The Stub Project: The Who – Cleveland Stadium – 7.19.1989

Despite growing up just two hours away in Columbus I had never been to Cleveland before. And after this show, I didn’t go back for another twenty years. A lot has presumably changed in the intervening time, one of the more notable advances being the demolition of this disgusting venue.

Admittedly, I grew up with an anti-Cleveland bias. My father often recounted the time he took my mother to a Browns game and they were surrounded by fans drinking case after case of beer. That’s all fine and good, but apparently the contest on the gridiron was so riveting that the Cleveland faithful could not be bothered to venture into the stadium’s bowels and use the troughs provided for them. Instead, they collectively opted to simply open their pants while sitting, unleashing a waterfall of urine down the concrete steps in front of them. I can only imagine the scene in the infamous Dog Pound as this unfortunate display occurred on the forty yard line. As a result, I came to believe that the people of Cleveland represent the nadir of the human condition, their only accomplishment being tarnishing the Great State of Ohio with their cancerous presence. The fallen city was  the Mistake on the Lake, a place where the river caught on fire.

My opinion of Cleveland did not change after this show.

I drove up in a van with my brother and three or four of his friends, one of whom procured a single ticket in the tenth row while we were drinking pre-game beers in the parking lot. Generously, he shared the ticket with us all and we took turns getting a closer look at the band. It being that The Who were already past their expiration date, that was a mixed blessing. Pete Townsend, sporting a ratty ponytail, had already gone deaf and apparently was unable to do anything more than pantomine playing guitar, a cartoon version of his former self. His leads were supplied by a sideman lurking on the side of the stage. It was a pitiful display. And Roger Daltry, well, the less seen the better, although considering his thinning perm-esque doo, I suppose I’m glad I got close enough to confirm that he wasn’t in fact Richard Simmons. Sadly, Daltry is just a tool and seeing him live does nothing but detract from the band’s once great music. And, of course, Keith Moon had already been dead for eleven years.

People in Ohio have a special relationship with the Who, having unwillingly sacrificed 11 of our own at their alter. Ten years earlier I was in sixth grade when eleven people were crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati. My friends and I were too young to go to the show, but many of our brothers and sisters were there that night. Thankfully none of them were trampled and/or smothered to death when the Who idiotically performed a late sound check, causing the stampede. Because of that tragedy, I expected that the Buckeye crowd would be on its best behavior. I was, of course, wrong. This was Cleveland, where people give animals a bad name. When making my way away from the stage, people were ready to fight me, for what crime, I do not know. I was only giving them more room. While I did not take the bait, several people brawled in the aisles. A bad buzz of mayhem and discontent permeated the rotting stadium. And when the show was over, they fought some more.

That summer the Who were celebrating the 20th anniversary of Tommy in their endless last and final get-your-tickets-while-you-still-can tour. And while I was into much of the music from that first rock opera, the story of Tommy always gave me the creeps. It’s an awful, grim tale, albeit apparently somewhat autobiographical for Mr. Townsend, considering the theme of child molestation that courses through the narrative. (Just like Tommy, Townsend was a victim of sexual abuse, would rise above it and become a messianic figure). When I saw the videotape of the movie at the age of ten or eleven I don’t mind saying I was too spooked to watch the whole thing. Nonetheless, I liked the Who, while never really loving them. In my mind, they never quite reached the Holy Trinity of Brit Rock: the Beatles, the Kinks and the Stones. And, granted, that’s a high bar to achieve. Had I let them live through their classic albums, maybe I’d have more respect for them now, but that night in Cleveland, I saw a band going through the motions, cashing in on the past. Maybe that kind of nostalgia worked for people who came of age when that music was first released. That kind of nostalgia often, but not always, works on me now in my forties. But I was 21 that night and The Who just looked old (something which certainly didn’t bother me about the Grateful Dead at the time). Unlike the Dead, there was no soul to the music, no joy. And it was reflected back by the cruel, violent crowd. The Who had become nothing but a cynical act of branding and hollow nostalgia. It’s no wonder they bring out the worst in some people. And as a result, I barely ever listen to them anymore.

(I do, however, think I might just take another crack at watching Tommy again … warning: if you love old pinball machines, this clip might hurt)