I've had a chance to watch a bunch of the clips from the VH 1 Rock Honors Show for The Who.
It seems like poor Roger must have been suffering from some kind of throat problem or chest cold as he is really struggling in "Baba O'Riley." I noticed from the clip that Pete seems to have finally returned to a guitar sound that has a little definition. One thing that has driven me a bit crazy on the last few tours has been this "paper over comb" sound that he has been using that is almost impossible to hear in the mix. He seemed to be headed that way as early as 1978 because that's the sound he uses on the Who Are You album, but the sound for this show is much, much better defined. Makes it harder for him to mail it in, though. In some of the early 2000s shows, he's totally whiffing on huge parts and letting the keyboards take over. I guess he is really just totally fucking sick of playing this stuff and I can sympathize with him.
Watching Baba O'Riley from this show, however, reminded me of what is probably the greatest moment in Who history post the original band. It was the October 20, 2001 Concert for New York. After almost seven years, it's hard to conjure the anxious mood that pervaded New York right after September 11th. As most of you know, I was down there on 9/11 and saw the whole thing. I remember waking up very early the next morning and just staring at the ceiling in the morning gloom and having absolutely no idea what happens next after something like that. I had just switched off. The Concert for New York happened when I was still at a place where I would just sit in my office and stare blankly at the computer for long periods.
Confession: I watched the Concert for New York on television and The Who set didn't really affect me much at the time. I can't help but watch them and compare them to the classic Who of 1967-1973 and, well, the post-2000 Who-on-Ice will never measure up, so I didn't grasp what had really happened there.
One of my very close friends, however, had been at the concert and he was gushing about The Who set. He was backstage watching Townshend as The Who were waiting to go on. Townshend was, typically, annoyed as shit and said something to the effect that the other acts were pussies and The Who needed to go and remind everybody how it was done. And that is what they did. When The Who did go on, he told me, it was as if they were 25 feet tall and the rest of the bands were midgets. It was a whole other level entirely.
After a little distance and time, I went back and watched the video of the show and my friend is right. The other acts were playing very tentatively, probably because most of us didn't really know how to act at the time. In fact, my old band Moneyshot played a show at Mercury Lounge 11 days after the attack and we really didn't know how to approach a rock show. I had to play on borrowed equipment because I couldn't get into my apartment, which was right across from Ground Zero. As I told our audience at the top of that show, "We don't really know how to do this, so we're going to just do this."
But Townshend was having none of it and they all rose to the challenge.
That would have been a cool moment on its own, if it weren't for something that still breaks my heart and that is the effect The Who had on the policemen, firefighters, emergency service workers and others at the show. To say that these people had been through hell is to understate. Not only had they seen such devastation, they had lost so many of their own. And when the band kicked into "
Who Are You," it was probably the first time in weeks that they had been able to let go and bring some joy back in their lives. It helps to remember that there is no question mark at the end of the album or song. Who Are You is a statement that you and the band are one, not a question.
When I look at those guys in the audience, I know them. A lot of my dad's family are and were NY firemen and those are the guys in the audience, with their out-of-style moustaches, their mullets and their crisp blue dress uniforms, who jump for joy for the first time in weeks. When Cusack introduces the band, you can see one of them holding up a picture of his dead colleague behind him, his arm dead straight, straining with all his might to ensure that his friend is captured on video and, hopefully, never forgotten.
They love The Who's biggest hits deeply, having been raised on a steady diet of classic rock radio in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island and Long Island. Some of them were probably at Shea in 1982 when the band said goodbye for the first time. Some of them might even have seen the band in their prime at the Garden in the 70s. They won't talk to you about how great The Who Sell Out is; they probably haven't heard it. The Who is the purveyor of fist-pumping FM radio rock to them. The band's outsider punk status in the early years is of little interest.
Maybe it reminds them of when they were young and didn't have a city of millions riding on their back. Maybe they just needed to scream in the protection of 18,000 others so they could unburden themselves. But they almost drown out the band when they sing "teenage wasteland" in the middle of
Baba O'Riley.
The Who played for them - directly to them - and it was something truly beautiful. There's a lovely moment on the widescreen behind
"Won't Get Fooled Again" when the Stars and Stripes are linked to a Union Jack in the middle. A small graphic nod from an older brother about our common heritage, perhaps, but meaningful at a very dark and uncertain time. When Daltrey tells them at the end that The Who couldn't follow what they had done, it's not bullshit; it's from the heart. When Townshend tells them they are honored to be there, he means it.
Just look at them jumping up and down with a smile on their face when the four song set is over.
I still begin to weep when I watch it. They earned it.
