A pleading, what-did-I-do frown etched across his forehead, the lean, brown-haired youth struggled to get away from his police escorts.

The booming vibrations of a rock concert funneled through the portals, drowning out his appeal, which came out sounding something like 'I'll settle down. I'll settle down.'

With hands gripping his brown leather sleeves, the officers shepherded the reluctant youngster across the hallway.

In a flash of desperation, he stretched out and gamely latched onto the [unclear] doors. 'I'll settle down.' Helpless-looking eyes begged under the frowning brow.

With a final little shove from a blue-blazered coliseum worker, the boy went behind closed doors. Shut off from the music. Locked out from The Who.

Two, maybe three minutes later, though, he came springing out, his face a mirror of relief this time.

He held out his hands — palms open — and made a quick glance at the ceiling, as if to give thanks for his new freedom.

Then the palms locked shut and happily punched the air.

'Bring on The Who!'

Yes, this was the one you had to see. The Who.

■ See Who, Page 14A

Daltrey, front, Townshend keep rocking the world