Fourteen year olds as a general rule have an innate ability to say some remarkably stupid things. In December of 1979 eleven people were killed by asphyxiation when they were essentially crushed and smothered while scrambling to gain general admission entry to a sold-out Who concert at Riverfront Coliseum in Cincinnati. At least twenty other young people were seriously injured. The youngest of the fatalities were two fifteen year old girls and the oldest was just twenty-seven. And here is where the stupid comes in. We all know teenage boys are prone to callous, precocious, irreverent behavior. The words that come out of their mouths are often a confused and aggressive spatter of venom as they try to jockey for position among friends and shock their way to some sort of tribal notoriety. It’s called testing the waters and dopey kids with their whole lives ahead of them and their eyes most recently, freshly opened to the wonders and tragedies of the world, will say just about anything for a reaction. Shortly after the horror of Cincinnati, all that spring and summer you might catch one of your peers or yourself uttering the phrase, “I’d walk over you to see The Who.” It was just the sort of ferocious gallows humor that follows almost every tragedy (What kind of wood doesn’t float?). It was an incredibly ignorant and callous expression to throw around and it put an indelible exclamation point on the rip-snorting irreverence of a decade that brought the fall of Saigon, Watergate, Bicentennial fever, Studio 54, Son of Sam, disco and punk. It professed the expanding cynicism that would serve Americans so well in the bland, money-centric, big-haired decade to come.

The tragedy may have also been my first real eye-opening introduction to The Who outside of some secondhand listening to of my brother’s albums, Meaty, Beaty, Big & Bouncy, Tommy and Who’s Next. I was so very into Rush and The Beatles at the time I paid little attention to much else but I liked what I heard enough to make the considerable investment of the double, live performance compilation that was the soundtrack of the movie, The Kids Are Alright. It is on one of my earliest album purchases and one of the few in my collection from the 1970’s that was purchased in real time, upon its actual release. The album came with a generous picture book of the band’s exploits that included a short synopsis of each of the songs included within. I thumbed it over and over again as I played those 4 sides of vinyl and I was flat out hooked. The punk rock scene of The Clash, The Sex Pistols and The Ramones was already in full swing but at the time I knew little or nothing of their music, only their notoriety. Without realizing it, the glorious, brash energy, the primal screams and the wanton playing of that punk scene was being laid out for me on this record. The Who, were and are the Godfathers of punk whether they themselves or the bands that followed would want to admit it. Roger Daltrey was a quick to anger, street-fighting brawler with the body of an Olympic athlete and the golden locks of a Mythical God. Pete Townshend possessed all of the self-confident swagger, humorous arrogance and screw flight; let’s fight bravado that Johnny Rotten would eventually mimic to perfection. John Entwistle played his bass masterfully, all the while looking as if he could give two shits whether he was on stage or not (please if you do nothing else give a listen to his rolling, funky bass lines on The Real Me, just a small sample of his brilliance, displayed over and over again) As for sheer reckless abandon and self-destructive energy, Sid Vicious would have had a tough time keeping pace with the outrageous Keith Moon on any binge you might present.

The Who were very much punks even if they were a little more posh than punks’ later incarnations but unlike a lot of the one-trick pony punk rockers to follow, The Who could offer so much more. Townshend’s remarkable musicality was capable of pushing well beyond the bluesy roots of the band’s early days, taking them to symphonic, operatic heights that most bands never approached. He can be sensitive to the point of embarrassing vulnerability and then turn around and hit you in the jaw with crunching power chords and acid-tongued lyrics. Daltrey, in the way that greatness is so often pre-ordained, turned out to possess the perfect voice for expressing all of Pete’s rage as well as his tenderness. Whose Blue Eyes are we looking behind? At this point they are almost interchangeable. And speaking of great voices, I don’t know if there is a sweeter, more naturally emotive voice ever recorded than Townshend’s own, outside of maybe George Harrison or Roy Orbison. Even when he’s growling and ranting you can hear the hurt just under the surface. It is a beautiful accompanying instrument used often and always in the most precise manner. As evidenced on the ubiquitous Baba O’Reilly, Pete’s bleeding petition of, “Don’t cry, don’t raise your eye, It’s only teenage wasteland” manages to be the quiet highlight in an otherwise corker of an escape anthem. Roger sings with such capable force that his voice can rattle your roots and shake your seat and then Pete comes right back and eases you into gear with lilting phrasing of equal devastation, so that by the time ‘The Song Is Over’ you’re not sure which one is coming at you. They interplay perfectly and compliment each other with balance and ease.

The Who and The Kids Are Alright impacted me so thoroughly that in that same year of ’79 I wrote a ninth grade essay on the subject. Fresh out of Catholic School at a time when rock music was still the Devil’s doing, I was elated at the idea of being given the assignment of writing a research paper about your favorite band and at the time, The Who were right up there. I cannot recall the name of the class where such an assignment would have been given, contemporary something or other, and the paper itself is long gone but I’m certain it was full of youthful exuberance for my new heroes. Of course Keith was already gone at this time but he still loomed large in the pantheon of rock gods and not many a young person, Who fan or not, had not heard the stories of cars driven into swimming pools and televisions tossed from hotel windows. I’m not sure what it is about destruction that appeals so greatly to the mind of teenage boys but I’m pretty sure that is why they’ve been marched off to war for centuries.

My first opportunity to see The Who live came in 1980 on what was regarded as the second leg of their tour supporting Who Are You. Keith’s death shortly after the release of that album in 1978 obviously accounted for the delay. Didn’t the Grim Reaper read the chair Keith was seated on? “Not to be taken away”, it read. By now they were a little different band than the Pete in white jumpsuit, long maned Roger, clobbering Keith incarnation as I always pictured them but I wasn’t about to miss the chance to go. In my mind at time I thought they were getting old so there was a real sense of urgency. On April 28, 1980 at the Checkerdome in St. Louis, 34-year-old Pete Townshend, 35-year-old John Entwistle, 36-year-old Roger Daltrey and 31-year-old Kenney Jones took the stage. Had he stuck around, Keith Moon would have been only 33 having died just a year and a half earlier. Missed him by that much. I was 14 about to turn 15 so my concept of “old” was obviously a little skewed. I’d be lying if I said I remember great detail about the concert but of course you can google most any set list from any past show, so it pleases me to see that they closed the encore with Let’s See Action. The rest of the list is chockfull of typical Who gems and anyway it would be difficult to assemble a bad Who set list. I’m pretty confident that Roger wore the black sleeveless tee from images of the time, still had the arms to carry it off too. I think he even pulled out the old famous sleeveless striped sweater for some of the dates. I know he was young enough to swing the microphone like a cowboy rope trick artist and hit all the high notes. Pete gave everything as expected with all of the wind milling, butt shimmying, high jumping enthusiasm that I had come to expect. John was there of course, thundering and stoic as ever. I do remember keenly however that The Pretenders opened the show and were amazing and since I’m playing the numbers game I should mention that Chrissie at the time was only 28! If I recall correctly The Clash and The Pretenders were alternating date opening acts for that tour and as much as I love The Pretenders, I wish it had been The Clash. I never did get the opportunity to see that great band in their relatively short window of existence and have regretted it always. The Pretenders, I’ve seen a number of times, the most recent just last year. Incidentally, Chrissie Hynde is 67 now and remains the most kick-ass, cool chick in the history of Rock.

By 1982 it would appear that my concern for seeing The Who live before it was too late was coming to fruition. The Who, The End, was the Rolling Stone cover story declaration, as the boys billed the tour of that year as their farewell. If you look at the cover, they kind of look like a band ready to call it quits. They appear somewhat miscast for the 1980’s. We were accustomed to them fashionably mod in the mid-sixties, cautiously hippie and fringed by the end of that decade and lean, mean and workman like throughout the seventies. Now here they were in blue jeans and leather when the new bands of the day were all pastels and primaries, makeup and Aquanet. Pete’s thinning tussled hair is supported by a narrow Mark Knopfler headband, meanwhile Roger sports a flappy jacket similar to the one we all regret owning. John looks fairly put out as always and Kenney Jones manages the slightest smile that seems to say, “Boy, I wish The Faces were still a band.” The tour was in support of their latest release, It’s Hard and it really did seem this would be the very last time to catch them in action, so of course I snatched my ticket. Being 1982, MTV was all the rage and desperate for content. The Who’s video for the song, Eminence Front was in heavy rotation alongside Hungry Like The Wolf, I Ran, We’ve Got The Beat, Do You Really Want To Hurt Me and Electric Avenue. The Who, sharing airspace with Haircut 100? Ay ay ay ay ay ah!

The video was more restrained than most. At first Pete’s defecting Russian sailor getup, guitar-strapped Roger and the song itself irked me, as it all seemed very unWho like but I should have learned by then to trust Pete’s instincts. Eminence Front is a great song with a great lyric that I have grown to appreciate on its own merits, not just because it takes me back to one of the best times of my life. In retrospect it turns out Pete is dressed to kill indeed and he kills it plenty with a great vocal performance and unforgettable riff. Jenny reminded me, as we watched them in concert the other night, how her and her girlfriends would turn giddy at a point in the video where Roger takes a deep breath, lets out a sigh and smiles. Girl stuff, (though he is pretty dreamy). Another look on the internet of the December 1982 concert shows me a similar set list to the 1980 show but we did get a personal favorite Sister Disco (and with adhesive tape over my nose, I felt almost demure) this time around and even Boris The Spider. I do distinctly remember the final song of the encore, which was a rousing cover of Twist and Shout. Some forgotten band called The Rockets opened the show; they can’t all be winners.

As it turned out the tour really was the end of The Who, sort of…not really.

They did spend most of the remainder of the eighties in limbo, getting together to play Live Aid but not much else until 1989 when they reformed for the 25thAnniversary, The Kids Are Alright Tour. This was a big show at old Busch Stadium and a long one. Not only were we treated to a healthy opening set of Tommy but sprinkled throughout the performance were the best of songs from Townshend’s great 1980 album Empty Glass. They even managed to toss in You Better You Bet from Face Dances along with a generous helping of classics. Jenny was with me this time around and she remarks to this day how Roger ran in place for the entire three-hour duration of the show. Seriously, the dude’s a specimen. I’m not sure how much interest she had in The Who prior to her first show but she has been a steadfast fan ever since. By the time of this concert the members of the band were all in their mid-forties and Jenny and I were soon to be married at age 25. From that point on, my life and The Who’s existence as a band, are a similar, murky blur. Other projects and other priorities took over for us all. Jenny and I attended more Lollapaloozas and fewer classic rock oriented shows right up until the point of having our children and with that our concert attendance became much less frequent. The Who took on Ringo’s boy, who remarkably has now been their unofficial drummer longer than Keith Moon and Kenney Jones combined. Poor John Entwistle didn’t heed Keith’s warning and passed away in 2002 from a cocaine fueled heart attack. I never stopped listening to The Who though and they would sporadically get together for projects and gigs in that thirty year span since 1989 until finally last week when I found my self sitting in the grass at my fourth Who concert, enjoying the experience all over again.

Thirty years in the blink of an eye and suddenly Jenny and I are in our mid-fifties while Roger and Pete are in their mid-seventies. How in the hell did that happen and how have none of us learned to act our age? Rock and Roll is supposed to be a young persons game with a “Hope I die before I get old” attitude. Nevertheless I found myself profoundly glad I hadn’t died and was still able to be there with the love of my life enjoying the music of my youth. Unfortunately everyone in attendance this evening was not that lucky.

From the moment we stepped from the car we were in a sea of Oldie Oldenheimers, some with canes, some with scooters, most just trying their best to carry the baggage of age and feel some relevant connection to their long ago glory days. Not quite knowing how to dress for the occasion, wanting to feel and look their decades gone best but unable to muster that mojo. “What am I doing around these old people,” I thought to myself, “I still feel 15…well, maybe 20. This is kind of a drag to be around.” And suddenly half way across the parking lot and realizing we had forgotten our blankets and bug spray back in the car, I realized I was one of them. Give or take ten years, whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was squarely amongst my peer group. Sure there were the ten percent of truly young people whose appreciation for great music led them to the same belief that I had carried into my first show some forty years prior, that I better see The Who now because it might be my last chance. For the most part though, we were a wandering tribe of aching bones and sagging skin. After retrieving our forgotten necessities we took our place on line and I somehow even managed to navigate the modern inelegant method of scanning the ticket barcode off my phone. Once in I headed straight to the Johnny for a pee as old people are want to do. We purchased $60 worth of beer to keep us hydrated on the lawn. Now I know that sounds like two coolers worth of beer but it was actually only one beer apiece for my sister Elaine, my daughter Ella, Jenny and myself. $15 bucks a pop! With gear and beer in tow we climbed the hill, found ourselves a nice spot on the lawn amidst a host of other blankets and settled in for the show. Jenny remarked that every time she goes to a show she sees someone she knows and sure enough, plopped down right in front of us was the older brother of a friend of ours, munching on Hostess Cherry Pie and a sleeve of saltines. Sort of the personification of old people at concerts. It was a beautiful post storms evening and the opening band this time around were a group of native Missouri Bluegrass pickers, The HillBenders. They were an unexpected treat as I have a great affection for Bluegrass music that I had developed sometime in that thirty-year span between my last Who concert and this evening’s.

Up on the hill with the good music flowing I allowed myself to simply enjoy the moment uncritically and realize how nice it is for a big group of survivors to gather and enjoy sweet sounds of their younger days. It was after the Hillbenders had finished their set, as we sat waiting for The Who, that the reality of the toll the years had taken on this collectively aged crowd came crashing down upon us. Maybe twenty-five feet behind us there was stir and a murmur beginning to boil and soon an outright commotion as the crowd in front and all around started to stand at attention, facing us with decidedly grim concern. Sadly a man behind us had gone into full on cardiac arrest. Much of the crowd stood in hushed conversation, exchanging clinical advice born of experience but most just stood in silent prayer. Good Samaritans with medical training from the crowd performed CPR until the paramedics arrived and took over. They all worked and worked, frantically fighting for a sickening duration that suggested with certainty that they were fighting a losing battle. He was eventually loaded on a cart after maybe twenty minutes that seemed like forty, and as the responders raced away I was left with the sad image of a young female paramedic, ponytail bobbing with the strain as she continued to pump furiously on his chest as they trailed off down the hill. The experience was sobering for everyone who witnessed it and left my concert mates shaken and distraught.

At the risk of seeming flippant I thought to myself and eventually said out loud that there are worse ways to go than being outdoors on a beautiful evening attending a performance by your favorite band. I was a bit taken aback when they replied, yes, but he didn’t even get to see the show. Well did he or didn’t he? Assuming that he actually expired on the spot, which seemed likely, and assuming that he, and myself and most of us believe in a hereafter, who can really say what transpired post mortem, what the rest of his evening looked like, how his eternity began? It might be the height of hyperbolic presumption, bordering on sacrilege but I want to believe that maybe he was greeted by God, introduced to John and Keith and the four of them settled in to the best seats in the house to watch the evening’s performance. As they chatted idly between songs, God may have looked over at the newcomer and said, “I know I gave you many hardships and much sorrow when you were on earth but I also gave you the Who, so you know, balance.” To which the newcomer might have said, “No worries Lord, all in all I had a pretty good run down there and I’m looking forward to this next phase.” If that way of thinking is blasphemous then I’m in trouble because I do envision Heaven as an eternity spent with the Creator, good friends, which now includes everyone and the ability to experience the wonders of Heaven and Earth and the cosmos on high throughout time imperceptible.

Mercifully the lights went down with the sun and the show began. We were awfully far away and my fading eyes struggled to interpret the tiny figures on stage as those familiar, recognizable forms I know so well. Thank God for giant televisions. It didn’t matter; I had seen them both closer and younger than this. I was just thankful to be on the scene, healthy and with people I love.

The undeniably old men on stage put on one hell of a show. Pete and Roger both looked good, Roger with Carl Perkins hair and maybe the slightest indication of paunch on his fit, compact frame. Pete looked thin and enthused and proud; proud of his music, proud of Roger and proud to be at it still after all these years. His once beautiful voice was downright croaky for which he apologized on several occasions. It reminded me of the last time I saw Bob Dylan when he essentially growled all of his tunes but in a good way. Pete remarked, “My voice is so shit.” but I’m not expecting 70 year olds to sound like 20 year olds. At one point Roger asked him how he was doing, if he was okay and in response Pete glared into the camera at the crowd and said, “I could still outrun any of you fuckers.” And you know, I believe he could. Age certainly didn’t affect his guitar playing any and his left hand still fingers the frets with a tenacity that makes me ask, “Eddie Van who?” As for Roger, I was shocked that his voice was so healthily intact. He structured some of the phrasing differently to avoid the highest highs but for the most part he sounded near album perfect. He no longer runs in place but he can still swing a mean microphone. Pete’s younger brother Simon filled in the gaps with his genetically familiar voice and guitar playing. Zach Starkey as always, did Keith and Ringo, Keith’s old drinking buddy, proud.

Our concert happened to fall on the exact 50thAnniversary of the release of Tommy. Therefore we were treated to a healthy opening dose of that record that I believe might have been a lot of bonus material tailored for this gig alone. It was fantastic. As a matter of fact, half an hour into the show when they wrapped up the Tommy segment Roger stated that they normally start the show with the next song, Who Are You. Not only did we get our fair share of Tommy but they also played a good-sized chunk of Quadrophenia that Pete described as “A damn sight better than Tommy” and to hear them play it you’ll get no argument from me. Especially stirring was the band’s rendering of The Rock leading into Love Reign O’er Me.

Throughout the rest of the show, we were given all of the best. I think at least four songs were played consistently at each of my Who concert experiences, Substitute, 5:15, Wont Get Fooled Again and Baba O’Reilly. This time around though Pete and Roger took the stage alone for a beautiful acoustic version of Won’t Get Fooled Again. The encore-less show (bedtimes) closed with an ebullient, cracking Baba O’Reilly which featured their touring violinist and arranger sporting a St. Louis Blues jersey as she pranced across the stage playing the closing strains of the song, much to the crowds delight. The evening was a magical event staged by seasoned, world-wise professionals and I am so grateful that I got to appreciate it once more through the spectrum of some hard-gained wisdom. Most everyone who attended left happier for the experience. Life is short, don’t dismiss what you love because the effort required to revel in it might be too great. You never know which performance might be your last. As for that music loving soul who travelled on that night, I’m hoping that after the show God, Keith and John turned to him and said, “That was pretty good, do you want to head over to Woodstock now and watch our ’69 performance? I think you’re gonna dig this.”