SPECIAL

TODAY brings a new feature for the New Standard. When special events happen in London, Ad Lib will be expanded to give them the coverage they deserve. Last night, for example, The Who put on a show to raise money for Erin Pizzey’s Family Rescue Centre. John Blake reports from behind the scenes.

THE WHO came close to battering one another after a chaotic concert to raise money for battered wives in London last night.

Things began to go awry at the Rainbow Theatre, where the band were playing their first London concert of the eighties, when Roger Daltrey stopped singing Behind Blue Eyes to angrily protest that his monitor speaker wasn’t working properly.

Minutes later, Daltrey, whose wife this week gave birth to their fifth child, a son, furiously lashed out in the direction of his road crew with a microphone, and sent cups of water scattering.

Daltrey also appeared to be seething at the eccentric behaviour of Peter Townshend, the band's leader.

Early in the show, Townshend had stopped the audience cheering to tell them: “We are nothing special, we are just here.”

Then he launched into a series of impromptu guitar solos and punk impersonations and while singing the song Drowning, he screamed chillingly again and again: “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I’m 36 and I don’t want to die.”

The crunch came at the end of the concert when Daltrey hurled his microphone stand to the floor in disgust and snarled at Townshend. “That’s it—no encore.”

Townshend, looking confused, stayed on stage after the rest of the band had marched off and began attempting to explain the situation to the audience: “On the principle that has been set up by the committee and seconded, well . . . I can speak for the lads . . . I he told the bewildered audience.

“You have a quiet time, chat among yourselves and we’ll see what we can do.” he babbled on.

Then he earned a crescendo of booing by announcing that the group were all good Socialists. “So you are happy with things the way they are, are you?” he harrangued the audience. “We’ll keep a Red Flag for you here.”

Eventually, after a furious back-stage argument, the band returned to play a murderous version of Can You See The Real Me?

Brushing friends and well-wishers aside, the four members of The Who locked themselves in their dressing-room for an angry inquest.

“Fancy a job playing bass with The Who tomorrow?” the band’s bass player, John Entwistle, muttered to me wretchedly, after he and drummer Kenney Jones had decided to leave Townshend and Daltrey to their row.

Long after midnight, as guests including Not The Nine O’Clock News star Pamela Stephenson and hit singer Phil Collins waited at a party in the band’s honour, Daltrey and Townshend were still verbally slugging it out.

“I wouldn’t go into that room for anything,” said an aide. “They are both ready to pummel the first person they see.”

Things had been a little strained while I was with the band back-stage before the concert. When I talked with Townshend about his doctor’s warning that he will lose his hearing if he persists in playing loud music, he exploded: “If you ask me point-blank why I am playing if it’s going to make me deaf, I’m saying it’s too bloody complicated to stop.”

He added: “If I suddenly said today that I didn’t want to play any more, it would be very complex—it might involve 20 or 30 contracts and my responsibilities to other people, and there are lots of other factors which would make it complicated.”

“But I believe quite seriously that there is a point at which a road performer should stop,” he said. “I think setting a date to retire is something to consider. It’s something I’m really aware of.”

Roger Daltrey appeared even less cheerful. When I congratulated him on the birth of his son, he snarled: “That’s all I bloody need. Nobody is supposed to know about that.”

The concert, which is the first of a series The Who will be playing in London, raised £10,000 for Erin Pizzey’s Chiswick Family Rescue, an organisation which has long been one of The Who’s favourite charities.

And, despite the tantrums, the show proved that The Who at their worst are still better than the vast majority of bands at their best.

Their version of Won’t Get Fooled Again, for example, came on like a minor war. Huge fans of lasers rotated around the floor, smoke-pumps across the stage, Townshend leapt into the air like a spring-loaded toy, Daltrey, whirled his mike like a lariat, and the whole thing ended with an explosion of white lights so bright it hurt.

Personally I think that last night Townshend and Daltrey behaved like a couple of spoiled brats.

But it’s a reassuring feeling to know that they haven’t turned into an ABBA. They still care, and with the gradual dissipation of the Rolling Stones they survive as the last great Sixties super-group still functioning. They are far too precious to be destroyed by one silly evening.

Despite the tantrums The Who proved they are still among the best.

Daltrey . . . slugged it out verbally with Townshend.