Every year is the same
And I feel it again
I'm a loser, no chance to win
Leaves start falling
Comedown is calling
Loneliness starts sinking in
But I'm one...
-I'm One
Goodbye all you punks
Stay young and stay high
Hand me my chequebook
And I'll crawl out to die
-They Are All In Love
The Beatles Were Over With Herman's Hermits
Pete Townshend has long been my favorite personality in rock music, aside from all the obvious credentials, for being the best interview in the business, Exhibit A being the concert/documentary pastiche The Kids Are Alright. I remember reading a Rolling Stone interview in the student bookstore of my university some eons ago, trying not to laugh too conspicuously while Pete held forth on various peers. The internets kindly allowed me to track it down and read it again. Kurt Loder was the interviewer, he seemed to suss out that Pete was in an unguarded, expansive mood, and dangled enough bait until Pete took it and went to town. My favorite bit:
KL: I've been listening to Tug of War, Paul McCartney's new album. It may be the best thing he's done in a while – it sounds real nice. But it seems to have virtually nothing to do with rock & roll.
PT: Do you think he ever really had anything to do with rock & roll?
KL: Well . . . .
PT: No, he never did. You know, I could sit down and have a conversation with Paul about rock & roll, and we'd be talking about two different things. He's got a couple of years on me, but it could be ten years, we're so different. If he talks about rock & roll, I think he is talking about Little Richard. Whereas I don't think Little Richard mattered, you know?
But one of the reasons I'm excited about Paul's latest project is because it's him and George Martin working together again; because he's making a conscious effort to really get into serious record-making, rather than pissin' about in home studios – which I, for one, think he's terrible at. When "Ebony and Ivory" came out, everybody was saying, "Christ, have you heard it? It's terrible." Well, I heard it, and I thought it was fuckin' amazing! I thought, "That's it, that's McCartney!" He's actually taken black and white, put a bit of tinsel around it, managed by hook or by crook to get Stevie Wonder to sing it, sit on black and white piano keys on a video . . . . It's wonderful! It's gauche! It's Paul McCartney!
I've always said that I've never been a big fan of the Beatles: to me rock was the Stones, and before that Chuck Berry, and before that, maybe a few people who lived in fields in Louisiana. But I can't really include the Beatles in that. The Beatles were over with Herman's Hermits. That's not rock & roll. I was always very confused about the American attitude of thinking that the Beatles were rock & roll. Because they were such a big pop phenomenon. I've always enjoyed some of their stuff as light music, with occasional masterpieces thrown in. But with a lot of their things, you can't dig very deep. Either you come up against Lennon's deliberately evading what it is that he's trying to say, so it's inscrutable, or Paul McCartney's self-imposed shallowness, because he sees music as being . . . I mean, he's a great believer in pop music, I think. But I wonder whether McCartney, perhaps, rests a little bit on the laurels of the Beatles.
KL: Even an ostensibly glitzy group like Abba seems to me much more tied to rock & roll.
PT: Absolutely. I remember hearing "S.O.S." on the radio in the States and realizing that it was Abba. But it was too late, because I was already transported by it. I just thought it was such a great sound, you know – great bass drum and the whole thing. They make great records. Also, what's quite interesting is that Abba was one of the first big, international bands to actually deal with sort of middle-aged problems in their songwriting. And it was quite obviously what was going on among them – that song, "Knowing Me, Knowing You."
This was 1982, the same year I finally saw The Who in concert (their "Farewell Tour" it was called; one of the lead-ons was The Clash, of which I mainly remember "London Calling" and Mick Jones wearing an orange jumpsuit, which with hindsight I'm pretty sure annoyed Joe Strummer no end; it was epic; if you want to be a jerk you could point out that Keith Moon was already four years dead, but one can't have everything). Anyway, reading the entire interview there in the student bookstore was hilarious and exhilarating. Partly because I got the joke. I intuited that this was not all to be taken at face value (various other interviews thru the years would confirm that Pete isn't actually so contemptuous of the Beatles as he was letting on), but it was even funnier knowing it would be taken that way by many and inspire a plethora of angry letters from readers in the next Rolling Stone. Which it did. The Abba bit was just icing on the cake, as I have always unapologetically liked and defended Abba.
So the short version of my 3-star rating for Who I Am is that the above isn't the Pete we get in this book.
Which isn’t to say that this memoir isn’t intensely candid, because it is. Pete scrutinizes himself unflinchingly, sometimes mercilessly, and to mostly good effect for the reader, as he’s always been one of rock & roll’s more self-aware specimens. But he eases up a bit when he surveys the musical landscape, very much in elder statesman mode. The Pete who was once quoted saying “I don’t really respect Jeff Beck or Jimmy Page” isn’t to be found here. An example: after Keith Moon died and the band didn’t know how they wanted to continue, Phil Collins offered his services as a new drummer. That’s right—Phil Collins. Pete mentions this with a completely straight face, offers no comment whatsoever. I mean, can you imagine the 1982 Pete referenced above being served such a factoid and not grabbing it with both hands? The interview would have expanded three more pages on that alone. It’s one of those might-have-been alternate universes like the one where the lead role in Casablanca went to Ronald Reagan instead of Bogart. Or, if instead of Moon it had been Roger Daltry who had an untimely demise and had been replaced with, say, Billy Joel. I’ve seen horror movies, good ones, less scary than that.
It’s not that Who I Am is disappointing exactly (well maybe a little) but it could have been so much more. One problem is there seems to be too much effort to be comprehensive, to cover everything. It’s an admirable impulse in some ways, but for readers like me who are fans but in no way musicians ourselves, just how many details of Pete’s various home studios, with seemingly every piece of equipment catalogued, do we need? Answer: a whole lot less than this. There are various boats Pete bought that get more ink than his all-too-brief comments on The Who By Numbers, an underrated album I would have loved to read much more about. At various times, discussion of a topic will be cut short and there will be a footnote at the bottom of the page advising the reader that more detailed information can be found on the Who’s website. Which, yeah ok, but…really?
However, there is a lot to like. The material on the inner workings of The Who, how these four personalities meshed, and often clashed, is generous and fascinating. Here, there is no sense of papering over past conflict. Each of them at different times comes off as petty or spiteful or selfish, except possibly John Entwistle, who at worst is sometimes misguided but appears to have been as true and steadfast a friend as Pete ever had, and he says as much. Roger Daltry emerges as the one with the truest work ethic. Pete has said over the years that they wouldn’t have broken through from their early days to the success they eventually had without Roger’s tireless insistence, and that is very apparent here. There’s also a sense of the longsuffering aspect of working with Townshend; Pete sniped at Roger in the press frequently in the band’s later years, but he seems to have arrived at a genuine appreciation for Roger’s contributions, and it’s gratifying to see that. But the clashes and differing agendas are laid out nakedly; at one point when Pete has been reluctantly persuaded to reunite for yet another tour, he comments “None of us offered that I hadn't really wanted to go deaf in order to save Roger and John from being forced to live in smaller houses.” Ouch.
It would seem one of the primary motivations in writing the book was self-analysis and catharsis, and at times Pete appears to bend over backwards to not cast himself in a favorable light. Which beats the reverse, but when it comes to recounting his various infidelities, I sometimes wanted to interject, we get it Pete, you were a shitty husband, can we move on please? Really, if you want a list of the most sympathetic figures in the book, it would begin, 1. Karen Townshend. 2. Roger Daltry… That said, it is amusing to read about one failed conquest. Pete sees the Nicolas Roeg film Bad Timing. He's vaguely acquainted with Roeg, who ended his marriage to be with the film's star, Theresa Russell. Pete tries to call Roeg on the phone (there'd been some discussion of working on a project together), Ms. Russell answers, Nic as it happens is off in Paris, and Pete instantly decides he's besotted (a recurring thing it would appear). He persuades Ms. Russell to go to a Pink Floyd concert with him, then for a few drinks after. Theresa Russell is all of 23 at the time, fully in control, and makes it utterly clear at the end of the night that Pete ain't getting to first base. "You're cute, Peeder, but Nic, he's the leader" she laughs. Pete leaves, defeated, and whines to his driver that he could really do with a line of coke right about now. In fairness, if you've seen Bad Timing, you can't entirely blame him for this one.
In this book at least, John Entwistle's death hits with a greater force, maybe because Keith Moon's story is so much more familiar, and that from this vantage point it doesn't seem like any other ending was possible. Also, I got the sense that Moon was to some extent unknowable even to the band, he always seemed 'on', always portraying the character of Keith Moon. When Keith dies, Roger calls Pete with the news, expressed in three words: "He's done it." When John dies in 2002, it's Pete who calls Roger, who shouts "What!" This was on the eve of a tour, an unenviable situation to be sure, and Pete trots out the rationale that if they cancelled, alot of people wouldn't get paid etc. (They quickly hired another bassist and the tour went on.) Undoubtedly true, but for someone as self-aware and selfconscious as Townshend, it's one of the few instances when he seems genuinely clueless how crass it came off.
Inevitably in a biography such as this, once you get a fair distance past the glory days, interest wanes a bit. As I've never listened to The Iron Man or Psychoderelict, I can't really feign an interest in reading about them. But that's me, not a flaw of the book, and Quadrophenia, Townshend's genuine masterpiece, is covered generously enough. So yeah, three stars, worth reading if you're me, it's certainly not been an unexamined life.
A Postscript About Dogs
As a boy Pete had a dog, a Springer Spaniel named Bruce. He once absentmindedly threw a stick onto railroad tracks as a train was approaching, and Bruce instinctively went to retrieve it. Somewhat miraculously, while the train seemed to run over the dog, the dog wasn’t crushed, and after a minute managed to leap free of the train, entirely unharmed. One day Pete came home and his parents told him Bruce had been sent back to the kennel he originally came from; Pete knew instinctively they were lying and that the dog had been destroyed. Now here’s the thing, this instantly recalled for me a poignant essay the film critic Roger Ebert wrote about the only dog he had had as a child (called Blackie, if memory serves). Similarly, Roger came home one day and his parents told him the dog had been hit by a car and killed. Roger also knew instinctively that his parents were lying (on a recent evening, he had overheard his parents discussing getting rid of the dog) and that the dog had been put down. And in both cases, young Pete and young Roger pretended to believe the lies so as to spare their parents a confrontation, all the while being heartbroken at the loss of their dogs. Now this is only two anecdotes, but I’m thinking—what the fuck was up with (some) mid-twentieth century parents (Pete born 1945, Roger born 1942)? Was it some hard-bitten post-war thing? What??