My folks were not much on rock music when I was a kid. The only thing I can remember hearing on the radio when I was little were these two old bastards named Harden and Weaver, who did a local info-tainment talk show over on the AM dial. It was the kind of show that featured local news stories and commentary, sprinkled with Neil Diamond and various other, similar, kinds of crapola. Later, I discovered we had a stereo in our house. It was ancient, buried in a corner, and rarely used, except at christmastime, when my Dad would play christmas carols at 747 takeoff levels. Even now, my Dad would rather listen to classical music than anything else, and my mom has an oldies station programmed into her car, though I have never heard her listen to music under any other circumstance, and I've never known her to purchase an album of any kind.
For myself, I was a very hyperactive kid and, never having had the patience to sit in one place for more than three minutes at a time, I almost never had time to listen to more than one song, which is a virtual requirement for getting deeply involved with music of any sort. My entire musical childhood consisted of hearing bits and pieces of top 40 tunes here and there, as they were sprinkled into whichever Morning Zoo show I happened to be listening to in the two minutes it toook me to get ready for school in the morning.
Point is, I was a musical late-bloomer.
Then came high school. When I was seventeen and a week away from graduation, My good buddy Tom Travnick (killed eight years ago in a car accident) convinced his folks to throw us a weekend-long party, with a cooler full of cold beer and lots of loud music and mayhem. I remember hearing this one particular song and the lyrics just cracking me up. It was about this guy telling his girlfriend he loved her and the girl saying well, you better you asshole! No gratitude in her voice, no "I love you too", just this vicious entitlement that, in my more naive days when I had yet to truly understand what it means to date a high-maintenance woman, or be dumped by a girl in any serious way, seemed as comical and silly as a Monty Python sketch (believe me when I tell you that no one understands what Roger/Pete are getting at when they sing "I don't really mind how much you love me... a little is alright... when you say, come over and spend the night" quite the way 28-year-old Lars Theriot does). Back in 1989, I asked Tom what we were listening to and he said it was You Better You Bet, by The Who (the "how could you not know that?" was implied in the silence that followed). Not wanting to feel even more stupid than I already did, I sauntered over the the stereo, picked up the CD case and memorized the cover art for Who's Better Who's Best, and the next time I found myself at a record store, I bought my first rock album.
Twelve years later, my roomate Tony bought us tickets to see The Who live at the Hollywood Bowl.. which is where I went last night. Man, what a show!
I'm not much of a lyrics guy, but there are a few song writers, Sting, Freddie Mercury, Pete Townshend, who can write their asses off. Go listen to Gettin' In Tune, or Won't Get Fooled Again, if you haven't thought much about Pete's songwriting skills in a while and I think you'll see what I mean. The man's a genius.
Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss... It was Tony who pointed out the irony of hearing Roger Daltrey sing that lyric as, just five miles away, Bill Clinton was wrapping up his DNC convention speech designed to, among other things, pass the torch of leadership from himself to his number two, Al Gore.
Most amazing thing I learned last night was that Roger Daltrey, contrary to twelve years of assumptions on my part, is but a bit player on The Who stage. Roger sings the lyrics you hear on the albums. He swings the microphone around. He stutters the famous "almost" Fuck-Off in My Generation. But make no mistake....this is Pete's band. Roger is simply the help. When the songs break out into extended grooves, it's Pete's frantic windmilling that drives the jam. When the rest of the band needs a break, it's Pete's stories that have the crowd in stitches. When improvised lyrics are called for, Pete seemed to be able to write them off the top of his head. It's gonna be a shame when that guys goes. As much music as we've gotten from him over the years, it will never be enough.
Man I had a great time last night. You haven't lived until you've seen The Who come out of that extended syntheseiser break in Won't Get Fooled again, Roger's shriek matching Pete's hard-ass guitar chord, everything made more intense by the explosion of lights overhead. It's viceral my friends. Ain't nothin' like it.