THE English rock group, the Who, creates music which is crude and self-indulgent and whose lyrics express feelings which range from violence and rage to frustration and despair. It is a narrow range, but a singularly powerful one, earning the Who a huge and adoring following of people from ages fourteen to thirty. Five out of its nine recordings are certified "gold," a record-industry label applied when the public spends more than a million dollars buying copies of a particular album. Its concerts, rowdy and tumultuous affairs, are among the best attended in rock's history.

Fans, once again, will hear the Who in Madison Square Garden, tomorrow, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evenings. And a clever promotional strategy has guaranteed that the inevitable turnout would be populated by the most rabid of the Who's devotees.

The stratagem involved a 90-minute radio broadcast of a concert given by the Who in Washington, D.C., a year ago. The taped concert was featured a few weeks ago on one of the most popular rock programs in the New York area — "The King Biscuit Flower Show" on WNEW-FM. As expected, a host of Who aficionados had tuned in. Midway, the program was interrupted by a scripted public service announcement, and listeners were told they were the first group in the metropolitan area to be informed about the Who's concert this week. They then learned that tickets for the performance would be on sale the following morning.

The stratagem worked. Forty Who enthusiasts rushed to a deserted Madison Square Garden while the program was still on the air. By 12:30 A.M., 1,000 people circled the Garden arena. The ticket windows were suddenly thrown open. Within 60 hours, 80,000 tickets had been sold. The Garden had collected $500,000, setting a new box office record—and 50,000 fans had to be turned away since the sellout.

Henry Edwards is a popular music critic who writes frequently for The Times.

Who fans who came rushing to the Garden in the early morning hours by foot, by bus and by train typify the hysterical brand of loyalty of the Who audience which has grown by layers over the years. There is an original hard core group now essentially middle class and in its twenties — who adored the Who from the moment of its birth 10 years ago. Joining them are large numbers of younger followers added five years ago when the Who became superstars with the creation of "Tommy," the first so-called rock opera. The latest addition is an even younger generation of adolescents who see the Who as a venerable classic. Whatever the age or time of initiation, the common interest of all the members of the Who audience seems to be the provocative and violent feelings of the music.

And so, Madison Square Garden is preparing for trouble. The last Who concert in New York three years ago left a young guard stabbed to death in front of the Forest Hills Stadium. The security force at Madison Square Garden has been beefed up from 125 to almost 500, and a five-foot high plywood barrier is being erected in front of the elevated performing area to discourage those who suddenly develop an urge to jump on the stage or on the Who.

On one of these evenings, an adult (but not an adolescent) who sees the Who for the first time might have difficulty comprehending the hysteria stimulated by these four men between the ages of 27 and 30.

He will see dour guitarist-composer Pete Townshend, angel-faced lead singer Roger Daltry, perpetually grinning drummer Keith Moon and immobile John Entwistle—all engaged in rowdy and violent rock theatrics.

Townshend pummels his guitar, hammering chords rather than notes. He aims his guitar at the many amplifiers producing a crackling nerve-wracking feedback; then he aims his guitar like a musical machine gun at the audience, picking the strings to produce a stinging ratatat-tat. As he plays, he leans high in the air and flamboyantly circles the air with his gun, blasting a few more chords. Daltry howls loudly. He twirls his vocal microphone above his head and beats it against the bass drum. Then he howls again. Moon's drumming establishes an incessant rhythm. He bounces his drum sticks off against the cymbals high into the air, catches them and continues to play on the beat. Throughout, Entwistle remains practically motionless. At the finale, Moon may kick over a drum—paying tribute to the Who's original finale, a spectacle which included the setting off of a smoke bomb, the destruction of a guitar and the battering of "amplifiers."

The violence of this musical technique—better called a choreographed temper tantrum—is literally pounded home in blasting volume, loud even by rock's standards. Conventional melodies, traditional rock harmonies and even the rock beat are obliterated. In fact, music itself disappears; what remains is a roar.

This roar was originally and quite deliberately conceived to attract one of England's most publicized youth gangs of the mid-60's, the teen-aged urban working class dandies who called themselves the Mods. Other early English rock groups such as the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Animals and the Kinks sought a wider young audience. But the Who set out to create a violent musical experience that would win them the sleek adolescents with dark glasses, Nero haircuts and scooters and who armed themselves with tiny hammers and screwdrivers.

A decade has passed. The narrow audience has widened; yet the music is essentially the same—primitive music played at an explosive volume. The content of the music, especially the lyrics, remains simplistic and banal, bloated by expressions of adolescent frustration and violence.

This anger was manifested first in "My Generation," the group's first English hit in 1966 and a permanent part of their repertoire. "They all try to put us down, Just be- (Continued on Page 5)