The Who shows what it’s made of

REVIEW / MUSIC

THE WHO — in concert at Boston Garden last night. By Steve Morse Globe Staff

You couldn’t help it. Knowing the strain The Who have been under since Cincinnati, you looked for slipups, for lapses in concentration. You looked for clues as to whether they had their hearts in it or were just going through the motions.

The Who proved something last night. Though they looked tired and drawn, the 15-year veterans battled like the competitive survivors they are as England’s longest-lasting rock band. They started slowly, sputtered and trudged a bit, but kept slugging it out and finally came fully to life near the end when sheer adrenaline powered the night home. Very definitely, they showed their hearts were still in the music.

Emotion hung over the evening like an unwanted intruder. It was enough that you had to endure virtual armed-camp hassles to get to your seat, but then there was the eerie irony of the opening clip from The Who’s new film, “Quadrophenia.” It was full of violence, as it depicted a warring, vengeful confrontation between the Mods and Rockers in mid-60’s Britain. It was a picture of mob action that was totally different from, and yet couldn’t help remind you of, the Cincinnati stampede that took 11 lives.

After a short respite, the band appeared on stage and would say nothing all evening about the Cincinnati episode. However, the strain of this tainted tour was never far away, as demonstrated by a temper flareup by guitarist Pete Townshend. After a firecracker sailed out of the seats early on — a not uncommon occurance at a Garden hard-rock event — he screamed into the mike, “We don’t need that at any more concerts. You’ve got the wrong cult!”

Later an army canteen landed at singer Roger Daltrey’s feet and he exclaimed, “I thought it was a grenade.”

But these incidents aside, the concert went smoothly. The Who — playing essentially the same show they did in New York in September — started with “Substitute,” “I Can’t Explain” and “Baba O’Riley,” before veering into a rather laconic “Punk Meets the Godfather” (the first of several songs from “Quadrophenia” — the album they’ve never before played in concert) and not truly catching fire until the medley from their rock opera, “Tommy,” which included a transcendant “Pinball Wizard” and a tenderly inspirational “See Me, Feel Me,” as giant airport-like beacons scanned the crowd and brought it to its feet.

Townshend, who had let the firecracker incident shake his composure (he was more subdued than in New York, with fewer trademark slashes on guitar), then became the catalyst for the piston-churning climax. Dressed scruffily in a red bandana — he looked as though he’d just hopped a freight — he woke up the band on an accelerated “Long Live Rock” (in which new drummer Kenney Jones, who had been more tentative in New York, showed that he is a full-fledged, confident addition to the veteran lineup) and the crashing “My Generation,” “I Can See for Miles” and “Sparks.”

The evening showed that The Who still play as loud as any band on the road, but that their audience is louder still. The audience, arguably, lifted the group to its magnificent finish and rattled the rafters when rewarded by Daltrey’s words: “We’ll be back next year, so don’t worry.”