing! By 
the way, did anyone else see Pete bust a string on his guitar late in the 
Nissan concert, on either 5:15 or WGFA? I suppose that's as close as I'll get 
to see him whacking an ax on the stage, but hey, "a little is enough." 
                                                            -- Charlie in 
Baltimore

Here's the Post article -- not a learned reviewer, IMHO -- I mean, he's 
calling the song "Can't You See the Real Me?" C'mon! I wish these reviewers 
would get off thinking that Pete and the boys have to come out and play "Oh 
Susanna" just because they're over 30. Hell, The Who can outplay, outsing, 
outrock, and outperform any other band out there that's half their age, 
easily. I dare anyone to prove me wrong.

To view the entire article, go to 
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A61890-2000Jul7.html

The Who's Senior Trip

If you had a child around the time the Who famously declared that "the kids 
are alright," your infant, in all likelihood, is now married, employed and 
gearing up for a 15-year college reunion. So let's get this whole age thing 
in the proper perspective: The Who have been scissor-kicking and windmilling 
for more than three decades. And if they don't pack the power they once did, 
it's largely because the band was so utterly vicious during its spry days.

Not that the Who's show at Nissan Pavilion on Wednesday night could be 
confused with mellow. Stripped down to a five-piece ensemble, the Who put on 
a rollicking back-to-basics show that stuck mostly to their hits, many of 
them clustered around 1971's "Who's Next," but spanning  a career that long 
ago proved just how grandiose and bombastic rock can get.

"Yeah, I'm enjoying myself," chuckled a nearly giddy Pete Townshend midway 
through this hour-and-a-half show, getting ready to launch "Behind Blue 
Eyes." "Makes me strangely miserable to admit that."

The band, of course, can't meet standards it set 30 years ago, when a great 
Who concert made you want to crawl under the bed and scream for your mommy. 
Roger Daltrey's shriek at the time sounded like a man getting fricasseed 
alive, and Townshend lunged, snarled and levitated on some mixture of 
homicidal rage and guitar-borne ecstasy. The now-deceased Keith Moon would 
either deliver the greatest drum show in history or swallow a pharmacopeia of 
drugs and flail like a wounded duck. And every member of the band despised 
the others, which made each performance a round robin of chagrin and 
one-upmanship.

The Who aren't exactly lovey-dovey these days--aside from the requisite 
pre-encore hugs, barely a flicker of genuine warmth surfaced the whole 
night--but their days of mutual loathing are clearly behind them. Townshend 
giggled a bit when Daltrey wheezed for air at the end of a song ("It's pretty 
fun, isn't it? If you get to see Roger Daltrey die from lack of oxygen during 
'Can't You See The Real Me?' "), though his needling never approached 
flat-out animosity. In the old days, Townshend would have considered 
Daltrey's breathing trouble an opportune moment to choke the guy.

On Wednesday night, Townshend aimed his best jabs at himself. He ridiculed 
the ending to "Baba O'Riley" as evidence of his "Polish genes," belittling it 
as a revved-up polka. He derided his age (55) by noting that a nasal problem, 
not drugs, explained his sniffles: "I'm too old for cocaine, so there's none 
of that going on here." And he  made fun of  his famously oversize nose, 
musing aloud that a plastic surgeon could tip it slightly upward and give him 
the Nicolas Cage look.

"I drank a lot of coffee before I came out here," he muttered, illuminating 
the source of his digressions. 

John Entwistle, one of rock's great bassists, sported a green leather jacket 
and stood as implacably ramrod stiff as ever, his fingers the usual rumbling 
blur. Time has added not a scintilla of panache to Entwistle's delivery; the 
closest he came to an emotional outburst arrived at the climax of his solo 
during "5:15," when he momentarily let down his guard and--oh so 
briefly--raised an eyebrow. The crowd cheered, in shock.

Daltrey, the least time-ravaged of all Precambrian rockers, has lost barely a 
decibel in his dotage. His microphone spinning gets only more intricate, and 
he looks buff enough to bench-press the drum kit. His scream at the end of 
"Won't Get Fooled Again" was somewhat muffled compared with the roar he 
unleashed on "Who's Next," but hey, that was 29 years ago.

The geezers, it seems, are alright, too.