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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.