Go To The Mirror!
The worst birthday I ever had was the first one without my mother. The second worst was the one where The Who played the Super Bowl halftime show. They sounded terrible, a fact I blamed on the production team. I’d seen them play live twice on a tour for their first album since 1982. The Indianapolis Colts went on to lose that game to the New Orleans Saints. An ignominy made worse by the QB being a Purdue alumnus and one of those freaks who went by Drew. On some level, I never trusted anyone who went by anything other than Andrew.
Leading up to the game, I was stoked. My favorite football team was back in the big game and playing in the same stadium where they’d won a title three days before I turned 18. There would come no soft purple rains that night and no victory for the Colts.
They scored as many points in that loss as the Chicago Bears had three years prior. I’d spent that game translating passages of Latin homework.
I was also looking forward to the game because one of my favorite bands of all time was playing at halftime. This was during that stretch of Super Bowl programming overcorrection where they did all they could to avoid another controversial moment like the “wardrobe malfunction” during Super Bowl XXXVIII.
The halftime entertainment played it safe for years after, calling on numerous classic rock bands and artists to provide entertainment that wouldn’t scandalize America like the sight of Janet Jackson’s breast had.
I found the reaction to that so bizarre; Jackson was wearing something over her nipple, and it was visible only for seconds. The response was so Puritanical, but that was typical for the era of Bush II.
That semester of college, I was taking a class on public relations, and one of our early assignments was a scouting report. So, I decided to do one on Pete Townshend. I was thorough and didn’t shy away from controversies in his career. I was so meticulous that my professor nicknamed me CIA.
I already had a reputation for being knowledgeable, and that report cemented my bonafides. For the rest of the semester, my classmates called me CIA. I’m not sure if they even knew my real name. It was a class of about 110 people.
I should not have been surprised by that Super Bowl; the universe seems to have a wicked sense of humor when it comes to me, finding delight in timings or contexts that really lay on the humiliation and misery. All I can do is laugh instead of cry. An approach not too far from “I Gotta Dance to Keep from Crying,” a song by The Miracles that was covered by The Who when they were still known as The High Numbers.
Laughing in the face of humiliation is an act of defiance and a coping strategy. Five years ago, while the police were putting up caution tape outside the house, we were standing in the cold of January, and I was cracking jokes. It takes the sting out of it and allows some control over your pain and humiliation.
Viewing it as deliberate humiliation is another form of cope, the alternative is just unfortunate coincidences in a world indifferent to your joy and sorrow. You are not special; you are nothing, a wisp of an idea whose impact on the world can be measured in a blink on the timeline of the universe. Unless you end the world or something, but then there will be nobody to remember it was you that launched the nukes and to curse your black heart in hell.
The Who had tried to prepare me for a world of disappointment. My first ever job was at a movie theater. I spent most of the early days of employment cleaning theaters. My first night on the job coincided with the release of Harry Potter And The Goblet of Fire. I was assigned to concessions, the labor equivalent of starting your military career by stepping onto Omaha Beach.
Instead of getting torn up by machine gun fire or blown up by a landmine, I was overwhelmed by orders for tubs of popcorn and drinks. One manager saw my performance that night and decided all I was fit for was usher duty.
I would have stayed in that role had I not advocated for myself and asked for additional training. By the time I was done, I’d worked every role but projectionist. We were still showing film in those days, so it took more training than now, since most theaters only show films in the digital format.
I volunteered or was volunteered for pushing the trash gondola from theater to theater. I swapped out the sometimes overflowing bags for new ones and hauled them to the trash compactor, trying to avoid splashing my white shirt with garbage water, a noxious effluvium of popcorn, soda, and melted ICEEs.
It was a filthy, nasty, and lonely job. I often ran behind the rest of the ushers and spent much time alone. The holiday movie season can be pretty brutal on the weekends, especially if there’s a staff shortage. Some moviegoers were messier than others.
And while I pushed my tiny garbage barge to and fro, I had songs from Quadrophenia playing in my head, like “The Dirty Jobs,” a song that outlays indignities suffered by the working class.
The chorus, bridge, and third verse especially resonated.
I’m getting put down, I’m getting pushed ‘round
I’m being beaten every day
My life’s fading, things are changing
I'm not gonna sit and weep again
My karma tells me
“You’ve been screwed again
If you let them do it to you
You’ve got yourself to blame
It’s you who feels the pain
It’s you who takes the shame”
I am a young man, I ain’t done very much
You men should remember how you used to fight
Just like a child, I’ve been seeing only dreams
I’m all mixed up, but I know what’s right
The whole album was about the pressure to fit in and the disappointment that followed when, despite all your efforts, you failed to make a strong impression or get in with cool kids. I have always felt like an outsider, which is funny to consider since the world is built to cater to all my whims. I suspect it may have to do with how often I moved around as a kid. We relocated four times before I turned 9. It was harder to put down lasting roots when you moved every two to three years. Starting over in a new place is just a fact of life for me.
Another factor is that none of my parents had any ties to where we lived. It was always for my dad’s job or after the divorce, for mom to attend law school. We didn’t have close family living nearby; it was just the four of us, then just the three of us. I had to make myself a Hoosier, just as I had to serve as my own dad or cool uncle when it came to learning about music and discovering songs, bands, and albums that were new to me.
I also think that’s where the jokes came from: a desire to be liked. If someone is making you laugh, it’s easier to like them was my thinking. Efforts to fit in included watching MTV and VH1 so I would be familiar with the music my peers liked. Eventually I was happy marching to the beat of my drummer, but it took time.
Quadrophenia was just what I needed as an angry young man of 16. I was kind of a loser in high school. I had a group of friends and was active in the theater department, but no girls I liked ever felt the same way about me. Typical teenage angst, a tale as old as find. Like a lot of terminally unloveable and unfuckable losers, I assumed my intentions would be clear, and the object of my affection would intuit my feelings and take the lead.
I was generally too shy and afraid of the humiliation that would come with being so vulnerable to ever divulge my feelings so directly. That’s a recipe for creating a toxic and resentful sort of guy, the type who now haunts the web moaning about how shallow women are for not wanting a nice guy like them, even if they’re not actually particularly nice, but rather a pushover over or people pleaser.
They think that behaving in a certain way guarantees them a girlfriend or perhaps something more vulgar and base. As if getting a woman to fall for you is like working out a puzzle in a point and click game, like Monkey Island or Grim Fandango. You know the type; you may have even been them at one point or another.
In my defense, I’d not had a promising track record up to that point. Late in elementary school, I used to be pestered at lunch by this group of giggling girls. One of the group would inform me that another of their group liked me. I’d never spoken or interacted with any of these girls, which is why I thought it was a joke.
At that age, I don’t think I was doing anything to draw attention to myself. I wasn’t shy about answering in class and I was reading all the time, after my class work was done, in the hallway between classes, and sometimes on the playground.
Instinctively, I knew that they were trying to make me the butt of a joke, and I had no intention of playing ball. Even I knew then pretty girls didn’t go for fat boys. Which is kind of a fucked up thing to internalize at that age.
Ultimately, I did not want to cede power to anyone; I wouldn’t let myself be humiliated. I think that desire to maintain control is one reason I can’t really give myself over to musical or religious ecstasy that easily. It’s not easy putting yourself out there when there’s so much evidence that who you are will be rejected. Never quite good enough.
I wouldn’t say I got bullied a lot growing up; there were times I got picked on, but they were uncommon. And I’m sure there were things I did that were hurtful, things I might not have been aware of at the time. Nobody is at their best during those years.
All those are big reasons why The Who appealed to me. There was an edge to their music, an anger that I didn’t find in other music I was listening to. I liked that they destroyed their instruments. Sometimes you can only express your frustration and anger by smashing your guitar. It expressed the frustrations I felt then. I felt like I was waiting for life to start and watched my classmates hit milestones I never did. On Valentine’s Day, I celebrated Live At Leeds Day, and listened to one of the best live albums of all time.
When I was a sophomore in high school, a stretch of cold weather delayed the start time by two hours, so I turned on the TV and began browsing to find something interesting to watch. This is how I came across Ken Russell’s Tommy on cable.
At that point, I was aware of The Who through their appearance on The Simpsons or their songs being featured in movies like Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, on television programs like CSI and the various offshoots, and the 60s stations on AOL’s radio.
On that initial viewing, I remember being captivated by the music, and it made me want to seek out more of it, so I started with the album the film was based on: Tommy. By that point in my life, I’d already seen Almost Famous. William Miller’s sister Anita gifts him her records before she goes off to pursue her dreams. Among the albums is Tommy, inside of which is left a note “Listen to Tommy with a candle burning and you will see your entire future.”And while I didn’t listen to it with a candle lit, I did see my future, and it was more music.
For me, The Who filled the role that punk music fills in the lives of angsty teens worldwide. I listened to Quadrophenia over and over.
Along with accelerating my interest in The Who, Ken Russell’s Tommy allowed me to end an argument at the local comic store. My friends and I were chatting about Batman Begins , which had recently come out. Another customer joined the conversation.
He said the film didn’t really portray Batman as a great detective or delve into the other facets of the character beyond dressing theatrically and beating up criminals, which is something that previous films also failed to do.
My friends offered examples from the Nolan film that undercut his point, and the customer then implied that none of us were getting laid. This was pretty funny, considering the topic at hand, the location, and the ages involved.
We were all teenagers, and he was older than us—a true encapsulation of the message board experience in real life. Then I chimed in that we should be grateful that at least in the 1989 film, Nicholson didn’t sing like he did in Tommy. That finally led to the end of the argument; the other customer let it be because I’d out-nerded him. Or simply didn’t know how to respond.
That sounds like one of those “And then everybody clapped!” moments, but I just wanted an excuse to bring up The Who, and that was the perfect way to shoehorn them in.
Revisiting Tommy years later made me appreciate the film more, particularly the weirder aspects like Ann-Margret rolling around in beans. Knowing the abuse and trauma that shaped Townshend’s childhood puts the album and film in a new light, and the title character’s inability to communicate due to traumatic experiences resonates with anyone who has suffered something traumatic and unable to articulate it. I have no mouth, and I must scream.
In the months following The Incident™️ I was unable to write. I had no problem writing tweets and the like, but I had a block on anything more substantive in content and length.
I had been working as a reporter before my entire life was blown up; writing daily was my life. It took me two months to be able to articulate what had happened to me, what had been done to my mother, and the aftershocks of that earth-shattering event.
I have found my trauma to be incredibly isolating. Everyone has lost or will lose a parent, but not the way I did. No one has been able to relate to what I have been through. My words failed me to write about it because what can be said about something so horrific? Any words of comfort might ring hollow because they will fall short of the horror that has taken place. They would ring false even if they were given with love and concern.
Tommy witnesses the murder of his father, and that experience leaves him deaf, dumb, and blind. His state of dissociation also leaves him vulnerable to the cruelty of others, like his Cousin Kevin, who commits sadistic acts against Tommy, and Uncle Ernie, who abuses Tommy in another way.
Multiple attempts are made to cure Tommy of his condition: sex, drugs, and religion among them, but none of them works. He can play pinball by perceiving the vibrations of the table and finds he’s very good at it. The pinball element was added to placate the music critic Nik Cohn, a pinball fanatic with a lukewarm response to hearing an early version of the album. The incorporation of pinball had him singing a different tune entirely: he called it a masterpiece. A doctor’s diagnosis reveals that his symptoms are psychosomatic. It’s only after his mother smashes the mirror that he can snap out of his dissociative state.
In the aftermath of trauma, it’s common to dissociate and isolate yourself, especially when depression comes out of PTSD; ultimately, spending that much time in your head and dwelling on those thoughts is a cycle that feeds on itself. Something else is needed: reframing the thoughts or introducing something new that draws one out of isolation. When I am at my worst, spending days shut up at home, only coming out at night, what helps draw me out is doing something for others. If I don’t want to live for myself, I can try to live for others.
That’s why “Go To The Mirror!” is such a powerful song and moment on the album for me. It represents a chance to break the cycle and find connection. It doesn’t hurt that it has a truly great guitar part.
The theme of connection is why I love “Sally Simpson,” which tells the story of a young acolyte to Tommy’s religious movement. She attends a sermon given by him with the hope of connecting with him. She gets on stage and is able to touch him but is thrown off the stage by security. Anyone who has truly loved music, especially at a young age, has likely dreamed of meeting their idols, even just for a moment—to be seen and heard and understood.
My life for the past five years has been all about fighting the inertia of my traumatized brain, desperately trying to smash the mirror so that I can live the life I want, the life that was stolen from me. A life of connection, a life filled with love and happiness.
After Tommy, I got The Ultimate Collection, and from there, I went for their other albums: The Who Sell Out, A Quick One, My Generation, and Who’s Next. Those early singles remain so potent, even if I don’t listen to The Who as much as I once did.
I liked the sound of those early singles: pulsing with energy, yet melodic, and with hooks that stayed with you. I liked “I Can’t Explain” for the staccato guitar riff, backing vocals provided by The Ivy League, and that guitar solo! Townshend played a Rickenbacker on that song, and you can tell.
He also played a Rickenbacker on “Substitute,” which I’ve heard was inspired by the riff from “19th Breakdown.” The lyrical conceit came from “The Tracks of My Tears” by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles.
I never had any questions regarding my gender identity, but I could dig “I’m A Boy” because it had all those classic lyrics elements that made The Who's early output stand out. I could also relate to pushing back when forced into a role that doesn’t mesh with your ideas and dreams about your life.
“Pictures of Lily” is the song that caused Townshend to coin the term power pop. And it’s fitting, given its subject matter. Power pop listeners tend to be solo acts, if you take my meaning. It’s a genre full of yearning and heartbreak buoyed by propulsive bass and drums, guitars that jangle but pack a punch over sticky, sweet melodies.
I always found it funny that a genre that grew out of The Beatles had to use the parlance of our times, “zero bitches.” In order words, it was for fucking losers. This is why it got its hooks into me and why I’ll gladly spend time arguing about bands like 20/20, The Quick, and Shoes.
Every subculture needs one niche they can point to and say, “Glad I’m not that fucking guy.” For some, it’s Warhammer 40K, and for music nerds, it might be power pop. Music nerds love many of those bands, but to devote yourself to it is sad, like never getting over high school.
That fall, when I took to the road for the first time, I played “Going Mobile.” When we found giant monitors backstage in the theater, we tested them out by blasting “Baba O’Riley.”
I liked to play that one loud on my truck stereo during bright and warm spring days. During the early days of YouTube, I’d use it to watch archival clips of rock bands. I watched a lot of live Who clips, especially their appearance on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, which was explosive in several senses. My favorite was their performance for The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus.
My senior year, I got to see The Who twice. First at the United Center in Chicago and a second time at Gainbridge Fieldhouse, back when it was still Conseco. I saw them both times with my brother. The first time Mom was with us. She drove to and from Chicago in one night and after working that day. Though I grew up with one parent, she consistently went above and beyond in all she did, her attempt to make up for his absence in our life.
She was not really a fan of The Who, but she did tell us a story about my dad that involved them. Supposedly, he was at the airport at the same time as them. They were passing through on a cart, and one of them or a roadie said something like, “Get out of the way, we’re The Who!” And my dad allegedly said, “I don’t give a fuck who you are.” That’s what he thought passed for a witty rejoinder. And knowing him, I’d bet he said that under his breath, or it came to him later. L'esprit de l'escalier. A real George Costanza. A failson has many fathers.
At my college radio station, the final show of the semester was whatever you wanted it to be, so long as you didn’t violate any FCC rules. My friend and I started did a show together, a proto-version of the show we’d host together the following semester. We played music from the Zappa Extended Universe and a tribute to all the musicians who had died during the previous decade. We ended that block with “Brainwashed.” We also played all of The Who Sell Out and I did a half-assed photoshop of our faces on the cover.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship that continues to this day. Much like me coming across Tommy on cable. It was the push I needed to get into The Who. May I always find the push I need that gets me to the bright and beautiful parts of life.