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More important element: the spirit of the music.

Rather than question or challenge, a band like Loverboy (and Journey, Foreigner, Styx) simply conforms to the commercial guidelines. Though Loverboy's set was mercifully free of the street-wise pretense of Wednesday opener John Cougar, the band offered nothing more taxing or stimulating than someone who asks you to guess what color light follows yellow at a traffic signal.

On some levels, Loverboy and the other passive best sellers of today convey even less soul in their music than Pat Boone, who at least had the good sense in the ’50s to cover some good Fats Domino or Little Richard tunes, or less soul than Herman’s Hermits, who at least had a playful good nature in the ’60s.

There are lots of bands today that seek to stretch and inspire: Springsteen, Costello, Petty, X and the Clash. But they are far outnumbered on the radio—and in stadium shows—by the dullards.

It’s no wonder, then, that Who and Stones tours generate such excitement in rock. Though Wednesday’s audience included some “old timers” who came out for a final glimpse of the classic British band, most of the crowd—which was about 15,000 short of capacity—fell into the 15-to-25 age group.

While it’d be nice to fantasize that the 2 million fans who’ll see the Who on this tour represent a mandate to radio to concentrate on more substantive bands, most of the audience responded quite warmly to Cougar and, especially, Loverboy.

But the Who’s performance Wednesday was so much more inspiring than either of the openers that it’s almost ludicrous for them to have shared the same stage. Maybe the gap in artistic range will force some listeners to reevaluate what they want from a band.

Even when the material was marginal Wednesday, the Who played with such intensity and drive that the music assumed an almost haunting quality once the group got past the somewhat mechanical opening numbers. This was no group out for just a quick, final pay date. The band had its pride. When the Who dipped into its choice material, you could feel nearly two decades of rock history passing in front of you.

The care put into the show was underscored by the attractive staging. The stage framing was ringed with lights spelling out the name WHO. A closed-circuit video screen above the stage gave fans in the rear a closer view of the action.

Just as Keith Richards now is a more intriguing figure on stage for the Rolling Stones than Mick Jagger, guitarist Pete Townshend is clearly a more involving performer than lead singer Roger Daltrey. The latter’s all-too-mechanical microphone twirling and surprisingly rigid phrasing tended at times to work against the alert and daring playing of Townshend, bassist John Entwistle and drummer Kenney Jones.

Whenever Townshend stepped forward with a guitar solo or took over on lead vocal, the show assumed a more seductive edge. More than most bands, however, the Who really is an ensemble.

Though the unevenness of the post-“Quadrophenia” material suggests that it probably is time for the Who to call it quits, it was still sad to realize that the Who won’t be with us live after this tour.

There are other attractions that still give us brilliant rock, but great artists inject a subtle, individual edge to their work that no one can quite replace. Eighteen years after the release of the band’s first record, the Who is saying goodby with dignity and punch.

My guess is that 18 years from now the Who still will be prized as a key factor in the development of rock. After all, it has been 12 years now since the Beatles broke up, and that group may be bigger than ever.

At the same time, I’m willing to bet that if the names of contemporary hotshots like Loverboy and such are brought up 18 years from now, the likely reaction will be: Who?