Review

A More Mature Who Play for Younger Crowd

By Carol Peirce

Palladium-Item Staff Writer

It's hard.

It's hard watching the Who perform from the stands instead of from right in front of the stage.

It's hard being one of the few women at the concert who doesn't have a big comb popping from her back pocket.

It's hard shelling out 10 bucks for a T-shirt with video-Who figures on front. (And that was the cheapest—others ran as high as $14.)

"It's Hard" also is the name of the Who's latest album, a collection so reminiscent of past triumphs it promises to satisfy hardcore Who aficionados and attract a new following that may make it difficult for the band to keep its "final farewell tour" promise.

But if this is the last Who tour, the band will be going out in style. The Who were able to sell out 18,000-seat Market Square Arena Wednesday night in an otherwise dismal year for concert tours. At $15 a seat, that's almost $300,000—for one night's work.

(Indianapolis, however, is not the most economically attractive town for a tour. At comparable ticket prices, the Who have sold out New York's 58,000-seat Shea Stadium twice, Los Angeles' 95,000-seat Memorial Coliseum and Philadelphia's 90,000-seat JFK Stadium. We're talking million-dollar concerts.)

The Who burst on the Market Square stage with "Substitute," followed by "I Can't Explain," two vintage hits. Roger Daltrey, looking nothing like the father of five that he is, twirled the microphone with the expertise that comes from 16 years on stage. His voice was clean and powerful, and the tour that started only a week before was still gaining momentum.

PETER TOWNSHEND crisscrossed the stage with characteristic leaps and bounds. He punished the guitars so much that each of the six lined up on stage had to be carefully returned following each number. Like a windmill at full speed, his right arm swung in wide circles, striking chord after chord with ferocious compulsion.

Wearing the same pin-stripe jacket he dons for the cover of "It's Hard," John Entwistle stood stage-left as the band's pillar. His feet were planted, but his fingers flew over the strings of his bass. Besides harmonizing with Daltrey, Entwistle took the center stage microphone only once to lead a song he wrote, "The Quiet One," from the musically-disappointing "Face Dances" album.

DRUMMER KENNY JONES and keyboardist Tim Gorman, a new addition to the band, kept their visibility to a minimum. For all their obvious talents, they weren't who the audience came to see.

Daltrey is not one to chat with his audience. Aside from referring to Entwistle as "The Ox" and the expected mention of the host city, the musicians

Like a windmill at full speed, Townshend's right arm swung in wide circles, striking chord after chord with ferocious compulsion.

confined their interaction to the music.

The crowd seemed to be less intense than when I saw the Who in Cincinnati in 1979. It was a younger audience, evident in the weaker response to some lesser-known and older tunes, including "The Punk Meets the Godfather," "Drowned" and "5:15 from Quadrophenia." But "Baba O'Riley," "Won't Get Fooled Again" and "Pinball Wizard," accompanied by lights and explosions, brought otherwise subdued spectators to their feet.

The young girl next to me was so subdued, in fact, that I thought she would fall over on me several times. She stumbled from her seat during the early songs of the concert and never returned. Teen-age wasteland.

THIS WAS MY first arena-type concert in more than a year. I'm a member of the concert-boom generation. We could pack five high school girls in one car and see three bands for six bucks. My friends and I collected concert ticket stubs like some people hoard stamps or autographs.

But now I'm 22, and the once-familiar stomping grounds of Indianapolis concert halls seem to be a playground for teenyboppers. It used to be fun to fight your way to the restroom, but now it's a burden to elbow bodies across the arena. The rising cloud of smoke is more an eyesore, literally, than an awesome reminder of how much marijuana the arena can hold.

But if I have come of age, so have the Who. Gone from their repertoire is "My Generation," the band's anti-establishment, pro-youth hit of 1965 that epitomized the image of rebellious British rockers who smashed their instruments and demolished hotel rooms.

Gone from the last tour is the film of racing motorcycles, which appeared to roar out at the audience from a screen behind the stage. The Who, all approaching 40, have achieved a sort of nobility among the rock music culture that undermines the need for rowdiness and flamboyancy.

Instead, the band members put on a high-tech, quality show that proved their musical diversity isn't confined to a studio. They are mature men who have chosen to end their touring careers for a more stable lifestyle.

But if they ever renege on that promise, I'll be the first one at the ticket booth.