Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Won't Get Fooled Again

Sometimes I really wish I paid better attention.

This occurred to me last week when the VH-1 Rock Honors paid homage to The Who, the gods of Rock Gods.

I saw The Who in 1989, on either a farewell tour or reunion tour, already proving my point that I really should pay better attention. But as quite common for me, rather than listening carefully to the finer details of life, my attentions were turned toward a boy. I was in Buffalo, NY where I desperately followed the guy I seriously (funny now) thought I would marry, for some twisted reason. I followed him there, clearly knowing I would lose him anyway but held out hope that my valiant effort of traveling to dreamy Buffalo would rescue us. So you’d think consolation of every part of that romantic disaster would be seeing The Who, right? Well, I failed to point out that the aforementioned man of my attention was a roid-raging ex-football player meathead who tried to kill me at every drunken opportunity. The Who being in town was no exception.

Upon arriving at Rich Stadium, 74,000 + capacity home of the Buffalo Bills, Meathead managed to down an entire beer ball almost on his own and then proceeded to harass other tailgaters in the parking lot. This being a reunion/farewell tour, ensured each of the 74,000 seats were full and the parking lot, notorious for its tailgaters, a sea of cars, rockers, trash and humidity. As we made our way through the massive river of humans, Meathead randomly picked a fight…about what again my memory fails me…and proceeded to attempt to punch my lights out in the process. A bit inebriated myself, the next few minutes were a bit blurry but four events that remain in my memory may help summarize the next few minutes of my musical adventure (or nightmare). 1) Cops on horses; 2) Squares of paper laced with acid dots being flung like confetti from Meathead’s pockets; 3) Magic Bus blaring from the coliseum; 4) My concert ticket being shoved into my hand by police as they lead Meathead away. I was alone among the masses.

Once inside the vastness of the arena, I wandered through the concessions trying to fully comprehend just what happened to me. The only guy I know in this riot (and major city for that matter) was just drug off to jail no doubt, I have no money, no phone (this is BCP- Before Cell Phones), no car, but plenty of Who bursting from every seam of the massive concrete bowl. My drunken fog was quickly lifting as rationality took over. Wandering aimlessly for a good hour, luck ran me right into Meathead’s older brother, who we had arrived with but parted ways to join other friends. His brother, the polar opposite, was calm, quiet and willing to become my protector each time his brother went postal, unsurprised as I gave the sob story. He guided me with an unnecessary sense of concern to the area where his friends were and we managed to sober up and enjoy what was left of the show.

The Who’s crowning as the world’s loudest rock band was not unfounded. They shook the house and the masses in it. Roger Daltry, sounding much the same in 2008 as 1989, as I’m sure 1970 or 1963, whose soul-penetrating scream sounded like some strange godly creature not of this earth…it was just thunderous. I recall the “I Can See for Miles” rendition that seemed to go on for 20 minutes (not my favorite Who song) pounding my same-day-hangover. I can’t even really recall the final song, though I assume it was Baba O’Riley, still stupidly concerned about HIM and what the cops had done with him.

The Who did two things for British Rock. They made teenage angst fashionable and they made it EPIC. Yes, The Beatles fathered it and the Rolling Stones mothered it, Zepplin labored and gave birth to it, but The Who nurtured it into the adolescent monster British Rock became. The Who made the child sweet in songs like Pictures of Lily and I Can’t Explain, then put a Mohawk on it in songs like My Generation. I’m a Boy explored youthful sexual identity and Substitute the torment of teenage identity in general. They put out its senses and gave it a pinball machine in Tommy, whose cover scared the crap out of me when I was a kid.

But unlike today’s whiney Emo (and even the 90’s Kurt-Cobain-I-Hate-The-World grunge for that matter), The Who made their teenage revolution epic, not frail and wimpy. Primal, soulful screams, the wind-milling guitar, the destruction of instruments, (and the first casualty of the Rock N Roll dead drummer epidemic)- all ambitious, always bigger and better, pushing the genre of rock n roll, itself still adolescent, on journeys it had not yet taken. All the while, creepy Uncle Pete Townshend holding its hand reassuringly uttering “Don't cry/Don't raise your eye/It's only teenage wasteland.”

Listening to and watching them on VH-1, some 45 years after taking their first baby steps, I was surprisingly, or depressingly, touched by the relevance of every word they sang, discerning and intuitive to the listener discovering them for the first time.

“And the world looks just the same,
And history ain't changed
'Cause the banners, they all flown in the next war.

I'll tip my hat to the new constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I'll get on my knees and pray
We don't get fooled again”

Is that Bush they are talking about? Or maybe LBJ? Prime Minister Heath? The essence of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” is the consequence of not paying attention, no matter the politician, issue, decade. And that makes their music timelessly relevant, my definition and testament of truly talented artists. And despite my lack of attention, I didn’t need you, VH-1, to remind me of that, but thanks for honoring them anyway.

Each look at the tattered ticket I managed to hold on to as a souvenir, I remind myself of how naïve I was. Such an event happening to me today is laughable. My reaction would have received no fear, sympathy or other emotion, except maybe irritation, and a “fuck off” as I reveled in the greatness of rock gods. Instead my Who experience was nothing more than the immature feeling of abandonment, a familiar feeling far less scary to me now.

Today I am grateful to Meathead, despite the fact that he eventually left me back in Albuquerque after a cross-country voyage in his Monte Carlo, disappearing in the night and clearing out my bank account along with every pair of shoes I owned in the trunk of his car. (That’s a whole other story.) His brother’s sweet, sympathetic voice on the line once again protecting me, after my 24 hours of agonizing, breaking the news to me that his brother was somewhere in the Midwest headed home, leaving shards of my broken heart all along the way.

Yes, today I am grateful for him for two reasons. First, he gave me the opportunity to see The Who in the massive arena setting where few concerts exist today. Second, much like The Who’s prime anti-establishment anthem, my once irrational heart beats out a vow it won’t get fooled again.

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  • When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. ~Hunter S. Thompson