The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Monday, December 22, 2003
Reflections On A Who Concert
To those about to rock,
Although many months have passed since it happened, I am still wrapped in a shroud of sorrow for missing the last concert played by the Who. I’ve found nothing that rocks my Amadeus quite the same. I miss the pulse-pounding feeling of a live Who show. To give you an idea of the rock and roll magnificence of the Who, I’ll tell you now what I remember from the show I last attended.
The Bridge School Benefit, Neil Young’s concert to help the less fortunate, always gets quite a turn-out. Indeed, who in their right mind could afford to miss a show featuring the Who?
Tyhm-bot (my elven android sidekick) and I hopped into the Thunderbird, his hover-car, and made way for the Shoreline Amphitheatre. The glove box was filled with rations and protein pills, our bags with togas and journals; the trunk, sodas and lawnchairs. We were ready to par-tay down.
The place was packed when we got there, we were only a few minutes late, having not known the way, and having to carry our lawnchairs back to the car. Security doesn’t allow them inside, as Shoreline has it’s own lawnchair rental service. However, Shoreline security has no way to stop the smuggling in of inflatable Jar-Jar Binks chairs. Nefarious blue-jacketed figures of authority take heed! The resourcefulness of the Virgin Prince knows no bounds!
A cheer, unmatched by any other, exploded throughout the amphitheatre as the Who took the stage. Pete Townshend could have stood there for 15 minutes cleaning his deaf ear with a q-tip and still, there would have been nary an unsoiled pair of pants in attendance. This, of course, does not include Brian Wilson, whom I believe to be no longer in complete control of his bodily functions, but never the less, the Who decided to rock the casbah anyway, and with a twirl of Roger Daltry’s microphone and the furious strumming of Pete Townshend’s guitar, they were off.
If anyone knows how to rock and roll and put on a good show, it’s the Who. In a red-hot rendition of Ring of Fire, they summoned back to our dimension their original drummer. Surrounded by smoke and flame, Keith Moon clawed his way out of the netherverse, pulling himself through a flaming portal in the center stage. If, by chance, Keith Moon hadn’t been the true embodiment of rock and roll before, he certainly had to be now, having crawled from the depths of Hades to put on another show. Amid cheers and chants from the crowd, he seized Zack Starkey (Ringo’s son) and ripped him utterly to shreds. The audience now had souvenirs in sizeable chunks, the front row more drenched than at a Gallagher performance.
I must say I was impressed. I hadn’t seen an attempt at the resuscitation of a deceased drummer since the Page/Plant reunion tour, during which John Bonham rose again with the aid of cybernetic plug-ins and a Pentium chip soldered to his brain. There were problems however, and the poor math-computing power of the chip led to sloppy drum beats, and later, the literal disarming of concert-goers. The Who’s success at reanimation probably stemmed from their choice of magical incantation over technological advancement. They had found the spell while playing a Stevie Nicks record backwards.
Surely you didn’t think her albums were for musical enjoyment?
Near the end of the show, the Who, far beyond smashing guitars, equipped themselves with flame-throwers, machine guns, and other heavy artillery, and proceeded to destroy the stage properly. For good measure, Sheryl Crow was reduced to a smear by means of John Entwhistle’s rocket launcher. Yes, when I was 21, it was a very good year.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Although many months have passed since it happened, I am still wrapped in a shroud of sorrow for missing the last concert played by the Who. I’ve found nothing that rocks my Amadeus quite the same. I miss the pulse-pounding feeling of a live Who show. To give you an idea of the rock and roll magnificence of the Who, I’ll tell you now what I remember from the show I last attended.
The Bridge School Benefit, Neil Young’s concert to help the less fortunate, always gets quite a turn-out. Indeed, who in their right mind could afford to miss a show featuring the Who?
Tyhm-bot (my elven android sidekick) and I hopped into the Thunderbird, his hover-car, and made way for the Shoreline Amphitheatre. The glove box was filled with rations and protein pills, our bags with togas and journals; the trunk, sodas and lawnchairs. We were ready to par-tay down.
The place was packed when we got there, we were only a few minutes late, having not known the way, and having to carry our lawnchairs back to the car. Security doesn’t allow them inside, as Shoreline has it’s own lawnchair rental service. However, Shoreline security has no way to stop the smuggling in of inflatable Jar-Jar Binks chairs. Nefarious blue-jacketed figures of authority take heed! The resourcefulness of the Virgin Prince knows no bounds!
A cheer, unmatched by any other, exploded throughout the amphitheatre as the Who took the stage. Pete Townshend could have stood there for 15 minutes cleaning his deaf ear with a q-tip and still, there would have been nary an unsoiled pair of pants in attendance. This, of course, does not include Brian Wilson, whom I believe to be no longer in complete control of his bodily functions, but never the less, the Who decided to rock the casbah anyway, and with a twirl of Roger Daltry’s microphone and the furious strumming of Pete Townshend’s guitar, they were off.
If anyone knows how to rock and roll and put on a good show, it’s the Who. In a red-hot rendition of Ring of Fire, they summoned back to our dimension their original drummer. Surrounded by smoke and flame, Keith Moon clawed his way out of the netherverse, pulling himself through a flaming portal in the center stage. If, by chance, Keith Moon hadn’t been the true embodiment of rock and roll before, he certainly had to be now, having crawled from the depths of Hades to put on another show. Amid cheers and chants from the crowd, he seized Zack Starkey (Ringo’s son) and ripped him utterly to shreds. The audience now had souvenirs in sizeable chunks, the front row more drenched than at a Gallagher performance.
I must say I was impressed. I hadn’t seen an attempt at the resuscitation of a deceased drummer since the Page/Plant reunion tour, during which John Bonham rose again with the aid of cybernetic plug-ins and a Pentium chip soldered to his brain. There were problems however, and the poor math-computing power of the chip led to sloppy drum beats, and later, the literal disarming of concert-goers. The Who’s success at reanimation probably stemmed from their choice of magical incantation over technological advancement. They had found the spell while playing a Stevie Nicks record backwards.
Surely you didn’t think her albums were for musical enjoyment?
Near the end of the show, the Who, far beyond smashing guitars, equipped themselves with flame-throwers, machine guns, and other heavy artillery, and proceeded to destroy the stage properly. For good measure, Sheryl Crow was reduced to a smear by means of John Entwhistle’s rocket launcher. Yes, when I was 21, it was a very good year.
The Virgin Prince
