With Hermits, Who and Blues Magoos

Rock ’n Roll Fans Could Have Field Day on ‘Super Sunday’

By Bruce Pennington

Staff Writer

Those interested in comparing rock and roll styles—there are such things—could have had a field day on “super Sunday.” They could have dug the cool, turned-on sound of Greenwich Village’s Blues Magoos, the frantic chaotic sound of The Who, or the sweetness and light of Herman’s Hermits.

Herman’s Hermits are not the type of group that turn you on. Unless you are female, about 14, and your heart is full of the motherly love for Herman that only a 14-year-old female heart can hold. Their previous kind of music is pleasant, sweet and banal. But with their new song “Museum,” penned by Donovan (Leitch), perhaps the Hermits have entered their own little Renaissance. Let’s hope so.

Peter Noone (among the groups, it’s considered gauche to call him Herman) looked like a walking armchair in his orange poppy-flowered upholstery suit; he was also wearing an inane grin and a dazed expression. The rest of the Hermits were modishly attired, neatly kempt, performers that provide that million-dollar sound. They opened with a rocking version of “With a Little Help from My Friends”—the lyrics providing a radical departure from the normal Herman’s Hermits’ lyrics. Included in their big songs and an especially noteworthy version of “The New York Mining Disaster of 1941.” They performed the stunning song with sensitivity and perfection. The closing number was that British pub favorite, “I’m Henry VIII.”

The concert was opened by the Blues Magoos who performed many of their near-hits. The Magoos’ music is psychedelic—with a difference. The Magoos never lose their cool, never get absorbed in music. They spin off the sounds and the audience receives them. Their routine is enhanced by violent flashing strobe lights. For their performances they are currently wearing black vinyl suits with Mao collars, trimmed with braid in Day-glo colors of red, pink, green, and orange, with spots and panels in them that light up making them look as psychedelic as they sound. The outfits were designed by Diana Drew of Paraphernalia Boutique of New York.

The Magoos’ masterpiece is their version of “Tobacco Road.” This rock standard has a natural bluesy feel to it—it’s probably one of the most widely performed rock sounds. But the Magoos do it the best, challenging the ears with the sounds.

It was rather obvious that if you weren’t there Sunday afternoon especially to see Herman, you were there to see The Who. And music-wise, showmanship-wise, and performance-wise, The Who were easily the hit of the show.

Their presence was heralded by a display of the most beautiful drums in popular music. Then there was The Who. John Entwhistle, the bass guitarist was wearing a Union Jack-et—made from the British standard. Pete Townsend, lead guitar was in a bold brocade George Washington-style coat with a lace ruffle-front shirt, Keith Moon, the drummer was in a gold satin Tom Jones shirt, and Roger Daltrey, the vocalist was in pink slacks, a flowered, ruffled shirt, and an Indian tapestry tunic.

They led off with “Substitute,” the lyrics declaring that “I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth,” “I’ll substitute my Coke for gin.”

The Who come on strongly as representatives of a direct threat to the establishment — the adult establishment.

Among their numbers is what they called a “mini-opera,” explaining that everything’s mini in England. It’s the story of a girl awaiting the return of her lover from the U.S. Unfortunately she is seduced by “Ivan, an engine driver,” whose alias is “the black raper.” With lots of “fa-la-la’s” they introduced the musical themes, and sing the story of innocence defiled.

Some of the music sounds like English Morris dances, other movements have country-western overtones, while at one point, the quartet chants “Jello, Jello, Jello, Jello.”

While some may question the group’s taste in material, The Who shows an excellent command of principles of harmony and counterpoint, and a well-developed sense of humor.

There’s nothing too sacred of The Who—their songs contain points of view about pornography, (Pictures of Lilly), homosexuality, (“I’m a Boy,” but my mother won’t admit it.); The Who says about this one, “It’s a dirty song, it was banned on the radio.”

Then there’s “My Generation.” This is a declaration of rebellion — youthful holocaust. The Who says the song was inspired by teenage attitudes in England at the time the song was released. It’s sung with a stutter, “People try to put us d-d-d-down — t-t-talking ’bout muhmuh g-g-g-generation.”

The destructive aspects of “My Generation” is exemplified when The Who perform it. Roger spits out the venom charged lyrics, Keith drives out the beat — then comes the happening:

First one of the stagehands pours a glass of pop on Keith Moon’s $6,000 drum set. As Keith beats and pounds out the beat, spray from the pop bouncing off the drums shoots up and the droplets catch the beams from the spotlight, creating a beautiful effect.

Then a smoke bomb is set off behind the drums and a cloud of pink smoke covers everything. Pete Townsend appears to go berserk, smashing his guitar, splintering it on the floor, kicking over amplifiers and drums, playing the guitar like a violin, using the microphone as a bow.

Roger Daltrey pounds on a cymbal and swings his mike by its cord as John Entwhistle bows his guitar with a drumstick, and Keith kicks over those pink, orange, green and black drums. A cloud of green smoke, a crescendo of rhythm and it’s all over. The Who has finished its statement.