Rock and Roll’s Ultimate Trip

By Hardy Price

Moon loons, Daltrey prances, Entwhistle stands, Townshend blazes and 12,500 standing, wildly cheering devotees are simply devastated.

The Who — Keith Moon, Roger Daltrey, John Entwhistle, Peter Townshend — returned to Phoenix for the first time in nearly five years Wednesday at the Coliseum.

The effect of the almost two hours of orchestrated hysteria will not be soon forgotten.

Everything seemed to work to everyone’s mutual benefit. An opening act, Mother’s Finest (they weren’t), played a perfunctory 30 minute set, pleasant enough and with just enough energy to whet the appetite for what was to follow.

And what followed was simply the finest rock and roll act in the world. Forget about your Springsteens and Eltons and Frampton and yes, even Elvis and the Beetles.

THE WHO HAVE something that not even the latter can summon at a moment’s notice, professionalism. They may be iconoclasts off stage, but from the instant the Who walks on stage, they know what they’re going to do, when they’re going to do it and how they’re going to do it.

There’s no self-indulgence oddities between numbers. There’s no long, meaningless jams, no wasted motions or self-parodies.

It’s Daltrey, stage center, strutting his sexuality and whirling the mike cord like a cowboy looking to lasso a stray calf. It’s Moon, stage center rear, attacking his drums and mugging with those sealed to the rear of the stage.

IT’S TOWNSHEND, stage left, the original Jumping Jack Flash, with his sweeping windmill riffs and aerial contortions.

It’s Entwhistle, stage right, standing almost motionless, playing his bass and holding the whole thing together.

It’s a quintet of lasers, each throwing off a half dozen or more beams, reflecting off mirrors, highlighting an estimated half million dollar computerized light system.

It’s 12,500 clamoring for more, and more, and still more for almost 15 minutes after the lights have gone up and the stage hands have started to strike the set.

FROM THE REAR of the Coliseum it is spectacular. From the stage, a scant few yards behind Townshend, it is awesome.

Midway through the set, Moon introduces what has to be rock’s premiere work, Townshend’s Tommy. Following even that abridged version is like trying to follow a Koufax no-hitter, a Blanda come-from-behind touchdown in the final 15 seconds, Olivier in anything or the finale from “A Chorus Line.”

The emotions are drained and the body is limp. It is unfollowable by anybody but the Who.

It is quite probable the ultimate rock and roll experience.