TEMPE — A full moon was peeking over Sun Devil Stadium. Ghouls and devils floated in endless lines through the gates. Skeletons and monsters moved through the hallways amid the 51,000 concertgoers.

The stadium was full of poseurs Sunday night. But there was one very genuine article under the full moon on Halloween night: the Who.

Usually, these stadium affairs are more events than concerts. Usually, the only memories left upon extricating oneself from the parking-lot maelstrom (if one still has a

Review

memory at that point) are those of swirls of people, oppressive heat, quick glimpses of the main attraction through a hopeless forest of heads, and a marvelously variegated costume show.

But for two hours and 20 minutes Sunday night, the Who turned in a performance that reigned over everything else, both good and bad — at least for me — that made up the ambiance, even balancing out the extreme idiocy of one member of the audience that really could have blown everything.

The image of Pete Townshend — clad in leather jacket and looking like the punky John Lennon on the cover of ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll” — pacing up and down and cranking out moments of sheer inspiration on his guitar, keeps going through my head.

Townshend may not jump as high as he used to, but when he poses his hand over his guitar and then windmills away at it, and you just know that the sounds he’s making makes him happier than anything else — yeow! He’s given you an argument for whenever the phrase “Too old to rock ‘n’ roll, too young to die” begins to sound reasonable.

If you were intrepid (and/or stupid) enough to get close to the stage to feel the furious blasts of power from Townshend’s guitar, the chest-thumping of John Entwistle’s bass line, the sometimes primal screams of Roger Daltrey’s voice and the walls of rhythm from Kenney Jones’ drums

(we still miss you, Keith), along with the proper keyboards of touring member Tim Gorman, your body is probably still feeling the excitement of the evening.

The excitement began for the wrong reasons early on, with John Cougar’s opening set.

Though tension was relatively high among security personnel — primarily because of the 1980 Who concert in Cincinnati, in which 11 people were crushed to death, but also because most all the mishaps on this tour have reached print — the crowd was behaving quite properly. But after two songs, Cougar was hit by a flying bottle and had to get five stitches in his head.

Though at first it seemed his set was over, he came back sporting a hard hat and singing his sadly appropriate hit, “Hurt So Good.” He sang a few more songs and left, but not before stooping almost to the level of the bottle-thrower and cursing him out on stage.

Loverboy then threw the whole evening into the pits with its disgusting brand of

thump-plod rock and cocky stances. These guys are worthless, and there is no justice if they continue to make money.

By the time the Who came on at 9:45, the level of excitement was as high as the moon, which was now glowing almost directly overhead.

The band’s opener, “Substitute,” was delivered with off-key harmonies and a bit too slowly, and Daltrey seemed to be pushing it — his free, sweeping microphone twirlings didn’t match the energy level — but the crowd applauded wildly.

“Can’t Explain” and “Dangerous,” too, weren’t starters, but then the band seemed to muster its collective talents for “Sister Disco,” and the evening ignited.

Daltrey, bending his small and hardy frame backward and howling into the microphone; Entwistle, thumping happily and creatively on his bass, from which swung a spider (Boris?); and Townshend, throwing in strong, chunky, ringing chords, all at once made our blood pressures soar. Then four sets of spotlights, on the ground in front of

Joe Patronite, The Arizona Daily Star

Scenes from the Halloween show, clockwise from left: Roger Daltrey, left, and Pete Townshend harmonize on “Sister Disco”; the entire band, from

left, John Entwistle, Daltrey, Townshend, touring member Tim Gorman, and Kenney Jones; the stage from a distance.

the curtains, began gyrating thick columns of light into the air, and lights from above dappled the stage in disco colors, and a huge yell went up from the crowd.

The energy was synergistic. Townshend and Daltrey fell to their knees together, playing and singing. Ghouls danced. Dolly Parton jiggled. Monsters tore off their faces to get a better look.

The pitch carried on for “The Quiet One,” one of the band’s most cacophonous numbers, bathed in a sea of cymbal crashings. Townshend wouldn’t let up, and Daltrey was ska dancing, his back to the crowd, providing energy with his body instead of his voice because he cares about this band and he wanted to say goodbye — if indeed this is goodbye, as the publicity says — properly.

The repertoire was well-planned. The cool, techno-funk “Eminence Front” and a nasty, long-jam “Cry If You Want” were the best from the new album.

But the show’s stopper was a smooth segment that opened with “Pinball Wizard,” then slid electrically into “My Generation,”

followed by the tranquil cry of Daltrey singing, “see me, feel me,” and winding up with the ending of “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” in which Daltrey sang, “Listening to you, I get the music, gazing at you, I get the heat, following you, I climb the mountain, I get excitement at your feet,” at the sea of faces and waving hands, washed in white light.

It was a striking moment, as we realized just what the Who has given us over its 18-year history — not just music but a voice.

“My Generation” did sound as though it had lost a bit of fury, and Daltrey often sounded unconvincing, though he let out a good yell at the appropriate moment on “Won't Get Fooled Again.” But the band has grown up, and has done so without losing its integrity, which is really the best we can all hope for.

The fireworks that pounded overhead as the last strains of “Twist and Shout” died away weren’t necessary. The Who, if it is really saying goodbye, is going out in a musical blaze of light.

Thanks for the memories, mates.