Pete's Diary Aug. 26, 2002

[Ken in MD <seahawkman2001@xxxxxxxxx>]

Pete's Diary - Aug 26, 2000
We're in Dallas for a free day prior to our show here
tomorrow. We flew here through the early morning hours
in a Gulf Steam directly from the stage in
Alburquerque. The show there was enjoyable, really.
In the past four shows Roger has somehow conquered the
negative demons that had seemed to always plague the
first four or five songs in the recent shows. He's
worked hard to get comfortable, sometimes arriving
hours early to acclimatize, at others, just laughing
hard to keep his spirits up. It can be hard to sing
sometimes, especially in...
 
A shed in the desert.
 
The thought came to me as we drove closer and closer
to the Shed, stuck out in the middle of an arid field
in the middle of the desert: 'What if the whole
audience turns out to be Prairie Dogs, or Buck
Rabbits?' The vision grew, and I realised I would have
really quite liked to have played a show to a bunch of
REAL animals. The biggest, nastiest people are always
soft inside, often frightened, that is unless they're
psychopaths. I feel so little fear when it comes to
performing that it can sometimes work against me. I
look pretty scary sometimes, and because I'm not
really trying to be that way, I suppose I am - in fact
- pretty scary. But am I as scary as the
average Who audience?
 
The review of the Shoreline show in San Francisco,
that you may read in the NEWS section here if you
wish, speaks of the way my anger ignited the show. How
wrong such an otherwise wonderful review could
be...
 
In fact when I went on stage I expected a feeling of
God's presence. The two shows I'd done there before
had been for Neil Young's Bridge School charity and
there is no question that on those occasions a very
powerful and benign spiritual presence warmed the
event. At The Who show this month, there was nothing
but a rock audience. Some of them looking tough,
rebel-yells and beer; some of them road-worn (like
we've seen all these shows, we are Who regulars, we'll
tell YOU when something new happens); some of them
silicone valley bucksters, sitting back grooving on
the exotic new pharmaceuticals blending nicely with
the iced Vodka; some of them little kids, brought by
their proud fathers, come to see what all the fuss was
about back in the '60s; one or two of them sexy
blondes.
 
There was not a trace of any benign and unconditional
spiritual energy. Not that I could feel. It surprised
me. I thought it was a defacto element of any Bay Area
event. I was not angry, I was suddenly exposed and
determined. So what I had to do was work, just to
survive. Work is OK. You do your job before you come
and see us (except for all those Trust-Fund misfits
who follow us around the world in a kind of
trance, trying to find a Grateful Dead family vibe,
that of course doesn't apply to The Who. We are a
broken family ourselves, damaged, and suffering from
much inter-sibling abuse and defection. How can we
truly respond to the simple gift of well-wishers
showing up? Do they expect a funeral or a
baby-shower?)
 
Most of you work, I know that. Like me you accept that
sometimes you will enjoy it, maybe even find it fun.
And you will be paid for it. What you will never get
from what you work at, that I get from what I
do (unless you are very, very lucky indeed) is love.
Artists are lucky that way.
 
But too much love can make you sleepy...
 
We have two shows left to do on this leg and I am just
about as bored as it's possible for a spoiled brat
like me to be. I sleep for as many hours as possible
so I don't have to pretend I like being awake in the
latest hotel room. I bury myself in the absorbing
brilliance of a Jeffery Deaver novel and refuse to
emerge until the next performance. I do not play golf
or go sailing, for if I did I would not have enough
energy or desperation left to play a decent show. I do
not visit the local sites or go to art galleries. I do
not accept invitations to dinner or 'home-cooked'
meals. If the most glamorous woman in the
world presented herself to me for sex and romance I
would be unable to demonstrate even the slightest
enthusiasm (this is not a challenge, I have one lover
and want no other).
 
I connect home twice a day. Yesterday this led
directly to the most maudlin feelings of self-pity and
loneliness when I realised that my lover and I will
see each other only very briefly for a day and a half
before I have to move off to another commitment. The
rest of my life, running on and on while The Who lay
dead for 20 years, continues to require my attention
while I'm on the road pretending to be a rock star.
 
Pretending? That's right. The 'angry' Pete on stage
really is not me. I have trouble accepting who I am in
the eyes of the rock audience. It is a long time since
I sincerely thrashed shit out of a guitar and
laughed at how utterly stupid it is. It felt stupid
when I was 19. Why should it not feel stupid today? I
am not competing with anyone here. If Keith Moon was
the best Keith Moon-type drummer in the world, I
know what I am best at. I'm best at being serious
about what is stupid, just like rock critics.
 
Why do rock journalists compete so proudly for the
title of the First Real Rock Writer? Cameron Crowe's
new movie touches on that. How can you WRITE about
something that you need to DO? How can you SING about
something that needs to be LIVED? There is no fan or
critic who can give an answer, unless Rock is not Rock
but ART. It is easy for me, but does it matter? It is
well-paid, and my ego responds to applause, and there
is love in it. Is that love without conditions?
 
Condition Number One: Some expert Who fans taped a
proposed song list on the room door of each of us at
our last hotel. Several things go through our minds at
such times. So, you know precisely what rooms we
are in? Can we have no secrets? Will you not allow us
even the pretence of privacy? In any case do you
really think that because you ask nicely in envelopes
and not by e-mail we will respond to your requests? Do
you think I should care what you want to hear us play?
Why should I care? Explain to me. I really need to
know. If I am an artist, then I speak to you but I
don't really know what you're hearing. You can't
explain. I can't explain. So why change the list?
What would be the difference? Would you hear something
really new? Would I?
 
Hey, you can't explain, can you? That was my genius,
recognising that frailty in 'you' when I was just a
kid. My genius today is seeing that you want to have
some influence over us, however tiny, to obviate your
apparent powerlessness. But powerlessness is good.
Lack of control or influence is a reflection of the
art of life. You want to feel you play some creative
or reactive part in what is going on. Why? You have
become more than fans. You are critics, through the
miracle of e-mail! Or even better - ENVELOPES and
SCOTCH TAPE!!!!! I accept that; if I do I can then
advance my argument that what I do is art. I have no
control over it. I am powerless to affect its
course. I show up, I offer myself as the instrument,
and the work gets done. You can criticize positively
or otherwise, it makes not a jot of difference. Art is
like life, it rolls by unhindered.
 
How can anyone in their right mind describe previous
Who tours as 'bloated', or 'self-indulgent' when they
were in fact natural acts of artistic attrition and
compromise? Why is this tour so utterly cool
(apart from the odd out-of-date fashion accessory or
misplaced wrinkle) and all those that have gone before
such mistakes? If The Who had been trotting out this
kind of show for the past 18 years since we quit
making records, who would be taking a blind bit of
notice today? Do critics really think I don't know
EXACTLY WHAT I'M DOING?
 
Roger came to me in May 1998 to tell me that he felt
impotent and powerless. He still had a deep conviction
in the notion of The Who as a living, material and
necessary force. He felt that my deliberate
neglect of it had been a mistake. That it had left he
and John in the cold. That my exploitation of extant
Who music (and there is no other kind) as its composer
and publisher gave me benefits not enjoyed by my
them. I'd heard all this before, read it in his
interviews. At one point he made his points so
forcefully, and personally, that despite
the fact that some of the accusations he made were
inaccurate and ill-founded, I broke down and cried in
front of him. He said then, softly, that it didn't
matter what I decided to do, either way - he
would always be there for me.
 
Later he called to apologise for being so brutal. I
told him he had done what needed to be done, and far
from feeling I had been brutalised, I felt I had been
offered unconditional love. The truth, his truth.
 
Within a month I had decided that there was unfinished
business for Roger, Pete and John. I knew it would
cost me very dearly, and it has. But I was not being
heroic or patronising. I was doing what had to be
done, out of love, in response to love. I really do
not know whether anything can be done about what we
still choose to call 'The Who'. It's a great name, but
for we three as old friends, the doors are wide
open. What we call The Who may well be beyond
redemption or revival. I decided that rather than
appear to be patronisingly returning to The
Who to prop up Roger and John's declining egos or
sagging bank-balances, I would turn everything on its
head. Roger had asked me to help him and John. I asked
them instead to help me. I wanted them to assist me in
raising money in 1999 for two of my pet charities.
Maryville Orphanages and The Bridge School. This is
something I need to do to placate my own uneasy soul.
They both agreed without a moment's hesitation. At the
time they agreed there was nothing in it for them but
hard work. There were no guaranteed spin-offs, no
deals, no tours, no reviews, no assured fan support.
Not a single journalist feels that this mechanism is
worth a serious or uncynical mention. Maybe nobody
knows the background yet. It was a selfless and
unconditional response from Roger and John to a
preestablished plan of mine. I realised these two guys
would do almost anything I asked, and ask for little
or nothing in return, apart from my company.
 
It took over a year for Bill Curbishley to come up
with the elegantly crafted three-leg tour scheme that
would allow us to explore what was artistically,
humanly and financially viable for us. Suddenly, as a
result of each of us doing what we feel will make the
other happy, we are scoring again - hugely. It feels
so natural to me, so easy. But THIS is hard. It is not
hard to be on stage and play that guitar thing, but to
be away from home and family and friends, the familiar
things. To return to a place of hotel-room isolation I
promised myself a million times I would never revisit
once I had enough money to stay home. Worst of all is
to create great moments of art, in performance,
and watch them disappear immediately into the ether,
into legend. Today that 'ether' is of course the thin
air of free download and rip-bootleg.
 
There is established in rock folklore that what we are
meant to be 'following' today, we first did in our
youth. And I imagine that what are doing today in our
burgeoning middle-age, we will be expected to
follow, to improve on, to top later on, like
sportsmen. (If we would only listen to what those fans
suggest on the list taped to our doors, we could be
even better - really...)
 
But we are not sportsmen. There is no game. There is
no competition. We have only ourselves to fight. On
even a bad day a poor football team can WIN a match.
On a bad day we have a bad day. On this tour,
there have been no really bad days. Just good ones,
better ones, and those that have been sublimely
inspired. 
 
For The Who it's always been 'downhill from here'.
>From the very first show with Keith Moon in 1963.
Chemistry. The Big Commission. The Certain Knowledge
that we would make it. Now there is the certain
knowledge, once again, that we are virtually deaf,
dumb and blind. We have no idea where we're going,
where we're going to end up, or who will be with us
when and if we arrive.
 
That list taped to the door... I forgot to read it...
what did it suggest?
**************
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