The first time I saw The Who in America was
on Saturday November 20, 1971, at the Charlotte Coliseum, in North
Carolina (where this shot was taken), and on the commercial flight down from
New York I was sat next to Pete having a conversation about the temptations of
the flesh that befall married rock stars when he suddenly developed a nose
bleed. So for ten minutes or so I cradled his head on my lap and held a damp
cloth to the most famous nose in rock.
Before
this show Keith and I got into a bit of trouble when backstage we found a
hollow wooden egg large enough to conceal a man on a four-wheeled cart . Keith clambered
inside the egg and I towed him towards The Who's dressing room where he
intended to leap out and surprise everyone. Indeed, he was hatching a plot to
be wheeled on stage in this contraption. Unfortunately, en route to the
dressing room I lost control of the vehicle, causing it to crash, the egg to
topple over and the world's greatest rock drummer to come tumbling out head
first. Keith and I narrowly avoided being ejected from the premises by a security
guard who heard us and thought we were a couple of vandals... which I suppose
we were. Of course, he failed to recognise The Who's drummer. I think only our
English accents saved us from being chucked out into the car park.
When
the Who came on stage Pete thrashed out a few heavy riffs and Keith joined in,
fooling the audience into thinking this was a new opening song, but it soon became
deafening feedback, out of which Pete fashioned the classic chord sequence of
'I Can't Explain'. I saw them start shows like this a few times in this era. Much
has been made about the way The Who climaxed shows by demolishing their gear
but less is said about how great their entrances were too. At their peak they ran on stage (well, maybe not John who
was never one to hurry), Pete and John often plugging in and playing something,
anything, as loud as hell, Keith
grabbing his sticks and bashing his kit equally loud, and Roger pacing around
in circles like a caged lion, while the crowd roared their welcome. Then, at
the crack of Pete’s whip, this huge raucous undisciplined 15-second din
subsided into silence as suddenly as it had erupted, to be replaced, in a
matter of nanoseconds, by the precision-tooled in-yer-face opening chords of
‘Explain’ or ‘Substitute’. “You think we look pretty good together…” Well, not
bad lads, not bad…
Later
that night in Charlotte I saw Moonie lob a TV set out of a window eight storeys
up, but that’s another story. And the next morning, over a full English in the
dining room, Roger confided in me that the pleasures awaiting him back in his
room suggested he wasn’t as concerned as Pete about temptations of the flesh.
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