The Who?
Two Generations
by Susan Katz Miller
 I thought I had been struck with an original idea—go to see The Who in concert at the Verizon Center, and take the kids! A few computer clicks later, and I had snagged four $80 seats. The concert was scheduled for the day after my daughter’s 13th birthday. It would be the perfect way to initiate her into teenhood. My son, who only turned ten last month, would have to stay up way past his bedtime. But he’s already in a rock band, playing electric bass and drums. So I really thought my extravagant impulse would please everyone.
My husband, at least, appreciated my inspiration. For us, this concert promised closure and symmetry. More than a quarter of a century ago, we had tickets to see The Who in Providence, Rhode Island. But a fatal stampede at the Who concert in Cincinnati led to cancellation of the rest of that tour. Shortly after that, we started our adult lives, and somehow stopped going to rock concerts. In the trenches of childrearing, a quickie movie often had to suffice. We never got to see The Who.
So this would be the moment for us to reconnect with our youth and each other, to emerge from the daze of parenthood, and hook up our kids at the same time. In fact, my husband became so enthusiastic about the concert idea that he questioned why I’d bought “cheap” seats in the “nosebleed section.” I pointed out that our son is four feet tall and wouldn’t be able to see anything from the $250 floor seats.
There was just one hitch. Our children weren’t particularly excited about a Who concert. It turns out they have an aversion to “old dudes” playing rock and roll, ever since witnessing The Rolling Stones at Superbowl halftime. For boomers, Mick Jagger still reads as sexy in old age, seen through a gauze of nostalgia. For kids, he comes off like a lecherous old creep. I got a similar reaction from adults under the age of 40. When I bragged about the upcoming concert to my son’s drum teacher, he replied, “The Who? Are they still alive?”
Well, um, sort of. The Who drummer Keith Moon did die almost thirty years ago, and bassist John Entwistle more recently. But lead singer Roger Daltrey and guitarist and composer Pete Townshend are intact and touring, though both are in their sixties. I start worrying, “What if the band is tired and it’s a lousy expensive show? Will my kids think I’m a dork?”
The big night arrived last week. My daughter pulls my son by the hand as he glides through Chinatown in his “Heelys.” Slowly I realize we’re part of a river of families pouring into the sold-out Verizon Center. Somehow, I had imagined the show packed with hip mods and rockers suspended in musical time. I thought everyone would be bemused and impressed, or possibly even annoyed, that we were bringing our kids to the show. But no. It turns out I am once again part of the boomer zeitgeist. We find our seats and look around us, as if looking into thousands of mirrors. There’s almost no one between 18 and 40. An entire crowd of balding men and white-haired women are adjusting their earplugs (we brought a four-pack ourselves). Some of us have canes, and wheelchairs. At least half of the adults seem to be sitting beside children, including some sleepy toddlers. Toddlers! What were these people thinking! Couldn’t get a sitter??? But I know exactly what they were thinking: this could be the last chance to see one of the greatest bands in history. Someday our kids will brag that their first rock concert was The Who.
And then the lights start flashing and the center fills with power chords. Pete’s arm windmills on the guitar. Roger swings his microphone in great loops through the air. Ringo’s son, Zak Starkey, a Keith Moon protégé since his boyhood, is drumming the hell out of his kit. It’s a multigenerational gig! And it’s an onslaught of muscular and cerebral rock, with all the big venue pyrotechnics. We sing along to the classics—"My Generation," "I Can’t Explain," "Won’t Get Fooled Again."
My son, in his new “The Who” knit skater beanie, jumps to his feet and starts yelling “Whooo! Whooo!”—lucky he’s too short to block the view of the family behind us. He is getting his little mind blown. My extravagant impulse is paying off. Perhaps it helps that we are so far away from the stage that we can’t distinguish the age of the musicians, even with our binoculars.
And yes, my ten-year-old is a touch disappointed that Pete doesn’t smash his guitar. But he absorbs what he can get: “Mom, you’re lucky, when you were my age, it was the height of rock and roll.” Yes, my son, and we somehow thought it would last forever–we thought a lot of things would last forever. He senses that it’s the end of an era, but at The Who he has caught the shimmering tail. He didn’t miss it completely.
The next morning, all four of us have gentle headaches from lack of sleep. I remember this pleasurable fuzzy morning-after feeling. I’m walking my son to Piney Branch Elementary, and I know he’s enjoying the feeling too, because he pipes up, “Mom! We’re Who-lagged. The general terminology would be rock-lagged.” I realize that I’ve carried my children through a narrow window, and I’ve hit it just right. We can have this experience together: we can go get rock-lagged together for the next few years, until the kids are too embarrassed to go with Mom and Dad. Or until the last of the classic rockers are gone.
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