Grand Prairie The Who, as it was in its blood-and-thunder glory days, exists now only in memory.
Nevertheless, a passable facsimile thereof, led by just one original member (Roger Daltrey), took the stage at the Verizon Theatre Wednesday night to perform the seminal rock opera Tommy in its entirety. Billed as "Roger Daltrey Perform the Who's Tommy," the night was nirvana for the baby boomers packed into the room (although, sadly, the uppermost section of the theatre was closed off and Verizon pulled its old let's-curtain-off-certain-sections trick to make the space seem more full than it was).
Clad simply in a white shirt and black jeans, the trim 67-year-old singer, backed by a crisp quintet (including Pete Townshend's younger brother Simon on guitars and vocals; musical director/guitarist Frank Simes also added some much-needed instrumental spice), delivered an exacting, faithful rendition of Tommy, all 74 minutes of the sprawling, allegorical rock opera about the "deaf, dumb and blind kid who sure plays a mean pinball."
In fact, the Tommy material was recreated so slavishly that it felt almost too reverential, too stiff; this dusting off of an iconic rock album contrasted poorly with, say, Roger Waters' triumphant trip back to The Wall last year. Granted, 1969's Tommy, which ironically paved the way for The Wall, released a decade later, isn't quite as timely, but still: The Wall in concert was visceral, compelling and unabashedly theatrical in a way this concert was not.
Although it's not entirely surprising, Daltrey, sans Pete Townshend's firecracker guitar licks or Keith Moon's rampaging-brontosaurus attitude on the drum kit, is astonishingly mannered, which may be a function of age more than anything else (those daredevil mic twirls seemed cautious, not carefree). None of this is to say that Tommy was performed poorly -- far from it -- but rather, any semblance of danger or kinetic energy was weirdly absent. It was nostalgia at arm's length. Rather than approach the piece from a modern perspective -- and the realities of an aging frontman -- Daltrey and his collaborators simply performed a recital.
Part of the problem stemmed from the fact that this rock opera -- famously adapted into a bizarrely compelling Ken Russell film and acclaimed Broadway production -- was forced to make do with a simple, rather puny video screen showing sub-par computer animations for each track. That's it; the stage was otherwise adorned with simple lights and the band's instruments. Now, Daltrey didn't need to splurge on a big, splashy set, but if he's going to make this whirligig of a record the focal point, a little more thought into the presentation might be called for.
Of course nary a prop was needed to electrify the crowd, that searing opening riff of Pinball Wizard ejected audience members from their seats as though they'd be Tasered. Many a fist rose in the air and even, charmingly, a few lighters (how quaint!).
Over the years, Daltrey's voice has thickened, but not weakened, and remains a coarse, yelping, expressively gritty instrument. He spoke nary a word to the audience throughout Tommy, but became extremely chatty as soon as the first half of the evening was finished. "It's time for some f---ing about," said a grinning Daltrey, introducing the second half of the two-and-a-half hour-long set. He immediately seemed more relaxed, more willing to screw around with well-known hits (My Generation was recast as a slower, shuffling ditty, for instance). He wandered into his solo material, even dishing out a passable Johnny Cash medley.
The joy at simply being able to play was palpable, leading one to wonder: Why mount a tour of an album you're not necessarily going to have a good time performing? The obvious answer is piles of money, but watching Daltrey beaming as he played Baba O'Riley for what must be the kabillionth time, it's hard not to wonder if his reluctance to hit the road next year and play through Quadrophenia in its entirety (as has been strongly rumored; Wednesday night, he said nothing was set in stone yet) has everything to do with a weariness of the past.
Nostalgia can be a wonderful thing, but it can also stifle any sense of forward momentum. His bandmate Pete Townshend seems to mostly understand this, attacking any number of fresh projects, away from the glare of the Who's spotlight. Instead of the easy cash grab, perhaps Roger Daltrey should simply set out to entertain with whatever batch of songs he damn well pleases. Sure, it's a risk, but imagine the rewards.
