Last time the Who staged its 1973 double-album epic Quadropheniain Southern California, a little more than 16 years ago at the same spot where they tried it again Monday night, there was a concerted effort toward clarifying the tale.
Until then Pete Townshend’s aural identity crisis, a heady look at extended adolescence by a late-twentysomething already nostalgic for his restless teenage years, hadn’t been fleshed out very well live. The original tour behind it was mired in audience confusion (the thing had barely been released at the time), untested technological trouble (sweetening with synth tapes was a perilous idea back then) and festering friction among the band, capped by Keith Moon’s notorious excess.
But emboldened by the success of 1989’s Tommy revival, which jump-started its blockbuster Broadway incarnation, the group returned to the saga of Jimmy Cooper seven years later. Not only was Townshend considering another theatrical neutering of a masterpiece, but the album’s insular concept – a disaffected mid-’60s mod battles a four-way split personality and a bleak future – had gained resonance with a new generation, given its heavy influence on and seal of approval from burgeoning grunge gods like Eddie Vedder and Chris Cornell.
So the Who went all out, assembling a massive band to faithfully reproduce it, including backing vocalists and double the horns they’ve employed this time, plus two touring guest stars, Billy Idol as Ace Face and Gary Glitter as the Godfather. What’s more, the story came narrated, albeit in the fractured fashion of Townshend’s mind-set liner notes, with character-driven snippets and oceanic connective images moving it along, similar to Roger Waters’ recent rebuilding of The Wall.
That has changed for the current edition, which kicked off its second leg at Honda Center yet didn’t fare any better at filling the Anaheim arena than the ballyhooed ’96 version did. (Unlike at greatest-hits gigs in the past decade, there were plenty of seats still available, as there are for Wednesday night’s Staples Center repeat.)
This time the visuals, striking and sometimes sentimental, are only tangential to the music. That makes it virtually impossible for a neophyte to follow what little plot accompanies Jimmy’s mental gnashing, particularly when Townshend and principal vocalist Roger Daltrey, both in their late 60s, resort to gruffly barking lyrics.
“A young man has a bad day, basically, and that’s really all there is,” Townshend once said, grossly simplifying his opus. Within that framework is a more profound and palpable (if also more English) piece than Tommy, a similar “amazing journey” toward total consciousness grounded in grittier details and harder-hitting songs.
Jimmy’s frustrated opening salvo – “can you see the real me?” he asks, seemingly to himself – picks up where Tommy’s plea to “see me, feel me” left off. The brainwaves that then crash upon the rocks at Brighton Beach, from the questioning of “Cut My Hair” to the breakdown of “I’ve Had Enough” to the fulfillment of “Drowned” and “Love Reign O’er Me,” evoke not acid-trip enlightenment but the realer angst and ennui of posh, post-poverty U.K. baby boomers as they came of age. Both anti-heroes strive toward the same realizations, yet the twisted hope of Tommy almost seems quaint compared to the inward intensity of Quadrophenia, which lingers like an Antonioni film, not really providing answers, just peering in on its subject.
It’s an entirely more challenging (and certainly more rousing) experience than its predecessor. It’s also much harder to pull off believably, especially vocally. Daltrey bravely has less assistance than he did in ’96; underrated Who guitar aid Simon Townshend takes the lead on “The Dirty Jobs” and Pete handles his parts, but otherwise the burden is all on Rog.
Monday night he wasn’t always up to the task, though that’s understandable: He’s nearly 69 and only so strong after throat surgery two years ago, yet still performing parts that would make younger singers shudder with anxiety. Key screams that he could prepare for were mostly spot-on, but the verbiage of the verses – where elocution is crucial if storyline nuances are to be conveyed – often left him huffy and weak.
He struggled most on “Is It in My Head?,” seemingly unable to hear himself clearly, but rallied back remarkably for the second half, pouring on the energy for “I’ve Had Enough” and another unraveling ride on the “5:15” that detoured brilliantly into a jaw-dropping archival solo (on the center circular screen) from John Entwistle.
Moon got his ghostly salute, too, providing the growly lines in “Bell Boy” via circa-’73 footage, and again the effect was seamless and chills-inducing. Most electrifying of all, though, was the band’s superb playing, paying respect to the source while adding tremendous finesse. Still anchored by substitutes Zak Starkey (who sands off the wild edges of Moon’s fills without removing his feel altogether) and Pino Palladino (one of few conceivable replacements for Entwistle’s “thunderfingers”), this version of the Who is the best any has sounded in years. It’s sharper still for having Townshend windmilling on a Stratocaster this time, not an acoustic guitar as in ’96.
The group’s relative minimalism, reflected in equally straightforward spectacle, directed focus toward the music more than ever. You could easily get caught up in the hurtling motion of it all and forget completely that this is supposed to be some kind of rock opera. That’s where specific visuals would have helped.
Some self-reference is necessary, not just to appease crowd nostalgia but to help establish the scene’s time and place. It makes sense to glimpse the Who in their earliest days (as the High Numbers) alongside images of Elvis Presley and Marlon Brando to put forth the proper mods-vs.-rockers mood. What doesn’t fully work is carrying that cultural timeline further, so that we see the Who at Monterey Pop during “Helpless Dancer” (huh?) or get bombarded by a then-to-now history-lesson montage during the cataclysm of “The Rock.”
That always was the most open-ended part of the finale – what’s really happening to Jimmy at that point? Townshend and Daltrey attempt to make it into a full-circle statement, à la The Wall – that the turmoil that spurred Quadrophenia into existence is still ever-present.
Makes for a lot to chew on at a concert, especially when there aren’t many radio staples during the first 90 minutes or so – which helps explain why these shows aren’t selling out at triple-digit prices. Not every Who fan cares for this particular work, not as much as Tommy anyway, and the number of dutifully trotted-out warhorses at the end hardly justifies anyone but die-hards springing for tickets.
You could distinctly tell a difference Monday night between the care brought to the main set and the more ordinary, even sloppy approach in a coda heavy on Who’s Next material. They summoned a good deal more oomph for “Won’t Get Fooled Again” – although really, if they can’t pull that much off, they ought to stay home – but “Behind Blue Eyes” was a wreck, Daltrey completely off the count during the acoustic portion. (Starkey had to give up on his cymbal work and resort to a thudding bass drum beat to maintain it.)
“Who Are You” and “Baba O’Riley,” too, never leapt out like they should. That was all old-hat, and it felt like it. Quadrophenia, however, remains a revelation. For those of us who have pored over its complexities time and again, it not only retains its power but holds up better than ever before live. Given that rarity alone, should this be the last we see of the Who, they mostly went out on a high note.
Also, if you’re going, do yourself a favor and arrive on time for opening act Vintage Trouble, an L.A. outfit that just landed an afternoon spot at Coachella in April. They were terrific on two levels: Not only was their rock ‘n’ soul thoroughly energizing, steeped in Stax groove and Nuggets garage-rock, it also fit the bill as snugly as frontman Ty Taylor’s plaid suit. This is exactly the sort of band Jimmy and his mod mates would have loved.
The Who performs Quadrophenia again Jan. 30 at Staples Center in Los Angeles, $39.50-$129.50.
