By TRB
John Entwistle died just eight years ago this past June, but I didn’t think about it until the other day. That is what it is like when you begin to grow older; this death thing means a little less to you every year, probably because so many of your friends have already gone.
John Entwistle (in a photo on right which I took) was a very peculiar man for a rock artist, especially as a member of a major rock group, one of the most successful rock bands of all time. You wouldn’t have known it to talk to him because, quite frankly, he would say anything. To put it bluntly, he was not the band’s publicist. He was, however, extremely proud to be a member of the group. It was the kind of pride you normally see in members of sports teams. He was a character.
Once in Nuremberg we were sitting outside this restaurant and apparently, some idiot from a “New Wave” band had called The Who “dinosaurs” in some obscure British pop magazine and somehow it had gotten back to John. Maybe it was because he was in a bad mood or it might have been because The Who were closing for a number of “New Wave” bands in a performance that night. But he just blew up.
“People don’t go out to see those fu***** bands,” he said loudly. (I’m quoting from the article I wrote at the time.) “Why do you think these so-called fans are even bothering to show up for their pathetic gig? They’re not coming out tonight to see them. They’re coming to see the bloody Who.”
Most people remember John for that “tire-over-a-bumpy-road” bass line in “Talking ’Bout My Generation,” written by his band mate Peter Townshend. But he was more than that. And though sometimes his frenzied bass would irritate Peter, even he had to admit that John was really not playing the bass like one would normally play the bass. John was playing the bass as one would play a lead guitar. And that was hard to do. In fact, it gave The Who a unique sound. If you had never heard the song before and it suddenly came over the radio, you almost immediately knew it was The Who. John’s sound was a big part of that.
But they were all equally over the top with talent. Roger Daltrey had this made-for-rock n’ roll voice, this prototype of a rock voice, that singers still try to copy today, but can’t. Peter could play the hell out of a guitar creating sounds that it might take two guitarists playing simultaneously to make. He was also a moving performer, who seemed to conduct the band, sometimes almost as an afterthought. Then there was Keith Moon, the most bombastic rock drummer in history. All arms, elbows and sticks. While playing the drums, he looked as though he might fly apart at any minute - into maybe a million pieces.
But all that was back in the good old days, before Keith Moon died, before Peter disappeared into his own solo work. Before the band got depressed.
Their road manager was Bill Curbishley back then. He was different than most road managers. He was actually a gentleman - he was even funny. As a rock critic you are always following bands around. It is easy to do in Europe. In fact, they follow you around over there, because they want publicity in English. But it’s another thing in America, where the competition to cover a band can be quite exhausting. I always knew the hotels Bill stayed at, though, so I could usually get him on the line. And he was always polite to a fault.
Once I got him staying in New York City. He was glad I had called and I couldn’t figure out why. “Remember that incident in Cincinnati at the Coliseum, “ he asked. I told him I did. It was pretty well known that back in 1979 The Who had played the Coliseum, which apparently wasn’t ready to handle the crowds The Who could draw. Fans crushed other fans in their anxiousness to get inside. Eleven people died, two dozen were injured. And Peter Townshend was extremely upset. In fact he gave serious thought to never playing in large venues like that ever again. The incident happened because of a method they used in filling those venues - it was basically first come, first seated, so the pressure was on the fan to get into the building and into a good seat. The results were often tragic. They don’t do that anymore.
So, back to Curbishley, “Now Peter’s paranoid about every place we play, especially these old places like the Boston Garden,” he told me. This conversation took place back when the Garden really was old. I said, “Then play the Centrum, you’ll make less money but it’s a brand new venue (It was at the time), probably has better safety features.”
And that was that. I was sure the band would look at the number of fans they could get into the Garden vs. the number that would fit in the Centrum, and they’d choose the Garden. But no. Peter was adamant and they were booked into the much smaller Worchester Centrum. Townshend wasn’t just kidding when he said he didn’t want to see anything like that (The Coliseum tragedy) ever happen again.
One of Bill’s Curbishley’s greatest assets was his relationship with Peter, who oftentimes wouldn’t even come out of his hotel room unless the building was burning to the ground. Townshend would sit in his room and write songs. That is what he did best, and that is all he wanted to do on most occasions. Bill could talk to Peter, he could reason with him. And this was important because in many ways Peter was The Who. He held it all together. It was, in many respects, his artistic vision played out on stage with three other guys with whom he liked to argue.
Kenny Jones was a drummer with the group Faces and the group Small Faces, and then one night Peter Townshend called him, told him The Who would tour Europe soon and would he like to be the drummer. At the time Kenny thought it was a joke. How the hell was he going to play like the slightly deranged, late Keith Moon? But Kenny was good. Really Good. Ringo Starr’s son plays drums for them now.
One night after the band’s sound check, I was sitting with John up on some scaffolding on which a tremendously large Who insignia was printed. He was talking a lot. This was back in the days when the band didn’t even show up for a show at the same time. They didn’t hang out together either.
“I think Peter has to write us some good songs,” John said without even looking at me. “It seems like he’s been saving all the good ones for his solo albums and we get the rejects.” I didn’t say anything. Entwistle would tell you what was on his mind, especially if he was in a bad mood. He might even be wrong, which I think he was in this case, but he’d tell you how he felt.
Down below us The Who laser show was being played to check for glitches before the actual performance, when out of nowhere, John said, “I hate those fuc**** lasers."
John Entwistle - just telling you how he really felt
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