The sole reason the Casa, a group of ex-Nicolet swimmers and musicians, exists is because we’re all WHO freaks. I hadn’t seen the WHO since October of 1996 when I left the Rehabilitaton Institute of Chicago (RIC) in the wheelchair I would have to live in for the rest of my life. That show was 26 years ago, almost to the day, and 14 years, almost to the day when twelve of us invaded the St. Paul Civic Center to sit in the 21st row for what was the most significant event of our lives.
For that ’96 WHO show, Shawn Levy picked me up from the RIC where not only did I pull a month in rehab, but my brother
Andy did his residency studying the same condition I found myself in. I did my first car transfer into Shawn’s
rig. We went to her apartment in Wrigleyville and the Scotty boys came over and
smoked us out, which was interesting because I was still heavily on opioids. We
then drove over to the United Center (The House That Jordan Built!) where I
used my first handicap parking spot as well as my first public handicap bathroom (that
really freaked me out). It was the Quadrophenia tour which was a mindfuck of a
show, seeing as Entwistle was still alive. Billy Idol played the part of
Sting, and pedo, Gary Glitter played wicked Uncle Ernie (ewwwww….)
I saw Daltry warm up for Clapton about 15 years ago at
Summerfest. It was Roger, Simon, Pino Palidino, Rabbit Bundrick and Zak. It was
a short 45-minute set, that brought me to tears when they played a vicious
Young Man Blues. My brother-in-law, Mark, nudged my sister Nari when he saw me
tear up and said something like, “Hey, I think Tom’s having a rough time.” She
looked over at me and asked if I was OK. “Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine… it’s just…
it’s just that this… THIS is what it’s all about! All the shit… the Casa, the
traveling… it’s all about THIS!!”
And then last week I found myself in Brighton itself. I
watched Quadrophenia a week earlier because I knew I was going there and I
wanted to refresh myself on what the place looked like. I’d never been there
before, but my hostess, Lesley (with whom I spent a night in jail Abu Dhabi in
1988… long story) made sure to take me to all the relevant Quad sites.
So one would think I would be ecstatic about the WHO coming
to town, but I was less than luke-warm. My college teammate, Tom Scotty, had
seen a couple post-Entwistle shows and found them disappointing at one point
calling one “Who-Karioke.” And that’s coming from as dedicated a WHO fan as I
know. The two of us met on the springboards at U of I when he
double-bounced super high, then jumped off doing a triple
Townshend windmill in the air. I was like, “Are you a WHO freak?” He replied
with the first quintessential Scotty “intellectual dumb-guy” response I’d ever heard – and would quickly
become part of my personality – “Why yes… yes I am!”
My enthusiasm was also demured by the horrible showings of
the post-Garcia renditions of the Grateful Dead. Aside from one Phil-showing in
San Francisco, the half-dozen post-Garcia shows I’ve seen have been god-awful and a stain
on my memory of the band that not only changed my life, or saved my life, but
actually BECAME my life. I never would have even flipped the vinyl to hear the
second side of the current DEAD’s repertoire and I certainly didn’t want my
image of the glorious WHO tarnished in anyway.
Alas, I had no intention of paying the $200+ ticket to see The
WHO. But just a month earlier, on a whim, I looked at tickets for a Roger
Waters show. They were equally expensive, but on the day of the show, the
secondary market had them for $25! I swallowed up a pair and had the time of my
life watching an extravagant Floyd show with a friend I hadn’t seen in more
than a decade. We also got the handicap-bump to some good seats when I
exchanged the nose-bleed tickets for handicap seats.
I went online the morning of the WHO show and, sure enough,
there were $25 seats available. I scored a pair then looked for an accomplice. My
first choice was Lance Halvorson who sat next to me in the 21st row
in St. Paul almost 40 years ago. Lance couldn’t swing it, but my major Portland
partner-in-crime, Jeff Ovington, also a massive WHO fan, scooped up the ticket.
I was excited, but skeptical. I even blew off pre-funking for the show and
opted for a workout at my pool. Not exactly the raging sentiment I had going
into the St. Paul show where I would have taken a life to get the 12 tickets we
needed to make sure we were all there.
Jeff met me outside the Moda Center at the same spot where
Greeble, another attendee of the St. Paul show, met me a few years earlier to
wait in line for Springsteen floor seats. On that occasion, Greeble told me to
get a “Lotto” ticket and wait to see what number they call. For Springsteen
shows, if you have a floor seat, you pick up a lotto ticket then lineup outside
the venue in the order of your number and wait to see if your group’s number is
called. They randomly select a number and start the floor entry procedure from
that number. Before they made the announcement, Greeble leans to me and says, “Just
watch - they’re going to announce a number
and twenty people are gonna scream and jump up and down.” Seconds later they made
the announcement and everyone around us screamed and jumped up and down. We won the freaking
lottery and got to see the E-Street band front row leaning on the stage.
Jeff and I weren’t as lucky, but we still got a massive handicap
upgrade from the nosebleed seats I’d purchased. We were on the side of the
stage, just in line with the front-line of the band, albeit 20 rows up. But we were
the only ones sitting in our section. We had a platform to ourselves, which
proved extremely useful when we would eventually need to jump out of our chairs
and scream.
I didn’t think there was a warm-up band, but four scraggily
musicians walked right underneath our viewing platform and took the stage. I
didn’t catch their name but gave them the benefit of the doubt and listened to
their set. At one point, I looked over at Jeff and said, “Hey, that guy kinda
looks like Mike Campbell.” They rocked the place for a few tunes then the singer says, “Hey..
I’m gonna play some shit from a band I used to be in.” The crowd went nuts and
they started playing the Tom Petty classic, “Refugee.” He didn’t just look like Mike Campbell… he
WAS Mike Campbell! Ends up it was Tom Petty’s birthday, so he played a full
Petty set and we went nuts. We paid to see two Hall-of-Famers, and we got a
third for free!
Now it was time to put eyes on Pete Townshend. I hadn’t seen
him in more than two decades. I’m not gonna lie. Pete Townshend is the most
influential figure in my life. All I am, all I do is because he told me to “Go
to the Mirror Boy!” I dropped my faith (happily) because of him and I became a
relentless traveler because I needed to find answers and truths he said we
should seek. All my life-long friends are my friends because of our dedication
to the messages we learned from listening to the WHO. It's not a religion, but
it is a philosophy. There’s a Townshend song, called “The Seeker”
where he…. I’m getting ahead of myself…
The 30-piece orchestra took the stage, warmed up and then it
slowly unfolded. Simon Townshend and Zak Starkey (Pete’s brother and Ringo
Starr’s son) took the stage and addressed their instruments. The crowd went nuts.
Then… holy shit – Pete fucking Townshend comes out and picks up his axe. It’s
all business-like as he straps it on and prepares to blow our fucking minds.
Roger strolls up on stage for just another tricky day. They are 77 and 78
years-old respectively. As rock stars, if you didn’t kill yourself in your 20s
and 30s, it ends up you lead a pretty healthy life. They both looked more
energetic and alive than any septuagenarian one would ever cross. I
mean Keith Richards still dances around a Stones stage. Whose grandparents can do that?
The crowd went insane while the 30+ musicians on stage prepared. Seeing as this was an orchestra show (another reason, I
wasn’t overly excited – these rock band-orchestra shows are usually buzzkills),
there’s a bit of tuning up as the musicians pick up their gear and get ready to
play. Then the lights went down, the horns and string bows raise…
They kicked off with an operatic version of the Tommy overture.
It was just the classical musicians at this point, but the outfit had a bit of
dig to it. It wasn't soft, fluffy ethereal music. The horns and high strings were really biting into this material. Zak Starkey kicked in early and stayed amazing
all night. If this was a 3-ring circus, Zak certainly is no third fiddle. From
our angle above the stage, it was easy to witness him relentlessly pounding that kit
– which he did all night long. He’s the third WHO drummer after Moon and Kenny
Jones. But he’s held that chair longer than any of them.
Then the big boys chimed in. Daltry takes his first breaths
into the mic and immediately one realizes this is no washed-up, old-guy, crackly
rock-star voice. He is clear, vibrant, powerful and energetic. He graces the
Tommy material with a voice that can’t be described as “Aged” but purely
dominant. Freddy Mercury in his prime was not as dynamic as Daltry is on this
stage. I’ve heard Pete doesn’t like touring, but he does it because Roger needs
to. If you had an instrument like Daltry, you would need to exercise it too.
The Tommy material is uplifting and pulls the audience in. Then – BAM!! Pinball Wizard!!!!! Get the fuck out! They knock the crap out
of this tune with all the requisite windmills and mic twirls. The orchestra
does nothing but accentuate the most vibrant parts of the song with trombone
blasts and piercing high-end violin. It’s out-of-this world music. WHAT THE
FUCK AM I AM WITNESSING!!!
It’s at this point that I realize, I’m not only at a WHO
show, I’m at one of the best shows I’ve ever seen in my life. From there they
go through a selection of what I’ll call post-“Great”-WHO songs, which they
absolutely dominate -> Who Are You, Eminence Front (Pete KILLING the
vocals), You Better, You Better, You BET.
And then we got a personal gift from Pete to the Casa. We
get the tune that describes our entire existence – our sole (soul?) quest in life. I
never cried at church, but I cried here – “They call me the Seeker!! I’ve been
running low and HIGH!!! Won’t get to get what I’m after – till the day I DIE!!!
I have tears running down my cheeks and I realize I’m not at
a rock concert, I’m at a freaking deliverance! I’m transformed into the 20-year-old
kid in St. Paul. 40 years later and all those feelings, all that inspiration,
all that energy has now been VALIDATED!!! After all these years we stayed TRUE!
Hell, most of us became musicians! We were the seekers then and continue to be
them now. Until the end of our lives, we will remain the SEEKERS!!!
Before my tears dry, they kick into Naked Eye and the
emotions build up again. They are not the greatest rock and roll band of all
time. They’re something more than that… they’re the fucking WHO.
But they are, in fact, the greatest rock band of all time,
so they had to do their due diligence and power though the greatest songs ever
written. Before they’re done they blow the crap out of Another Tricky Day,
Behind Blue Eyes, Won’t Get Fooled Again… The Orchestra has been off stage for
a half-dozen songs, but return for the Quadrophenia material – which was
actually the only reason I thought the WHO would need them in the first place.
And of course, it crushes -> The Real Me, I’m the One, 5:15, Love Reign O’er
Me… If there is only one thing that’s missing, it’s John. The arrangements and
musicianship is over-the-top, but they can’t launch like they could
with Entwistle. He was just too big a force and no player on Earth can replace
him. Zak does an amazing job playing the Moon parts, but a bass player trying
to replicate Entwistle?? Ain’t gonna happen. I was wondering if they would
attack “Drowned” but seriously, what’s the point without Entwistle?
And then it had to end. They’d already played Won’t Get
Fooled Again with Daltry wrecking the building with his primordial scream. The familiar clanking of Baba O’Reilly emerged and the crowd jumped to
their feet, not dancing, but blasting out of their seats with fists in the air.
We’ve been treated to a revival, and we don’t want it to end!
But of course, they had more tricks up their sleeves. The
first chair violinist pops out of her seat and starts into the violin music we
all know at the end of Baba O’Reilly. It starts up slow, but in a few seconds,
it builds into a manic Celtic spiritual romp. It’s insane! The crowd can’t
contain itself! We’re screaming as if these are our last seconds on Earth – we could
only be so lucky!
And then BAM! She hits the final note and the Moda Center
explodes in tones and volumes I’ve never heard before. The building is fucking
WRECKED! There’s no more to say – no encore. Just the stage bows. We’re too devastated
to go on.
Jeff and I, who have been singing our throats out all night
long, look at each other and are actually happy there’s no encore. We can’t
take anymore!
But as we’re walking out, you can hear the house manager
giving us one last treat. Above the noise of the crowd you can faintly make out
the first pre-Tommy tune of the night – BATMAN!
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