The tribute show is an odd duck in some ways; who’s the audience supposed to be? Is it fans of the artists performing, or fans of the artist being feted? Fans of the artists performing don’t automatically have context or even knowledge of the music being played, while fans of the celebrated artist can be a tough audience. They can be terribly critical. And they can be outright demanding sons of bitches.

The latter statement would accurately describe your average Who fan. We were ridiculously demanding OF THE ACTUAL BAND. There was no way anyone coming on the Carnegie Hall stage was getting off easy tonight, not in front of this crowd.

The other thing that needs to be considered is that Townshend and Daltrey had a very specific dynamic. People have said things like “Well I like the songs I just wish Daltrey wasn’t singing them” and I point out that if Daltrey didn’t sing the songs, no one was going to be singing them. Pete wrote songs for Roger to sing, and Roger interpreted them in a very specific way. I’m sure someone will chime in about how this isn’t unique or special but I’ll assert here that in this case it absolutely is, and is part of what made the Who the Who.

The whole reason I’m giving this tiresome history lesson, boring old fart that I am, is to say by way of preface that these are hard songs to sing and even harder to sing well. I don’t go to these evenings needing straight interpretations of the song to enjoy myself – I loved Kimya Dawson’s modern dance interpretation of “World Leader Pretend” at the R.E.M. event, for example – there just is such a thing as a misguided interpretation, or one that means well but misses the mark. I say all of this so you don’t take my dismissal of your favorite artist’s performance as a condemnation of that artist’s entire body of work.

Now maybe I can get to the actual concert.

The evening opened with a reminder of why these concerts exists, as a choir of teenagers, led by Steven Bernstein (a slide trumpeter) took us through the Overture. I wondered what these teenagers in 2010 thought of the story of the deaf, dumb and blind boy. I wondered if they cared. I wondered if they just sang the words or if any of them went and found the record and listened to it and if it resonated with them. They seemed to be having a blast, and I once again felt lucky that I grew up in a time where I could get music as part of a public school education.

Living Color came out and set the tone with a masterful cover of “Eminence Front”. I had forgotten how good that band was. The Ox would have approved of the way that bass line just swang. I’m not a fan of Sondre Lerche but he was a perfect example of someone who brought his own interpretation of the song while still maintaining its essence. “I’m A Boy” was perfect. It wasn’t a straight cover, but he clearly *got* the song and invested it with appropriate angst.

Kaki King, on the other hand, offered an untethered “Pinball Wizard” which had no guts. Seriously, “Pinball Wizard”? Pete has fucked up on that song on more than one occasion. You can’t play “Pinball Wizard” with detached coolness or less than technical precision and expect the song to register. The Postelles were up next, and while everything about them screamed indier-than-thou, sonically, at least, they were faithful. The vocal delivery just didn’t fit. I’ve never seen them so I don’t know if that was their shtick, but it was like hearing ‘I Can’t Explain” sung by Mick Jagger – but Jagger circa 1971, kinda campy. So it didn’t really work, but at least there was some energy on the stage.

When Asaf Avadan opened his mouth and started to sing “Naked Eye,” I knew immediately that I was going to completely love it or violently hate it his version. His voice is not one that’s easily accepted by your ears, and I can’t say that I’d buy his records or go see him, but his interpretation of that song was absolutely brilliant. I am sure this was the most radical cover of “Naked Eye” that I will ever hear in my entire life, but it was also absolutely valid. It’s the one I could have seen Pete and Roger standing and applauding the hardest.

I have a confession to make: all of these years, I assumed that Mose Allison was 1) dead and 2) of African-American descent. I don’t know where I gathered that conclusion from, but boy was I wrong. It was helpful, in a meat-and-potatoes rock history basics sort of way, to hear “Young Man Blues” from the mouth of its creator, but it was also underwhelming. This statement may well position me as a savage.

Bob Mould brought the energy back with a version of “Can’t Reach You” that had every ounce of his being invested in it. The only thing that was missing was a windmill (something missing THE ENTIRE NIGHT. I could get that if Pete had actually been there – but seriously, people – no windmills?!). But it wasn’t a surprise that Bob Mould was going to knock his performance out of the park. My only complaint was that he was not loud enough.

Nicole Atkins, however, could have been hit or miss – but was definitely the former. I appreciated that she dressed for the occasion, and her version of “The Song Is Over” was completely and utterly beautiful. She infused it with flavor but didn’t ruin the essence of the song. Her voice also benefited more than anyone’s from the Carnegie Hall acoustics.

Rich Pagano & the Sugarcane Cups were the house band and they kicked ass. Everything about them was perfect for the music. They were faithful to the original arrangements and brought boatloads of energy to the table. Their solo contribution was an outtake from the Lifehouse Demos, the version of “Love Ain’t For Keeping” from that set. I appreciated that someone brought the obsessive fan element to the table, but that it wasn’t so obscure that no one knew what it was.

Bobby McFarrin got more applause than Bob Mould. I’m sorry, Bobby McFarrin? Again, maybe I’m just some kind of savage but I’m not even sure why he was there. He did a Bobby McFarrin-like interpretation of “My Generation” and I was just not impressed. Like, a Bobby McFarrin imitator could have pulled that off.

Luckily, the Smithereens came on next. And while this was another gimme – how many of you bought that live EP just so you could have that version of “The Seeker” – besides Living Color, they brought the unabashed ROCK to the evening. “The Seeker” was good, it was fine, it was even great – but then they went into a “Sparks” that was so incendiary I started to suspect that perhaps they had bogarted the spot and jammed in a song that they weren’t scheduled to play. (No dice, it was in the program.) It was raw. It was powerful. It was everything that was beautiful and perfect and earthshaking about the Who. That, in my book, earned a standing ovation, and they got one (but not from the same people who applauded Bobby McFarrin).

Matt Nathanson was charming, he was clearly nervous, he was excited to be there. However, he also delivered a terrible version of “The Real Me”. There is no irony anywhere to be found on the Quadrophenia album. There is no irony in that song, and it is not a crowd participation number. (And I won’t even mention the guy on the ironic stand-up snare and kick drum, another thing that could not be more out of place on a song on which Keith Moon sounds like he has grown another 8 arms). I received a barrage of “omg he’s so nice and funny” messages on Twitter after I posted a brief summary of this – I’m sure he is, but he was just out of his element here. I’m sorry I do not like your dude.

Bettye LaVette was another artist that was worth the price of admission. And I know you’re going to tell me that you saw the Kennedy Center thing or you saw her on YouTube and so you know how awesome it is. No. This is where I tell you that you absolutely do not know how awesome it is until you sit there and listen to that woman with that voice and that presence sing “Love, Reign O’er Me” like the song was written for her. I had goosebumps.

Pulling on my flame retardant suit, I will offer that Jason Isbell’s cover of “Behind Blue Eyes” meant well but had no soul, no bite, no yearning. If you choose to play that song at a Who tribute you had better come armed for bear because that song is the essence of the Townshend-Daltrey relationship, and I know that Isbell’s smart enough to know that. I am not arguing that he’s not talented. I’m saying that he didn’t have what it takes to pull off that song.

Conan’s untimely demise means that we once again have Jimmy Vivino’s Fab Faux back in operation on the East Coast. They gave us a solid and competent Tommy medley. My only argument with that it that that interlude in the show was about transcendence and you don’t get transcendence or even close with a band of session guys, no matter how awesome they are. But it was good for someone to come in at that point of the show and play perfect copies of those songs.

Willie Nile. Willie Nile is the only artist – on a night where a very busy crew efficiently gets each artist on and off the stage as quickly as possible – who felt the need to try to talk, to try to rev the crowd up, and to dedicate his song to Pete and Roger – several times. He was also on a crutch, and I have a small suspicion that some pain meds might have been involved – or perhaps he was just loopy. His version of “The Kids Are Alright” I noted as “adequate”.

Robyn Hitchcock came out with Lenny Kaye and Sean Nelson (with whom he had just performed with this past Sunday) for a lovely version of “Substitute,” capped with an “A Quick One” intro (and why no one played THAT I still don’t know).

I have not been a Gaslight Anthem fan because I dislike being a bandwagon jumper, and there were too many people I knew that leapt onto moving vehicles the minute a Mr. B. Springsteen showed up to play with them at Glastonbury (nothing makes me less likely to do something or go somewhere than a bunch of Bruce fans embracing something as one). However, I have been coming around, and tonight definitely helped. I will say that while their version of “Baba O’Riley” (and I love that they basically are covering the Pearl Jam version of “Baba,” and not the Who’s – which is also okay), I thought they were surprisingly subdued for what I’ve seen and heard of them. The performance was a highlight but just a tiny bit underwhelming. It could also have been just the contrast to some of the other acts.

I knew Patti Smith was coming so I wasn’t surprised when Lenny and Tony Shanahan and Jay Dee came out onstage, but I was surprised that they were going to reprise “My Generation” when it had already been done. I had entertained fantasies of her covering “Won’t Get Fooled Again”. My significant other kept trying to lobby enthusiastically for “Magic Bus,” but I suspect that was mostly because he knows how much I hated the song when the Who played it (hell, Entwistle hated playing it). “Carnegie Hall, please forgive me,” Patti invoked with a smile, before crashing into “My Generation”. The tittering audience around me, and the two people (with whom I am personally acquainted) who were the only ones in the entire place standing up for this song indicated to me that most folks had no idea that this version was canon, but I will forgive them.

This is the part in the show where, if the artists being honored were in the building, that they would show their face. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the boys from Shepherd’s Bush as all of the artists from the evening came streaming onto the stage. The organ riff in the background made it clear (at least to anyone who actually knew even the smallest thing about the Who) what the next song was supposed to be. This is also the part where the problem of this being at Carnegie comes into play – people try to be well behaved (except for the friends of Rich Pagano who sat behind us all night, yakking) and the well-behaved means that people don’t stand up when they might want to stand up. Once the crowd was up and clapping, the song began.

And no one onstage knew the words.

When I say “no one knew the words” I really do mean, no one – except the guys in the house band, the Smithereens, and a guy wearing a watch cap that I think might have been Matt Nathanson (but he had lyrics for his number, so that doesn’t necessarily redeem him), and Willie Nile (maybe) – knew the words to “Won’t Get Fooled Again”. Everyone was standing there with lyric sheets – and even then no one would come up and take a verse or even a line. And I mean, I get it, it’s Carnegie Hall and stuff, but the only conclusion I could draw was that NO ONE KNEW THE FUCKING LYRICS TO WON’T GET FOOLED AGAIN, and before you make any sort of excuses, NO ONE NEEDED A FUCKING LYRIC SHEET FOR FUCKING ROSALITA at the Springsteen tribute, AND there was the added nerve case of the actual artist being onstage at the same time which would be a legitimate reason for being intimidated and hanging back a little.

[Addendum: Sean Nelson was singing but for some reason refused to commandeer a mic.]

( I could go off on a tirade here about people not having any business being in the business of rock and roll if they don’t know the fucking canon, but that is me likely making too much of something that is not there, and it will become too much “old man hollers at cloud” so I will stop.)

Suffice it to say that the encore was a trainwreck and while I videotaped it, there’s no point in me putting it up because all you will hear is 1) me singing when I realize no one there is singing to illustrate the point that it’s not a difficult song to sing and 2) me talking about how no one is singing and 3) more of #1. Props go to Nicole Atkins for knowing where the power scream was supposed to be and running to the mic to nail it.

While the evening was mostly solid, I was glad Pete and Roger were not there for this encore. We needed a star, we needed a musical director, we needed someone other than Willie Nile waving his crutch around and trying to be elder statesman. The people in front of me who got up as soon as Patti was done were, in hindsight, very smart.

All of that said, I still love these shows and love the causes they benefit. I’ll be back.

Let’s get this out of the way: It didn’t top Bruce. It didn’t top Prince. It didn’t top U2. But it did make me cry, just a little. I cried because I love/d them. I cried because they are old. I cried because I am old. I cried because the music of my youth is dying. I cried because Roger can’t go onstage shirtless anymore. I cried because John is dead, because I never got to see Keith, because there is no one else like them, no one who comes close to them.

I know I am not objective. I know I am emotional and irrational and have a stormy history with this band. But they were the first band I loved insanely. I do not have to be objective.

The performance tonight was a rock band – one of THE rock bands – playing onstage. Just playing. In a few years we will all forget what that was like, a band, just playing onstage, without gimmicks or theatrics. There are no more bands like this, who form when they are young and stick together 20, 30, 40 years. Consider that U2 is the only band in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame that still has their original members. Think about this. It was not the Who at their best, but this era is not them at their best. They are old. They have aged. Roger’s voice, which he coddled for years, has not held up. At least he has learned to not to try to hit the notes and miss them, he has figured out how to modulate around them and still deliver a solid performance. But it is not power screaming Roger Daltrey, and if you are looking for that, you are better off watching The Kids Are Alright on repeat. You don’t go for that. Or if you do, you’re not very smart.

You go for the emotional heartstrings being played, and they can still do that. I got goosebumps when “Won’t Get Fooled Again” started. I got goosebumps during “Listening To You”. If you didn’t then these aren’t your songs, this isn’t your band, you don’t care about rock and roll and it’s just background music to you. And I get that this might not be relevant to you. But there’s an awful lot of people to whom it was relevant. Those people are also getting old along with Roger and Pete and in a few years you can have Lady Gaga doing the halftime show for you instead.

Pete, Roger, Zak Starkey on drums, Pino Palladino on bass, Rabbit Bundrick on keys. Simon Townshend filling in the gaps (who I have forgiven previous transgressions due to his work with Roger on his solo tour). This is the Who core right now, and it is sad in a way that I was relieved that it was the people I already know and not someone new. I liked the staging, I liked the clear drums with the target cymbals (okay I LOVED the target cymbals), I liked how I was not seeing the camera cut to audience plants who have no idea who this is or have never seen the band before and could mostly care less. The connection with the audience was a big part of what the Who was, but you weren’t going to get it here. The lighting and setup were topnotch.

Zak was remarkably restrained and so was Pete and I think that put a damper on the energy. Not enough guitar, too much keyboard in the mix. When Pete did play, it was fantastic, melodic, compact – which is a freaking challenge in a medley of songs that don’t easily lend themselves to being medley-ized, in a band that was never about brevity (remember Pete in TKAA going on about Kit Lambert giving him a hard time about songs being more than “2 minutes 50″). But the BIGGEST problem, hands down, was the fucking JACKET. For years we have all gotten on his case for his need to wear expensive suits onstage, which he then spends the entire fucking show moving and adjusting and it gets in the way and causes him to miss solos and notes and windmills. WHY ON EARTH DID YOU DECIDE TO WEAR IT TONIGHT? “It’s just not windmill conducive,” to quote a friend texting me after the show.

Roger hit the scream on WGFA and that was all that mattered. The look of relief on his face when it was over showed just how nervous he was.

I haven’t seen them live since the tour when John died, out at the Gorge, when I yelled at the thunder for taking the Ox from us. I wasn’t going to see Roger on the most recent solo outing until a friend gave me a free ticket. I will probably go this time around, because this time will likely be goodbye.

Yes, I took this photograph. Backstage at Shea Stadium. October 13, 1982. Yes, the photo is small and low-res for a reason.

I am going to get all my old photos and negative scanned. And start sharing them.

It’s funny how I slip back into it, though. You know the story, you know the legends, you know the players, you know what’s coming next. The boyfriend made a comment about something and I snapped, “That’s because this is Roger’s thing,” without even thinking, as though – how could you NOT know that?

I wish it had been six hours. Nine. And I appreciated that we saw things we hadn’t seen, and there was latitude for Pete to ramble, and enough footage of John (but not enough of Keith talking, and I say that realizing that Keith was not always the best interview, but, C’MON, this was Roger’s thing so he could have gotten whatever he wanted, Roger who’s been embargoing any story about Keith because HE wants to do it – sorry, digressing)

More than anything, I appreciated the segment on John, and the honesty, and the anger, and the sadness and the regret. It wasn’t that long ago, and the wounds are still the tiniest bit raw, still.

By the end of it, I was committed to seeing them the next time they roll through, ticket prices be damned. Because – recent blog posts from Pete aside – the truth is that it’s a question of IF they roll through again. I have always felt that I had my run, and it was good, and nothing was ever going to top that week in 1999 when I was in the first 10 rows of Shoreline for both nights of Bridge and then flew to Chicago not long after for one HOB show, which I said at the time was one of the best nights of my life and I’d still say that.

It’s such a mix of emotions with this band, ones I’ve never been able to walk away from. I’m very zen about not seeing the Stones again (because, again, having had my run, I don’t see the need to be greedy).
But Townshend and Daltrey don’t get out from under your skin that easily.

[after the jump, due to layout issues]

EXHIBIT #2 – note the scoreboard and general jubliation on the field:

Exhibit #2 also explains to a certain extent why this site has been so dormant. The truth is that I’ve been writing a baseball blog since April and it’s taking up most of my time. It got a little popular completely unexpectedly. I’m deliberately not linking it here (or vice versa) because the anonymity has been delightful.

But, don’t worry, I’ll be back.

Now, Mike Watt and d.boon (of the late, great Minutemen) were also die-hard Who fans from a young age, and had a friendship that was cemented, solidified through their shared love of and for music. d.boon died in an automobile accident in 1985, and Watt (he’s just Watt) has continued fighting the good fight and continued making great music.

Petra Hayden Sings The Who Sell Out is the brainwave of Mike Watt, and was inspired by his friendship with d.boon and their shared Who obsession. Watt suggested the idea to Haden, who is a friend and colleague, and she took on the challenge. The result is what will definitely be one of the most remarkable albums of the year.

While obsessive fans of any band can sometimes be somewhat rigid and defensive of the music they love, Who fans are probably some of the worst offenders on that front. To many of them, there is no other music worth listening to, and no one, repeat, no one, can touch the Who’s music. (As an example, for a better part of the 90′s a large majority of Who fans were up in arms over Eddie Vedder “daring” to perform the Who’s music and sing Pete Townshend’s songs — of course, somehow overlooking that he had been invited by Pete himself).

So Petra Haden is one brave woman, taking on the recreation of an entire Who album, solo. She doesn’t even have brand recognition working in her favor. If she got one thing, the tiniest, most miniscule thing wrong with this record, she would be skewered alive.

But there is not one thing out of place on this record, and this is notable because there is no instrumentation whatsoever on the album. That’s right, the entire record is performed completely acapella. Petra Haden Sings: The Who Sell Out is absolutely a cover album in the classic sense; Haden tracked every single note, every thundering Entwistle bass note, every rollicking Keith Moon drum roll, every Townshendian crescendo, every classic Daltrey vocal warble. But the difference here, and what makes this album so remarkable, is that every vocal track, every sound effect, every instrument, is created using Haden’s voice and only her voice, multi-tracked.

This record is nothing less than jaw-dropping brilliant. It’s astounding. It’s a truly remarkable, joyful musical performance, while also being the most original idea for a cover album, ever. That said, part of the album’s brilliance is that the interpretation is blindingly original, but at the same time, not so inaccessible that it won’t speak to a larger audience.

As Watt relates in the liner notes, Haden wasn’t particularly familiar with the album, or with early Who. This is important, because it means that it wasn’t her all-time favorite record and lifetime dream to cover it. She has no emotional attachment to the songs – which you would think would make it lifeless and dull, or at least lacking energy. But Petra Haden Sings The Who Sell Out is anything but that. Instead, there is this pervasive pure ebullience and joy that saturates the record. There is a freshness and a spirit to the performance, because she hadn’t heard the record her entire life, it was all new to her.

Now, if you’re familiar at all with The Who Sell Out, you know it’s a pop art masterpiece, and one of its hallmarks are the radio jingles that appear in between songs, connective tissue if you will, trying to simulate what it was like listening to Radio Caroline or any of the other legendary pirate radio stations stationed off-shore in the 60′s and vital to the British music scene. So it’s not enough already that she’s singing “I Can See For Miles” and “Armenia City In The Sky” and “Mary Anne With The Shakey Hands,” Hayden includes every jingle – Rotosound strings, Heinz baked beans, Track Records – it’s all here.

Every single song is fascinating, but the most overwhelming performances have to be “I Can See For Miles” (that droning Townshend chord-solo is there, too), “Armenia City In The Sky,” and “Sunrise” – the latter perfectly suited to Haden’s voice – and the top of the list is “Rael,” Townshend’s first attempt at rock opera – the “mini-opera,” as it was referred to, with its intricate instrumentation, captured down to the last note and inflection.

The experience of listening to this record is beyond unique, especially if you are a fan and know the songs inside and out. (Watt alludes to this in the liner notes: “We knew that record inside and out and Petra caught that spirit, big time.”) You discover that you know every single inflection and every tiny insignificant sonic detail, and find yourself singing along in your head to the various tracks – for example, “Our Love Was, Is” has an angelic counterpoint I don’t think I ever consciously noticed before. Or the bass line in “I Can See For Miles” takes on a new dimension when it is sung and not strummed, not to mention the compositional components you never really heard separately from the rest. It feels like you are listening to the music upside-down, or in another language – you know it, but you suddenly don’t. The rug of ‘familiar’ is pulled out from underneath you, and if you are lucky, it is like hearing and experiencing this album for the very first time all over again, except with the benefit of years of musical experience behind you. You have context and can appreciate it more than you did the first time you bought Sell Out, most likely that dreadful double-album reissue with the ugly American cover.

Oh, and the cover of the CD – of course, the cover – it’s an exact tribute to the original UK pop art masterpiece, which featured each member of the Who in an advertisement for the products “advertised” on the album. Of course, Hayden duplicates them to exacting perfection. I just hope the experience wasn’t so exact that Haden caught pneumonia from sitting in the tub of baked beans – which is what happened to Roger Daltrey during the original Sell Out album cover shoot.

(Remember what I said earlier about obsessed and obsessive.)

Finally, if you need an imprimatur in order to validate the record for you, here’s a quote from Chairman Townshend himself: “I love it. It is exquisite.”

No argument here.

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[This review is also featured on Blogcritics.org]

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When they walked onstage and launched into the “Substitute”/”Can’t Explain”/”Anyway Anyhow Anywhere” trio, I felt that old familiar rush of happiness and excitement. I couldn’t stop it. I thought they’d walk out and I’d just cry and cry for the entire show. And that didn’t happen. During ”Anyway Anyhow Anywhere”, I looked toward what would have been John’s side and then the tears started a little, but the music was too big, too great, too wonderful for that to last for long.

I thought this show was tremendous. Roger’s voice is the strongest I’ve heard it in years, it almost never faltered. Pete’s playing was focused and inspired, none of the meandering that he sometimes lapsed into in previous years. So much energy and power and presence and emotion.

To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed “Another Tricky Day”. I had bought a 12th row seat from a friend, and then we commandeered 5th row seats, and by this point, I’d been moved to the end of that aisle, which – due to the weird seating configuration at the Gorge – is actually against the barrier. So I ended up right in front of Pino. In my mind’s eye, I could see John standing there instead. I just tried not to think about it.

I watched “My Generation” from Shoreline on Pete’s site and felt the gaping hole intensely. But being there is somehow different. Even when the Quadrophenia section of the set began with “5:15″ I kind of held my breath, waiting to feel that glaring absence. No, it wasn’t the same as if John was there, but it was still valid and powerful. “Sea And Sand” was amazing, even better than Quadrophenia 96, and “Love, Reign O’er Me” was unbelievable. I watched Roger’s face intently and hoped that that was sweat running down his face and not tears, even though I was shedding enough at that moment for both of us. They follow that with “Behind Blue Eyes,” Roger at the front of the stage, naked and exposed, honest as ever.

Every time it seemed that Roger was getting emotional, Pete would mug or make some face in his direction and that would lighten the mood – for all of us. What I love about the Who, unlike, say, the Stones, is that the interaction and emotion and friendship between the members is still very much there, very present. This is even more pronounced now. They need to lean on each other to get through it and they do. There was much love, much laughter, and much emotion of all kinds. Pete’s face during many songs told it all.

The only low point in the set for me was “Eminence Front”. The bassline in that song is so crucial and Pino hasn’t really found a way to fit into it yet. Pete had no focus and there was no groove, and part of me suspects he wasn’t focused because he was emotional. I don’t like “You Better You Bet” any more now than I ever have. But I had no issues with “Bargain” or “Relay” or “My Generation,” unlike other fans. This show was so loud and so overwhelming that it was impossible not to respond to it. And there I am in the front row, somehow, not believing that I am there, not believing that I am so close, just lost in the lights and the volume and the songs. I mean, utterly and completely lost, I let go of everything and just jumped in.

“My Generation”. Oh, my god. It was just so – punk rock. Thrashing, screaming, biting, intense as hell. I pogoed madly until my feet hurt. It’s not the same without John, no. If they played it the way they had on previous tours, fairly straight ahead, it would have been different. But lighting that fuse and then going out there and taking no prisoners the way they are playing it now, it works. Even if you hold your breath when it comes to the bass solo.

“Won’t Get Fooled Again” and the guitar smash. The energy in WGFA was kind of odd, it wasn’t that huge overwhelming anthem that it usually is, but it started picking up energy at the end, after the power scream. Pete started playing a solo, notes that sounded like tears falling on the stage. And he just dove into it emotionally, running up and balancing on the monitor, and then falling back, and then the band coming into another end. And then he’s got the guitar up in starting position and I thought he was just joking – but then I held my breath as he went for it with down to the very marrow of his bones, and then held it up, pieces still shaking barely together, and smirked. And then we all laughed with him. “Don’t all fight for it now…” he said, as they walked off the stage prior to the encore. They lingered for a bit, waving and making eye contact with the audience. That’s when stupid me blows a kiss in Roger’s direction, and he blows one back at me. It was the only way I knew to say thank you, say I’m sorry, say I’m with you.

There were jokes: Roger thanking the powers that be for controlling the wind (the Gorge being utterly and completely out of doors, at the edge of the Columbia River Gorge, hence the name) makes the sound a dodgy proposition at the best of times. But then he says, “speaking of wind..” and fans in the direction of his rear end. Pete laughs and says, “whoa… It’s headed your way!” Yes, the Who making fart jokes.

The Tommy medley was, for me, even better than the Quadrophenia segment, and that’s saying a lot. Roger smashing the hell out of those tambourines. And then “Listening To You,” and I’m standing there with my arms raised, just singing and singing along as hard as I can. It was at the last part of “Listening To You” that I finally broke down and cried and cried and cried, while singing as hard as I could. I had the thought at that moment: this may be it. This may the last time you ever see this, feel this again. And that thought was unbearable, which just made me cry harder. This time, I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just stood there and cried and didn’t give a fuck what anyone around me might have thought.

This show is triumph and tribute, mourning and celebration. It was so much more than I expected, and absolutely everything that I needed – emotionally and musically. This was so the right decision for them to make. The songs are still the same songs you know and love, played for all that they’re worth. They aren’t going out there and phoning it in. There is nothing half-hearted about these performances. They are giving all they can give every night. And that is the best possible tribute they could have given John. Cancelling the tour wouldn’t have done anything except placate people who think they have the right to tell Pete and Roger how they should mourn their friend. And they are mourning. I don’t think there’s a single moment when Pete and Roger aren’t thinking of John up there. You can see it in their faces and at times it is utterly heart-wrenching.

As we were herded up the aisle by security, I’m kind of walking ahead of everyone else, looking up at the stars and that huge expanse of eastern Washington sky. And all of a sudden I start to yell: “hey! You! Why now! Why’d you have to take him now! Did you need a bass player *that* fucking badly! Why John! Why not – Geddy Lee, or something….” I didn’t mean to be funny, and I don’t know where it came from. But I was standing there, looking at the sky, and screaming, railing at the cosmos.

As we continue to walk out, friends of mine are trying to talk me into going to another show, offering me tickets for Chicago or Irvine or Denver or MSG. And as tempting as it is, as much as I would love to see this again, it wouldn’t be the same and I got everything I needed from the show last night. I said my goodbyes, I relived my memories, I felt every emotion I have ever felt at a Who concert. I don’t need anything more.

We never get thunder in Seattle. We’re in this weird “convergence zone” between two mountain ranges that stops it from getting through to us. Today, as I sit and write this, it is raining, and there is thunder rolling through. I’m finding it a lovely coincidence that it’s happening the day after the Who played here.

Goodbye, John.

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 “Love, Reign O’er Me’ at the end. For the most part, they played it straight, with a few other singers (Billy Idol as the Bellboy, for example) to give Roger a chance to rest (and that was Keith Moon’s song anyway).

It was, quite simply, brilliant. Forget the fact that I never thought I’d hear these songs live in my lifetime. Forget that i never dreamed I’d see the entire concept performed from start to finish, ever. Quadrophenia 96 was energetic and dynamic and full of fire. The songs were still incredible songs.

From that point, I was back on the bus. Not that I ever really left.

1999 and 2000 were great years to be a Who fan. They dropped what we referred to as “The Who On ice” concept, going out with just the three of them, plus Zak Starkey (yes, Ringo’s kid) on drums, and John ‘Rabbit’ Bundrick, their old keyboard player. No horns. No percussionists. No guest singers. No movies, no sound effects, nothing to distract you from the music. It was that legendary wall of Who sound, and it made you remember why they were the greatest rock and roll band in the world.

Don’t believe me?

Exhibit A, the Who at the House of Blues in Chicago, 1999. 1500 people. I’m one person from the stage. Have you ever seen The Kids Are Alright? You know that moment at the end, during “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” where they come out of the drum solo and the lasers, and then Roger hits the power scream and the supertroopers come on and there’s Pete mid air, landing on his knees and sliding to the other side of the stage? Probably the greatest rock and roll moment ever captured on film? Well, the entire House of Blues show was like being in that moment. It was one of the best nights of my life.

When I got to work this morning, I did my usual check of the Ticketmaster site to see what was available for their Seattle show on July 6. Believe it or not, I did not yet have a ticket for this tour, and my plan had been to not see them this time. This decision was agonizing, but when it came time to ‘put the money down,’ I couldn’t do it. I could not hand Pete Townshend $192.50 [before Ticketmaster taxes]. I just could not do it. It just felt wrong. I would have felt better handing that cash to a struggling band to buy equipment than giving it to Pete et. al. this time.

I’d already dealt with my anger seeing “Bargain,” the most spiritual song Townshend has ever written, being used to sell cars. I’d gotten over my fury over Pete giving the best anthem of counterculture rebellion, “Won’t Get Fooled Again” [which was just as valid in the last few years as it was when he wrote it over 30 years ago] to Nissan. But giving the “Overture” from Tommy, a piece of music so ethereal and evocative and almost holy that it still gives me goosebumps, to a prescription drug company… That made me lose it. Movies, okay, sure. TV shows… borderline, but not a complete and total perversion. Yes, it’s his art to do with what he wishes, but it seemed to go against everything the Who ever meant for these songs to be exploited like that. Pete’s explanation was that it was the only way for him to expose his music to a new audience. (Pete. Anyone who buys a record based on what they hear in a commercial is not going to resonate with the rest of the Who’s catalog. These are people who treat music as a trivial commodity at best.)

But $192.50 for the Seattle show made me see red. $250 for side stage, first level seats at Madison Square Garden made me apoplectic. There was no way i could justify this to myself. There was just no way. So I didn’t buy a ticket. Each and every day I had a conversation about this with someone. “You’re breaking up with Pete??!” said one friend, horribly concerned. Even with today’s news, I still feel like I made the right decision. I was keeping my relationship with this band honest.

And now John is dead. While I’m sure Pete and Roger will go on somehow, as far as I am concerned, there is no more Who. Tonight I sat in a funky bar in downtown Seattle with a friend, and we toasted John with tall glasses of Guinness and smoked cigarettes, while the bartender played “My Generation” and all of Who Are You, in order. Our cheer that went up when the thrashing chords of “My Generation” started earned us quiet knowing looks of respect, while the scenesters around us chatted animatedly, seemingly oblivious. As I sat there, head in hands, dejected and as close to catatonic as I’ll ever get, I almost envied them their detachment.

Almost, but not quite. Because I would not trade my love, hate, fury, adoration – my sheer utter passion for the Who – for anything in the world.

I am still a little horrified that I spent $500 on concert tickets this past weekend. Or maybe I’m more horrified that I had $500 available to spend on concert tickets. (Just call me a rich yuppie software asshole wannabe. Ed Vedder will be coming over any second now to perform his weekly rendition of “Soon Forget” as punishment for my sins.)

But it was Pete. And I missed too much Pete because of being, well, not here. I missed the PsychoD shows, I missed the Supper Club, I missed the infamous Berkeley Community Theater shows (Vedder reference #2: according to friends Who [sic] were there that night, Ed was sitting front row center with his brand new DAT recorder that he couldn’t get to work, and was asking people for help. “Sure, not that I’ve ever seen one of these before, but I think you press that button there…” I later found out that those shows were the first time that Ed and Pete met.), I missed HOB ’97. And of course I missed 89 and the Tommy revival and “The Who On Ice” but I would have missed those on principle even if I’d been in the country.

So, Pete. Solo. Alone. No annoying keyboard player or percussionist. Very expensive tickets. Open-toed shoes. I even packed (but chickened out on wearing) a skirt. There will be no pogoing tonight. It was, admittedly, not very rock and roll, at all. Not sure how I felt about that, either.

Night one was more about disbelief. I’d waited so long to see Pete like this. It was this lovely little cozy theater with cushy seats and lots of leg room, perfect acoustics (I mean perfect). Pete was effusive and warm and engaging and full of witty banter and stories. This is why we have something called “Storytellers,” but we have it because there are people like Pete Townshend who actually have something to say. Someone like, oh, say, Dave Matthews has nothing to say. Unfortunately, the whole thing was ruined once it became a concept and a promotional vehicle. Most of the people on that show would do well to shut up for another 5 or 10 years and then maybe they’d have something worthwhile to blather on about for an hour and a half.

Pete gave it all to us. He played, he sang, he took us on these seemingly stream-of-conscious journeys that always came back to the starting point. He talked about his son asking him for help with guitar chords and what does Pete’s son want to learn? Some “Blink one-eight-two” song. (He told the story again night two, and even went so far as to say, “Can I show you how to play it? Well, I wrote it….”)

The songs in the set were fairly standard, you could probably have guessed them in advance. “Pinball Wizard,” “Let My Love Open The Door,” “Sheraton Gibson,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again”. And then the ones I wouldn’t have guessed: “Slit Skirts,” “The Sea Refuses No River,” “Eminence Front”. “The Sea Refuses No River” especially, Pete whinged for 15 minutes before actually playing it, unfurling this lengthy piece of sheet music on top of his grand piano, putting it off as long as possible, telling us how bad he is on piano, that he plays so well at home but live and in front of people he just sucks. Was it perfect? No. But it was “The Sea Refuses No River,” introduced as a song from when he was doing heroin and being miserable, and the fact that I got to see it at all, ever, speaks for itself. And I think it’s a song that he probably should be stumbling over. Pete talked about that now he’s kind of surprised that he was able to create at all those years, let alone anything good. It was moving because of its imperfection.

I don’t know why I thought I should have some kind of Divine right to the blues…

I have never seen Pete do “Slit Skirts” live. I realize that espousing Chinese Eyes as any kind of touchstone probably opens up a whole Pandora’s box of what that says about me. I also do find some of the songs on there fairly dreadful (“Communication” anyone??). But “Slit Skirts,” “The Sea Refuses No River,” and “Somebody Saved Me” have always been my trilogy of hope from that record. I think I always identified with the despair and desperation and, finally, resilience that those songs hold. Those songs were (we know now) Pete at what was probably his rock bottom.

But, again, “Slit Skirts”. It too, like “The Sea Refuses No River,” had its bumps and its jolts and mixed up lyrics. But Pete covers the errors up like a master, and it was only the truly faithful who really noticed. The theatre crowd had no idea.

Night one seemed rougher, and night two was, I think, more musically proficient – but only in spots. There were some pretty big lyrical gaffes in songs like “Tattoo,” which surprised me.

Pete seemed very touched by the death of John Lee Hooker the day before the first night’s show. Night two he came out for the encore with this lovely Ephiphone (which looks like the one he’s holding in one of the Chinese Eyes singles covers) and played “Driftin’,” a blues classic, as well as the Mose Allison version of “Eyesight to the Blind”. It was during those very loyal and deeply feeling songs that I realized that Chinese Eyes was, in itself, Pete’s version of a blues album. Okay, it was rich white rock star takes heroin, gets estranged from his wife, and makes himself miserable, but hell, Eric Clapton’s made a career out of that. (Ouch!)

The first night was over in the blink of an eye, which to me is always the sign of a really great show. I don’t want to sound clichéd but for me that first night was magic. It didn’t seem real.

Night two : a last minute upgrade from sixth-row aisle seats – a Playhouse representative explaining that some “special guests” needed our seats. Sure, we’ll move. So we are now 6th row DEAD CENTER, we are in the $1,000 seats. I guess the expensive seats were the first few rows, and then the center further up. Now I feel out of place. I’m not going to say that these people weren’t fans, but it was just ODD. Luckily, the people sitting right next to us were huge fans, and were incredibly enthusiastic about the whole thing.

Our seats were perfect. They were better than the first few rows. They were just about level with the stage and only six rows up. It was really kind of overwhelming, Pete so close and so unadorned, without six security guards between us and the stage.

This show was different, somehow, in how I reacted to it. It wasn’t as overwhelming for me. The folks next to us were experiencing the show as I experienced it on Friday, while it’s a little less intense on my side. I’m able to listen more carefully, notice small details. For me, the gift of this show is in the small insights and the details. I know he talked a lot – people were complaining about this before the show – but I expected him to talk a lot and I dunno, I would have been disappointed if he didn’t address us often and at great length.

Back to the whole contradiction thing. It saddened me that many of the diehard Who fans I’d expect to see weren’t in La Jolla this weekend because of the ticket price. As the House of Blues shows have proved, high ticket price does not equal true fandom. And there were parts of the show where I sat and wondered how much these shows meant to everyone in the audience and why they were there. Night one we sat next to a young teenage kid and his dad, and my first thought was, “is he here for himself or for you?” (We had that discussion on the Springsteen list during the reunion tour, people bringing their kids, putting them in really hard to get floor seats, using their kids as props to get Bruce’s attention at the backstage entrance.) But I was delighted when this young lad sprung to his feet applauding madly after “Eminence Front,” completely unprompted by dad. He was a fan. I don’t know if the father was – if he was then he must have just been glowing inside to share this with his kid.

To play devil’s advocate, Pete was introduced by Des MacAnuff as a “raconteur” and I wonder if he didn’t really TRY to be Pete Townshend because that’s what he was there to do. On the other hand, age may have mellowed him a bit, but he’s still Pete, and he’s just not very good at forcing things. I remember how awful he looked at the Daltrey Sings Townshend shows. He didn’t want to be there, didn’t plan to be there, so Roger changes the name of the show to “Daltrey Sings Townshend” and suddenly Pete has no choice. He shows up, looking 10 years older than he does now, and sings an odd arrangement of a PsychoD song that it took about a dozen diehards at least a minute to recognize. (Whispering in the second row: “What is this?” “I don’t know, what IS this?” “I think it’s from Psychoderelict, but I don’t recognize it at all…”)

I don’t know. Maybe I’m tired of being cynical. Maybe it’s just too much work. I’d much rather evaluate these shows on what they meant to me, and my immediate, pure, emotional reaction to them, rather than try to focus on the faults. Maybe because I got to experience these shows, instead of having to chronicle them. I don’t know. More like, maybe it’s because of all the years I didn’t have an option to see Pete. I still feel a level of guilt at spending the money, but then again I remember all the various times in my life when I didn’t have any money at all to spend on a normal rock show. I missed too much back then.

The errors and the roughness didn’t bother me all that much. To me, they were an indication of how uncontrived the evening was. In the end, I walked out feeling like I’d spent two evenings in Pete’s living room. I felt like I’d seen something incredibly special. I felt rich and happy – not rich in a monetary sense, but rich in all the years I have as a fan of the Who and of Pete’s music. Just really fucking lucky.