jukeboxgraduate.com

John Entwistle, also known as Thunderfingers, The Ox, The Quiet One, and Johnny Twinkle (hey, ask Daltrey about that one, I sure don’t know), was found dead today of a heart attack at age 57. On the eve of a Who tour that was to begin tomorrow.

I am an unabashed, unapologetic Who fan. They are my band more than any other, ever, since the age of 14. One night in 1978, I went to see The Kids Are Alright and walked out forever changed. I own every record, including all the solo albums of all of the members. I know every damn song by heart, I still have posters on my walls and a sticker on my car. I wrote my senior thesis in high school on Tommy. One of my prized possessions, still, is the original “My Generation” single on the Brunswick label. My father, whose idea of a good radio station is 710 WINS talk radio, can tell you the first and last names of every member of the Who. My mother still cuts out articles about them for me. The Beatles taught me how to love music, but the Who taught me how to be a music fan. Their music inspired me and challenged me and consoled me and gave me strength and comfort. They were my band.

I have loved them and been furious with them, adored them and been mindblowingly frustrated with them. This dichotomy of emotion is, however, an inextricable part of being a Who fan. Townshend did not like or want mindless sheep in his audience. He relished the contentious relationship he had with us. And he never got soft, broke down, or went easy on the fans. He was impossible, mercurial, outspoken, direct, sarcastic, witty and charming, usually all in the same moment. His rants at the audience, both onstage and in interview, are legendary. And we wouldn’t have had it any other way.

During the 1982 Who tour, some friends and I brazenly checked ourselves into the Who’s hotel in New York. In a further display of shamelessness, we invited John Entwistle to a birthday party. My friends had made a cake with black frosting (okay, it ended up more like a dirty grey) and a plastic spiderweb on it. John invited us to his suite, where we sat up all night, drinking and talking. Now, this wasn’t about what you may think this was about… None of us were the least bit interested in sleeping with him. It was the time to ask about the light up neck on the bass, and playing with Cheap Trick in Germany, and stories about Keith Moon.

Around 3am, after having enough gin and tonics in me that I managed to spill an entire glass into my purse (it was a running joke for years), I turned to John and said, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this, I’ll never have a chance again,” and asked him if I could see his trademark spider necklace up close. Without even blinking an eye, he beckoned me closer and held the necklace up so I could hold it in my hands and look at it. “I’d take it off, but it’s a pain in the arse to get back on..” he said. He explained that there was a smaller spider that went with it, but that his girlfriend wears it now. (She was hanging out with us, but gave up after a few hours. I’m sure she was used to it…)

It was one of those stupid moments of teenage fandom that you hold in your heart with equal parts embarassment and sly satisfaction.

I gave up seeing them after they broke up for the first time in 1982. I had no interest in seeing retreads or greatest hits or nostalgia. And I didn’t want to sit next to the two annoying drunk guys in baseball hats who yell “Magic Bus!” the entire show. While those guys were always there, once the Who stopped making new music, it seemed like the entire audience was full of people only there to relive their lost youth.

In 1994, Roger Daltrey had two shows at Carnegie Hall for his 50th birthday. This time, I was there. And although I was dubious, the first night, hearing the orchestra play the “Overture” from Tommy (Yeah, the one that Pete sold to a prescription drug company. Oops. Wait, I’ll get to that) gave me goosebumps and the tears started running down my cheeks. There are just some things that never leave you, and I learned that night that the Who is one of those things for me.

In 1996, out of a clear blue sky, they decided to revive Quadrophenia in its entirety and take it on the road. They didn’t get to successfully tour Quad when it came out in 1974. But this time, it was the whole album, beginning to end, from the ecstatic ocean wave whispers that open the record, to the heart-wrenching passion of