At the Electric Factory

The Who Performs ‘Tommy,’ Rock Opera

By Hoag Levins

Of The Inquirer Staff

Capacity crowds are to the Electric Factory what the 8 A.M. rush is to the subway. Both are about as comfortable and both situations offer similar seating arrangements—none at all or the bare concrete floor.

Nevertheless, most people were keeping their aches and pains to themselves Sunday night as they jammed the 22d and Arch sts. club, shoulder-to-shoulder, wall-to-wall, to hear “Tommy,” the rock opera written and performed by The Who.

MUSICAL MILESTONE

The opera, a best-selling double record album for the group, has received wide acclaim as a musical milestone. After Sunday there are no doubts that a few thousand Philadelphians will back that statement up.

The four-member English group bounded on stage to monstrous applause and ripped into two heavy upbeat songs for a warmup.

Peter Townsend, group leader, wearing baggy, white farmer’s coveralls and his usual elongated pout of a face, wasted no time in displaying his virtuosity as both a guitarist and gymnast.

HAUNTING HOUR

Then came the deep razzling fuzztone introduction and the gentle chant from Townsend, “It’s a boy, Mrs. Walker, it’s a boy.”

The following hour of haunting musical arrangements tells the story of Tommy Walker, born normal, but struck deaf, dumb and blind later by a severe psychological shock.

As he grows, he is continually abused by people around him who find callous amusement in tormenting a cripple. The boy, takes up the pin ball machine and becomes a master of the sport and, at the same time, secretly can hear and see but not speak.

MIRACLE CURE

He tries a number of things for a cure, including a gypsy, pushing LSD, and numerous doctors. Finally, one day he sees himself in a mirror and is miraculously cured and then astounds people around him with his great insight.

In its full form, it is a moving tale and musically, it is one of the most potent things that has yet come from rock music forms. Its melodies and lyrics tend to stick vividly to the inner lining of the mind. Which is why most of the people emptying out of the Factory Sunday, were humming pieces of the performance.

But they were doing that, of course, in between attempts to rub circulation back into their legs or shake the kinks from their backs.