Pure and Easy and Long

[Cheryl Posner-Weber <otter@execpc.com>]

So many "older" (however you want to define the term) female Who fans
have posted messages and written to me privately that I thought it was
time that we re-introduce ourselves to each other.  Even though some
people think that "how-I-found-The-Who" threads are as banal as the Ann
Landers (or is it Dear Abby?) "how-we-met" stories, I present my own
tale as an invitation to others to do the same.

During the summer of 1971, I was thirteen years old and living in
Huntsville, Alabama.  I usually spent my summers at the library, begging
for rides to the library, or hoarding my quarter-per-week allowance for
trips to the book store (do you detect a pattern?).  I rarely listened
to the radio, as the endless repetition of the top-40 hits left me
queasy and I thought the commercials were stupid.  I spent most of my
free time reading books, newspapers, magazines, cereal boxes, and
anything else that came my way; I also listened to classical and baroque
LP's from my mother's collection.  As far as I know, I had never heard
any song by The Who, although I recognized and liked the Beatles.

For some reason, I ended up in a record store one afternoon.  I'm not
sure why; it may have been the aftermath of a visit to Baskin-Robbins,
or I may just have been passing time while my mother and two little
brothers shopped elsewhere.  I enjoyed looking at the records; the size,
the weight, the hidden musical possibilities all wrapped up in clear
plastic intrigued me, although the prices were alarming.  The 45's I
ignored, as they seemed the province of squealing teeny-boppers (of
course, I know better now!).  I preferred the albums.  They looked
serious, meaningful, promising.  I knew so little about popular music
that I roamed aimlessly from one aisle to the next, gazing at the bright
jackets.  I ended up in the "W" section; the Decca "Tommy" album was
prominently displayed.  I liked the way it looked, with the
funny-looking musicians peering at me with their tiny faces.  I liked
the very long list of songs on the back.  I liked the way it felt,
heavier than other albums I'd already picked up and put back.

And this is where the mystery begins.  A very small voice in my head
said, "This is really good.  You should buy it."  I hesitated, as I
disliked gambling with my hard-earned allowance, but decided to give it
a try, as the little voice had never misled me before.  I bought the
album, took it home, and unwrapped it in the privacy of my bedroom.  I
was really impressed with the double gatefold, the illustrations, and
the lyrics booklet, as I had never seen anything like that before.  I
also studied the two records for some time, as the first record had
sides one and four, the second two and three.  What on earth did that
mean?  Finally, the light dawned: I was meant to STACK them (what a
concept!).  So stack them I did, on my parents' old hand-me-down record
player which was now mine.

And my life changed.  I can tell you, from my heart, that the passage of
twenty-eight years has not diminished in the slightest the effect that
the opening chords of the "Overture" have on me.  Without going into
intimate details of my childhood, I can let you know that it was very
lonely and isolated.  My internal resources were all I had, and they
were fortified by my books and my music.  I was a gawky, shy child,
convinced of my own unimportance.  As far as I could tell, every single
person in the world had their place, except for me.  When I heard
"Tommy" for the first time, I was utterly stunned, astounded, and
entranced.  Later on, I would realize that Tommy's retreat from a
hostile world was very much like my own, but at that time, all I knew
was that this was the best music I had ever heard.  The story entranced
me, the gaps giving me opportunities to use my imagination.  The music
was incredible.  It was rock-and-roll, but better somehow, and
passionate, and elegant, and meaningful.

I played that album over and over.  I'd lie on my bed for hours, living
only in the music, only in the moment.  Every time the "Overture"
started, part of me would wonder, "how will the story come out?"
"Tommy" always sounds new and fresh to me.  I did not know, or care, who
the musicians were, who sang what or played what--I finally figured all
that out about a year later.  I still have this album.  The jacket is
ratty and worn, the LP's played nearly white, my name written carefully
on the labels lest someone borrow it and forget that this album was
MINE.

There is, of course, so much more to the story of me and The Who, but
the beginning is in many ways the most important part.  I remember the
excitement of saving for the older albums I had yet to buy and the
ecstasy of waiting for the release of a new one.  I remember lining up
for the premiere of the "Tommy" movie, sometimes sitting through it two
or three times in an endless afternoon and evening.  I remember reading
about Keith Moon's death in the local newspaper, where it earned only a
small article on a back page.  (How strange, I thought, that the end of
one's whole world would not appear on the first page, heavily bordered
in black.)  I remember my first Who concert (much later than you would
think of someone owned by The Who since 1971).  And I also remember,
after the passage of many years, finally meeting other Who fans (hello,
Pamela!  You were the very first!).

On the Odds & Sods list today, Alan McKendree posted a short message
about spirituality and The Who.  I couldn't agree more.  Although I love
their music and consider it part of myself, it has never been mere
entertainment or background music.  While reverence is not necessarily
required or desirable, my full attention is.  When I play my recordings
or attend a Who concert, something happens that is unique and stands
apart from the rest of my life.  Once the music begins, that's all there
is.  Whenever I feel that I am losing my balance with happiness and
sanity, Who music reminds me, most joyously, who I am.  Whenever I want
to celebrate, they're there.  Although sometimes, in more cynical
moments, I think of The Who as music for misfits, it's the triumphant
transcending of difficulties that characterizes their work.  Who music
is about losers who win, even if the only victory is the attempt.  The
lyrics are thought-provoking, the melodies and rhythms unusual and often
surprisingly complex.  There's just nobody better, at least for me.  I
never thought loving this music was a phase; if it is, I hope to inhabit
it until the end of my life.  With any luck, in my NEXT life my infant
fingers will grab a "Tommy" CD to use as a teething ring, and the whole
perfect cycle will start again.

--Cheryl