Men of a certain age love comeback stories about men of a certain age. We love the “he’s still got it” one and the “don’t count him out” version and the “he’s got one last chance” variety. We love all of them. Clearly, some women and men of less certain ages have a fondness for these narratives, as well. For decades, we’ve been lining up for “Rocky” sequels. And I don’t know a single person with a functioning heart who has left “The Natural” unmoved. Obviously, there are other stories and characters more deserving of celebration. There are less predictable and manipulative tales to be told. But, we keep coming back to the comeback. We love that shit.

Over the past few years, we’ve gotten a surprising number of these feel good stories. In 2019, after fans and non-fans had presumed he was washed up, forty three year old Tiger Woods won the Masters. And as robotic and broken and weird as I always found Tiger Woods to be, I have to admit that I was riveted. Just a couple of weeks ago, fifty year old Phil Mickelson one-upped his more accomplished nemesis when he won the PGA Championship. Earlier this year, Tom Brady won the Super Bowl for the seventh time, also at forty three. And then, of course, there is the story of that kindly, seventy seven year old grandpa who seemed destined for a fourth place finish and whose face was too tan and teeth too white. It verged on embarrassing for a minute. Nobody thought the old man stood a chance. We held our breath and prayed he would not catch COVID or fall down and hurt himself on the campaign trail. But, as it turned out, that lovable grandfather proved us all wrong. He became the forty sixth President of the United States of America.

So — yes — it’s enthralling when an aging man triumphs against time or expectations. But the inverse is also true. It is devastatingly sad to see our former heroes hold on too long, beyond their greatness and in spite of their decline. Like watching Mickey Mantle strike out and wince in his final at bats. Or seeing the shell of Muhammad Ali get pummeled for ten rounds by his former sparring partner, Larry Holmes. Growing up, my favorite baseball player was Eddie Murray, who had played twenty, mostly glorious seasons in the Major Leagues before chasing one final hurrah in 1998. That year, robbed of his bat speed, he found himself playing in the Minors for a few weeks before finishing up the season with a whimper. The press was mostly generous, framing the demotion as a “love of the game” story. But, to me, it felt like a tragedy.

Rock and Roll, as much as sports, is a young person’s game. And because of the relative newness of the form, It is really only recently that we’ve seen our musical heroes past their prime. Very few aged gracefully. Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen come to mind. Some, like Smokey Robinson and Kenny Rogers, tried desperately to defy age. Most, however, simply enjoyed their greater wisdom and freedom and slowed down into something that resembled a sunset. They released albums every few years. Once or twice a decade, critics might even suggest a “return to form.” The material rarely surpassed their younger output, but each release and each tour was an occasion nevertheless. Our heroes gained weight and seemed smaller, but rarely did they embarrass themselves. And, even when they did, we quickly forgave and forgot.

Paul McCartney’s voice held up surprisingly well and he learned to stay in and around Pop music. Van Morrison traded artistic revelation for a consistent, professional soul searching. The Stones learned to keep things simple and occasional. Dylan would stray and disappear, and then magically, unexpectedly return. But The Who, of all of those sixties icons, were perhaps the most curious and concerning case. Between 1965 and 1982, the group released ten studio albums, including two Rock operas. Following Keith Moon’s death in 1978, they still managed to squeeze out a couple of records in the early eighties. But, since “It’s Hard” from 1982, The Who have released exactly two albums. They have broken up and closed the curtains several times along the way. But, amazingly, The Who never really went away. 

From the very beginning, something about The Who was off. They started as a straight R&B band, with an unusually handsome singer who was more interested in managing the group’s finances than writing original songs. Fortunately for Roger Daltrey, his guitarist was extraordinarily musical, visionary and literate. Pete Townshend had bigger ideas than John Lennon, but with all of the perfectionism of Brian Wilson and ten times the volume of either. Their drummer was a charming prankster, an acrobat on the kit and an addict. And his partner in crime, the bassist, liked to play the song’s leads and fill in on horns. They were never the greatest band of their time but they may have been the most important one not named “The Beatles.” They were artsy, but just on the right side of pretentious. They were always progressive, but never Hippies. And, most enduringly, The Who, alongside The Kinks, are ground zero for Hard Rock and Punk Rock.  

They were also always on the verge of dissolution. Guitars and drums were destroyed. Roger Daltrey was briefly fired from the band. For over a decade, they left a wake of ruin behind them in every city they visited. They were banned from touring Australia for over thirty years. They kicked Abby Hoffman off the stage at Woodstock. Half the band died as a result of substance abuse and that’s to say nothing of Pete Townshend’s addiction. All the while, Pete and Roger tolerated each other and needed each other, but quite possibly disliked one another.

Somehow, Maximum R&B prevailed. No matter that, between 1983 and 2006, The Who did not release a single new album. No matter that they would retire one year only to fill stadiums a year later, leaving our ears ringing from the echoes of “Baba O’Riley,” “My Generation” and “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” No matter that “Tommy” and “Quadrophenia” were kind of bloated and mostly inscrutable. They gave us “Pinball Wizard” and "Love, Reign o'er Me.” No matter that Pete Townshend was so high minded and irascible. The fact was that he had higher standards than the rest of us. And, when he fell short, he still scraped the sky.

Yes, for the last forty years, The Who have been more of an idea and a memory than a band. But, on the other hand, they did little to sully their legacy. McCartney had his share of two star albums. The Stones as well. But The Who managed to avoid the bottom. Even after Keith died. Even after Pete was accused of something in the neighborhood of child pornography. Even after all of the bickering and infighting. Even after John died in 2002. Even after “Endless Wire,” from 2006, which many people ignored and most did not like. Even then, Pete and Roger could still nail the occasional three hundred yard drive or jack the occasional pinch hit home run over the center field wall.  

All of this was true until February 7, 2010 at Sun Life Stadium in Miami, Florida. That night, before a massive stadium crown and hundreds of millions of people watching online, The Who sounded like Muhammad Ali hoping to survive Larry Holmes. More specifically, Roger Daltrey sounded like me imitating Roger Daltrey; except with less range and lung capacity. The stage was huge. The songs were huge. But, that night, the singer was dismally small. He was sixty five at the time and he looked and sounded every day of it.

For over forty years, they had been defined in part by the power chord, in part by their bombast and in part by their wanton destruction. But equally, if not more so, they had been defined by their bare-chested adonis of a lead singer, who could sing fuller and louder than any other frontman. And for those twelve minutes of halftime in 2010, the band, minus Keith and John, did everything they could to sustain a greatest hits medley. But, it just wasn’t enough. Townshend could muster what he needed and could fake the rest. But Daltrey was done. And so, I figured, was The Who.

Later in 2010, it was revealed that the singer had been diagnosed with vocal cord dysplasia, which obviously affects voice function. If left untreated, often leads to throat cancer. Daltrey was successfully treated and studiously monitored. Within a year, he was touring again. There was a ”Quadrophenia” tour. A fifty year anniversary tour. Another Tommy “tour.” I paid no mind. In truth, I looked away, trying to avert the gaze of the man I had heard howling and croaking at the Super Bowl in 2010. I was surprised that Roger and Pete continued to tour. “For what?” I wondered. I presumed that, aside from the nostalgia and the volume, that these performances must have been painful. I figured that The Who were like most every other great Rock band that had come before them. Time had taken its toll. The only difference was the great lengths the band had previously traveled to avoid the embarrassment that eventually came. I closed the book on The Who. Its surviving founders were well past seventy years old. I feared an unhappy ending.

But then, in the winter of 2019, when the world was upside down and about to fall deeply into a pandemic, I heard a rumor. A friend told me that The Who had just released an album of new material, their first since 2006. That seemed almost unbelievable. I checked online and it proved to be true. In fact, early reviews suggested that the album, entitled simply “WHO,” sounded a great deal like the 1960s version of the band. “Right...no way,” I thought. One writer predictably called it a “return to form.” I rolled my eyes. Another writer, whose candor I respected, went so far as to say that Roger Daltrey sounded “reborn.” Now, that was a bridge too far.

As it turns out, that the bridge extended nearly that far. I was wrong and kind of astounded. Through a miracle of science, Roger Daltrey’s vocal cords had been repaired. He was in his seventies and had not regenerated lung cells or lean muscle mass. But, from the opening notes of “WHO,” it was clear that this was not the same singer I heard in 2010. The Who were not finished. In his early seventies, Pete Townshend had apparently softened. The face and singer of his songs -- the man he casually resented and bickered with for decades -- didn’t want things to end on the flaccid wail he’d left us with. He’d committed to finding his voice and rewriting the ending.

Whether it was Daltrey’s earnestness or Townhend’s age or something else, we’ll never know. But, at some point in the 2010s, Pete began to regard Roger as a friend. Not as a bandmate or a business partner. But as a man with whom he’d had an enduring and singular relationship. They were never best friends, but it was obviously the most important friendship either man ever had. And so, the writer offered the singer a great kindness. He sent him a dozen or so songs to sing. They were not his best songs. They were not labored over the way he sweated his mini-operas. But, they were cared for and smart. And, most importantly, they sounded like The Who. They were songs written by Pete Townshend to be sung by Roger Daltrey.

“WHO” opens with its two strongest tracks. “All the Music Must Fade” has “Kids are Alright” energy but with the addition of the their later synth programming. Like most Who songs, Townshend and Daltrey did not record their parts together. But you would not notice it here. Delivering what sounds like a letter from the writer to the singer, Daltrey sounds more full-throated than he has in decades. The verses are knowing and aged and the chorus is a combination of big and proud and sweet. That immense effort, contrasted with a song about existential irrelevance, feels uniquely Townshendish. Or, to be clear, uniquely, seventy-something Townshendish.

The following track, “Ball and Chain,” is also a knockout. Over a heavy Blues, Daltrey points out the hypocrisy of the world’s most famous democracy holding prisoners semi-secretly on an island off the coast of Cuba. It is sonically minimal and evokes The White Stripes at their very best. In the outro, however, Tonwshend shreds the guitar and the Daltrey tries to take flight. He doesn’t exactly soar but even hearing him get off the ground again is thrilling.

To be clear, rumors of The Who’s return to form were somewhat overstated. “WHO” is obviously not as nearly epic as “Tommy” or as anthemic as “Who’s Next.” It has been mostly likened to their earliest work, but you have to squint your ears a bit to believe that comparison. The songs loosely hold together in that several concern themselves with the passage of time and a few others take on politics from a wiser and wearier vantage. But Pete was very clear and proud of the fact that this was not a concept album. He simply assembled the best tracks he had on hand at the time -- the ones that he thought that Roger could take a good swing at -- and they called it an album.

As with most albums, even the good ones, there are ringers, there are some growers and there’s some filler. “I Don’t Want to Get Wise” would be the latter variety. Over a pert hook and handclaps, Roger and Pete reflect on their former selves and their former bandmates. Specifically, they revisit the psychological regression that often comes with  fame and gluttony. When he was a young man, the writer was not open to growth. He wanted closure. He wanted to feel right and to feel nothing. But, as an older man, he wants to see, hear and feel. There’s a “there” somewhere in the idea of the song. You can hear Pete’s mind at work. But, it’s just barely good enough. 

“Detour” is one of three songs expressly concerned with geo-politics and it's probably the straightest of the trio. Pino Palladino’s bass ably takes the song’s lead but is in constant competition with Townshend’s synth interruptions, suggesting that the writer has something else to say. The singer declares that, sometimes in life, we all need to stop and change direction. It’s a decent and true enough cliche. It was an apt one for the world in 2019. But it’s not something that Pete or Roger seem stirred by -- at least not here. 

The other politically-minded songs, are more surprising. “Beads on a String” tackles race and religion over a cloying, kumbaya stew of synths, middling tempo and big bass drums. It’s the sort of song that Bono would write and then throw out before he even cut a demo. Daltrey sounds just fine but the track reads insincere. Weirder still is “Rockin’ in Rage,” an anti-woke foot stomper. The once fearless singer now feels old and out on the margin. And he resents the bullying nature of the press and social media. But, the words are clumsy and the song itself has an uncanny tempo that never really sticks a beat. It might be a notion that the writer is passionate about, but it does not elicit any sparks for the singer or the band.  

In between the politics, we mostly hear Townshend trying out new ideas and Daltrey mostly rising to the occasion. “Street Song” is a slow burner about the London’s Grenfell Tower fire from 2017, in which 72 people died. It’s an anthem of place and time -- about families owning a location and then, in an instant, losing their only true possession. The song balances a prideful farewell with unthinkable tragedy. In some ways, it has the spirit of The Clash and Joe Strummer’s egalitarian politics. It’s similarly empathetic and occasionally majestic. It’s not perfect, but it has perfect moments.

“WHO” nearly amazes again on “I’ll be Back,” an infectious Soul workout about immortality. Pete takes lead vocals here, channeling a lot of Meher Baba and a little Hall & Oates. Notwithstanding the one verse where he raps, it’s a winning five minutes and a nice breather for Roger. On “Break the News,” we learn that Pete is not the only Townshend with big hooks and literate ideas. Brother Simon Townshend gets writing credits on this pert, mostly acoustic number about promising to always share the good news and to shelter his love from the unpleasantries. It’s sentimental and maybe terrible relationship advice, but it’s surely sweet. Perhaps more than anywhere else on the album, Daltrey’s age and lower register help the cause here. 

Although some of the tracks on “WHO” sound like sketches more than statements, the album does offer surprising breadth. Midway through, we get “Hero Ground Zero,” a throwback, Buddy Holly raver that features a character from a Pete Townshend novella. And on “She Rocked My World,” the closer, they pull out a Spanish guitar, some Flamenco and half a tab of Viagra, to stir up some romance. While they did not save their best for last, they did sign off with love.

At the risk of belaboring the sports metaphor I began with, 2019 was not the “back nine” for The Who. It was more like the nineteenth hole. Pete and Roger should have been in the clubhouse having a pint, recollecting past triumphs and apologizing for occasionally poor etiquette. Their tournament days were over. And while they may have never been the greatest, they were right up there. They won majors. And they could do some things with their clubs that nobody had done before and many had tried and failed since. There was no need for them to pick up their bags and take a swing again. Maybe a decade earlier, in their sixties. But not now. Not at seventy-something. Not after all the injuries. Not with the wrinkles and the paunch. Not with the risk of humiliation. And yet, they did.

They gave us one last magical round. It was far less than a masterpiece, but also so much more. It was a radical act of friendship. It was a defiance. It was a sober recognition. It was a great veteran’s savvy. It was unlike Tiger’s Masters and Phil’s PGA Championship. It was unlike Joe Biden’s win and Roy Hobb’s home run in “The Natural.” In reality, it was more like Satchel Paige at fifty, picking up the ball and throwing a shutout in the minors (which happened more than once). Or Tom Watson, at sixty, on the top of a major leaderboard for two rounds. It wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t a miracle. But it sounded just a little bit like both.

by Matty Wishnow