THE WHO HITS 50 at the O2 ARENA, LONDON

The buzz of riding a Lambretta is one of life’s great pleasures. It doesn’t matter where it is but I always get an extra kick when cruising through the streets of Shepherd’s Bush and specifically along the Goldhawk Road. In my little semi-fantasy world it is still the mid-1960s, this is the heart of Mod territory, and local band The Who are playing later for the umpteenth time at the Goldhawk Social Club. Although The Who are known as a Shepherd’s Bush band, Roger Daltrey was the only one who genuinely lived there. In The Who documentary, Amazing Journey, Pete Townshend called him “the king of the neighbourhood”.

This scruffy stretch of the capital has, as far as I can tell, remained- until now - largely unchanged. Cooke’s Pie and Mash Shop – the one in Quadrophenia - has clung on since 1934; the interior of Zippy Café a couple of doors down is every inch an abandoned Wimpy bar; Goldhawk Road tube station remains little more than a rickety shack; and, best of all, the Goldhawk Social Club has only tweaked its name slightly to the Shepherd’s Bush Club and now displays a blue Heritage Foundation plaque honouring The Who. With the likes of Cooke’s now sold to developers of Shepherd’s Bush market these are the last knockings of the area as it currently stands.

I rode past the Goldhawk again this weekend, exactly fifty years from when The Who walked through the hanging plastic drapes in the club to play a gig on Saturday 20^th March 1965 after hot-footing it from attending the opening show of the Tamla Motown Revue at the Finsbury Park Astoria. I know, what a night, lucky bleeders. I wasn’t there rabbiting amongst the West London Mods from the Bush, Acton, Notting Hill, West Drayton, Paddington and so on but I did, honestly, see The Who yesterday.

The O2 Arena in Greenwich is less than fifteen miles from the Goldhawk but they could be on different planets and as gig experiences go they couldn’t be much more different. No chance of bumping into Pete Townshend having a piss here in this soulless corporate "village". The O2 is a 20,000 capacity venue and not one of those people, as far as I could tell, was blocked on amphetamines.  Prescription drugs, now that’s different. When folk scuffled to the loo, they rattled. Unlike Keith Moon and John Entwistle, not everyone died before they got old I’m pleased to say.

Of course, I wouldn’t usually dream of attending one of these huge cavernous monstrosities, but then again I can probably only count on my thumbs the bands I like who’d be able to fill somewhere like this, The Who being one. This was part of their The Who Hits 50 tour; supposedly their last extended jaunt around the globe. They’ve said this before so I won’t hold them to it. Half a century gone and it’s still too early to say farewell.

For over two hours straight Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend and some other blokes put on hugely enjoyable show. Roger and Pete were in a relaxed mood; jovial and offered plenty of expletive-ridden between-song banter creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite the grand scale. Roger played the affable, one-of-the-lads role and Pete switched from serious artist to money-accumulating rock star. When Roger thanked everyone for coming, “It woulda been really boring without ya”, Pete quips back “And we’d be a lot poorer”. He also said we’d paid three thousand pound a ticket, which wasn’t too far off.

They earned their dough though, playing a mostly predictable set with a few surprises chucked in. Pete mentions it’s supposed to be a hits show. “All four of them,” he says, “plus the three from CSI, and two rock operas”. That “I Can See For Miles” wasn’t a huge hit - “it’s a great song” - obviously still rankles and it’s plain to hear way. Some of the other earlier singles like “I Can’t Explain” and “Substitute”, as much as they made brilliant records, sounded slightly plodding in comparison the more complex later material.

“Love Reign O’er Me” was emotional; the mini-Tommy brilliant, still to my mind The Who’s pinnacle; the double whammy of “Baba O’Riley” and “Won’t Get Fooled Again” is as good as big venue music gets. “Slip Kid” was unexpected; as was “So Sad About Us”; and “A Quick One, Whilst He’s Away” a welcome knee-trembler.

They’ve got to pace themselves these days so Roger’s microphone twirling was kept to minimum and Pete’s feet didn’t leave the floor although there was plenty of windmill action. Roger, bless him, couldn’t always hit the notes (it’s an unforgiving occupation being a lead singer in a shouty rock band; no one’s gonna notice a few bum chords or missed timings elsewhere) and he mentions the set list is a challenge emotionally as well as having to remember all Townshend’s lyrics. “Why couldn’t you write some easier songs?” he asks Pete. “Because I’m an intellectual,” came the reply, “you fucking cunt.”

The staging behind the band was superb. I always roll my eyes when people start talking about what a band’s backdrop and graphics and lighting was like – so bloody what? – but in this environment draping a union jack over a Marshall stack ain’t really gonna cut it, so hat’s off: these were a stylish and imaginative series of animations that complimented the songs. Some were very fancy and expensive looking yet the funniest was the simplest.  After Townshend gave his account of writing “Pictures of Lily” about wanking to old Lily Langtry postcards, the song is performed in front of a giant Keith Moon dressed in a wig and black bra. Should also say Zak Starkey’s “vision of ginger” behind the drums didn’t go unnoticed either. A nice touch.

After a closing “Magic Bus”, Roger apologised for a few gremlins throughout the show. For all the high-tech nature he appeared a touch put out he’d been given a B harmonica instead of a B Flat for “Baba O’Riley” and then suffered unwanted feedback with his harp during the last song. “But who gives a shit?” He’s fooling no-one this time. Roger Daltrey loves The Who and is fiercely proud of them. I love them too; they’re the kings of any neighbourhood. 

205 Goldhawk Road, Shepherd's Bush

WILKO JOHNSON and ROGER DALTREY at the SHEPHERD'S BUSH EMPIRE

Issue 38 of Shindig! is out in newsagents today, containing  - amongst many other things - welcome features on Nigel Waymouth, Mary Love and John Sinclair. It also includes my review of Wilko and Daltrey’s gig from last month. Their album, Going Back Home, was released on Monday and sounds exactly as it should.

I don’t know if Wilko Johnson created a bucket list but making a new album with Roger Daltrey for Chess Records would be an audacious dream for most yet for Wilko, he simply got on and did it without any fuss. Tick, job done.

Ahead of release they’re in Shepherd’s Bush showcasing Going Back Home – a collection of new recordings of Dr. Feelgood songs, Wilko solo songs and a Dylan cover - for the first time. Accompanied by Norman Watt-Roy on bass and Dylan Howe on drums, for thirty minutes Wilko juts from side to side, chops at his guitar strings with his open hand and machine-guns his audience, belying the doctor who gave him an expiry date of four months earlier. As engaging as ‘All Right’, ‘Barbed Wire Blues’ and a drawn out ‘Roxette’ are, it’s impossible not to feel the expectation hanging heavy in the air awaiting Daltrey’s appearance.

One street and fifty years from where Daltrey fronted a fiery British R&B band at the Goldhawk Road Social Club led by a uniquely styled song writing guitarist, he’s back doing it again. With the addition of Daltrey, the always welcome sight of Merton Mick Talbot on keys, and Steve Weston blowing a mean blues harp, the sextet breathe new life and power into Wilko’s songs.

It’s an ideal combination, Wilko does what he does best – cutting razor sharp shapes and sounds - and Daltrey, at last, gets to wrap his vocal chords around fresh material. Stripped from the security of The Who, his familiar moves, his microphone twirling, Daltrey is out of his comfort zone but gamely throws himself centre stage, dancing like a slightly awkward fella at a wedding. His voice is still strong and any ragged edges are far better suited here to the blues-based ‘Going Back Home’, ‘Some Kind Of Hero’, ‘Sneaking Suspicion’ and ‘Ice On The Motorway’ than anything the theatrical Townshend may now throw at him.

They make a natural pair, full of down the boozer geezerness and old rogue charm. If Daltrey fluffs some lyrics, then so what? “This is a lot of shit to remember at my age,” he jokes, “you fucking come up here and try to do it”. When Daltrey asks if they can slow down so he can catch his breath he nods towards Wilko and says “Fucking cancer, it speeds him up, gives him energy”.

Whatever gives Wilko energy – determination, bloody-mindedness, luck, the stars – it rubs off all around him, from the band to the squashed, over-capacity crowd. It’s an emotional night but the overriding emotion is joy, as shown in the huge grin worn on Wilko’s face throughout as he looks across his left shoulder to see his bandmate, that bloke from The ‘Oo, belting out his own songs and a pandemonium inducing version of ‘I Can’t Explain’.

An encore gives a second airing to the rip-roaring ‘I Keep It To Myself’ before, without any fuss or sentimentality, a quick wave and dignified exit. Tick, job done.  

THE IMPRESSIONS AND A YOUNG SHEPHERD’S BUSH MOD’S FORGOTTEN STORY

By chance I happened upon a record fair on Saturday at the Shepherd’s Bush Village Hall. Much of it was overpriced tat but in a green plastic crate marked “Soul/Disco”, and nestled next to Lionel Richie, War and 1980s Motown LPs with garish artwork, was The Impressions Big Sixteen. Sixteen lessons in understated lilting soul music as immaculate as the cut of Curtis, Sam and Fred’s one-button suits, released on His Master’s Voice in the UK in 1965; all of which I already own at least once, most as singles, but not on this actual album. It was on sale for the not unreasonable sum of £20, but in these austere times and with no new music on offer, expensive enough.

Its condition was only marred by the black biro of one Jeremy Pearce. I recall, many moons ago, mentioning to my mother the practice of writing names on record labels and record sleeves. I was shocked people would deface them in such a way. She explained her friends did it in the 60s when taking records to parties at friends’ houses. Jeremy had gone further than that, not only writing his name but adding “This is my most valued possession. Respect it as such please”. I liked Jeremy immediately. Being hip to The Impressions in mid 60s London marked him as a man of discerning taste and referring to their LP as his most valued possession, well, he would’ve been the one of the faces in my book. My first thought was he’d given it to a girlfriend as a dramatic romantic gesture but the testiness of the message makes the party option more likely.

I thought about buying it. Not only because it’s a marvellous record but because of Jeremy. It felt sad to see something he loved abandoned in a village hall sharing a crate that also had a section marked “Depeche Mode/Erasure/Pet Shop Boys”. But I was on my way to QPR around the corner and if you’ve ever experienced the cramped conditions at Loftus Road you’ll know they aren’t conducive to taking care of anything valuable, plus I was hoping for moments of wild celebration as QPR scored their first goal back in the top flight of English football after a 15 year absence.

Watching the game I kept thinking about that record and its history. Being born a mile away I’m biased, but I’ve always considered Shepherd’s Bush as Mod's birthplace. A short walk from the village hall, across the green, stood the Goldhawk Road Social Club (it’s still there, now renamed the Shepherd’s Bush Club), the legendary haunt where local boys The Who cut their teeth on soul and R&B covers, and where Ready Steady Go recruited 100 Faces to showcase the latest mod dances and fashions to the nation early every Friday evening. In the mid-80s on the corner of the green was Sneakers, now regarded by many as the mod club of that generation, which I went to a couple of times as a wide-eyed teenager. Jeremy would have gone to the Goldhawk and one night after seeing The Action cover “Meeting Over Yonder”, “People Get Ready” and other Impressions songs there, he nipped home on his Lambretta en route to a party down the Kitchener Road, and picked up the original versions on Big Sixteen. He liked The Action better than other groups but preferred to go directly to the source. His fellow mods duly treated the LP with sufficient reverence if its current condition is anything to go by: no scratches, no finger prints, no bends, only tiny surface marks where it has been carefully removed countless times from the inner sleeve.

By this stage, having created a whole life for Jeremy, I felt terrible for not rescuing his record. The fair ended at five o’clock and the match was due to end about five to. I’d never make it. Now, the only upside in seeing QPR get thrashed 4-0 at home by Bolton Wanderers was it meant I could slip away a few minutes early. I ran through the streets, huffing and puffing, giving myself a stitch, but got there in time and the LP is now mine. I can’t help but wonder what happened to Jeremy Pearce and how he became parted from his most treasured possession. If you’re reading this Jeremy I’d love to reunite you with Big Sixteen but if not, I promise to look after and respect it the way you wished.

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