If you needed more evidence that The Who died long before it got old, then “Endless Wire” provides ample evidence of the band’s sad, ignominious demise.
First off, let’s stop calling the band The Who. Sure, guitarist/songwriter Pete Townshend and vocalist Roger Daltrey have survived into late middle age. But if The Who didn’t die when brilliant, manic drummer Keith Moon died in 1978, then surely the band was finished when bassist supreme John Enwistle died in a Las Vegas hotel suite in 2002.
Call it the Townshend-Daltrey Band, call it any other preposition you choose, but “Endless Wire,” the lifeless new release from the band calling itself The Who, will go down as one of the saddest codas to a magnificent legacy as ever there was.
This album has been called proof of the band’s revitalization, but the post-Moon Who has foisted stinkers on us before. Remember “It’s Hard,” the last album, from 1982?
Don’t get fooled again.
The Who mastermind Townshend, whose stellar writing practically invented teen angst with songs like “My Generation,” and classic albums like “Quadrophenia,” has gone from angry young man to boring old gasbag.
“Endless Wire” is not worthy of what Townshend himself openly refers to as The Who “brand.” Rather, it is the cynical last gasp of a guy who has run out of ideas.
Want proof? How about a new “rock opera” as featured on this claptrap of self-indulgence? And it’s about getting a hit record, no less.
Townshend has apparently spent too much time figuring out which songs to peddle for shilling Hummers (“Happy Jack”) or TV shows -- the various “CSI” incarnations have Who songs as themes -- to actually come up with something worth listening to.
Even within the rock opera only “We Got a Hit” and “Mirror Door” have any sense of a pulse. Of course, The Who as we knew it was never about hits but about whole pieces of work, like “Tommy” or “Quadrophenia.” And by they way, “Endless Wire” ain’t a hit, making the irony of this mess all the more delicious.
The album opens with something called “Fragments,” which begins with a synth sound that comes off like a dozen casino slot machines. “In the Ether” has Townshend growling so deeply you’d swear Tom Waits had been brought in for a guest vocalist spot. And it ain’t pretty.
Townshend’s lyrics have always been a bit obscure, a little Zen, and nowhere is that more apparent than on “Fragments,” where he asks, “are we breathing out or breathing in?” Hmmm. Sounds like an endorsement for Scuba gear is in the making. Then there’s “A Man in a Purple Dress,” a brutally sanctimonious piece of tripe that shows how far Townshend is grasping to remain relevant. And of course there’s “God Speaks of Marty Robbins,” a dull and meaningless little ditty about “waking up and hear(ing) the music.”
Speaking of waking up, “It’s Not Enough” “Black Widows Eyes” and the lovely title cut are among the few things on the album that keep you interested. Every once in awhile, Townshend’s power chords and Daltrey’s howl, which is in surprisingly good shape, come through to show you the ghost of the splendid cacophony they once combined to create.
But you can’t help but ask yourself, “we waited 25 years for this?”
The album actually sounds more like Townshend’s solo material than The Who in whatever incarnation you choose to remember it. An accompanying DVD of the band live at Lyon is best ignored. Better to buy a copy of The Who “Live at the Isle of Wight Festival 1970.”
Look, it would be embarrassing for a man in his 60s to sing of the frustrations of young men. And yes, people grow and things change. To be sure, this is an album showing where the band is now as opposed to where it’s been. So in that sense, it shows a new phase for what’s left of the band.
But if you want products that better reflect the “brand” of the Who, you’re better off checking out “Who’s Next,” “Quadrophenia,” “Live at Leeds,” or even “The Who Sings My Generation.” But “Endless Wire” is not the starting point for getting to know the Who. If anything, it represents a sad footnote in the band’s career.
First off, let’s stop calling the band The Who. Sure, guitarist/songwriter Pete Townshend and vocalist Roger Daltrey have survived into late middle age. But if The Who didn’t die when brilliant, manic drummer Keith Moon died in 1978, then surely the band was finished when bassist supreme John Enwistle died in a Las Vegas hotel suite in 2002.
Call it the Townshend-Daltrey Band, call it any other preposition you choose, but “Endless Wire,” the lifeless new release from the band calling itself The Who, will go down as one of the saddest codas to a magnificent legacy as ever there was.
This album has been called proof of the band’s revitalization, but the post-Moon Who has foisted stinkers on us before. Remember “It’s Hard,” the last album, from 1982?
Don’t get fooled again.
The Who mastermind Townshend, whose stellar writing practically invented teen angst with songs like “My Generation,” and classic albums like “Quadrophenia,” has gone from angry young man to boring old gasbag.
“Endless Wire” is not worthy of what Townshend himself openly refers to as The Who “brand.” Rather, it is the cynical last gasp of a guy who has run out of ideas.
Want proof? How about a new “rock opera” as featured on this claptrap of self-indulgence? And it’s about getting a hit record, no less.
Townshend has apparently spent too much time figuring out which songs to peddle for shilling Hummers (“Happy Jack”) or TV shows -- the various “CSI” incarnations have Who songs as themes -- to actually come up with something worth listening to.
Even within the rock opera only “We Got a Hit” and “Mirror Door” have any sense of a pulse. Of course, The Who as we knew it was never about hits but about whole pieces of work, like “Tommy” or “Quadrophenia.” And by they way, “Endless Wire” ain’t a hit, making the irony of this mess all the more delicious.
The album opens with something called “Fragments,” which begins with a synth sound that comes off like a dozen casino slot machines. “In the Ether” has Townshend growling so deeply you’d swear Tom Waits had been brought in for a guest vocalist spot. And it ain’t pretty.
Townshend’s lyrics have always been a bit obscure, a little Zen, and nowhere is that more apparent than on “Fragments,” where he asks, “are we breathing out or breathing in?” Hmmm. Sounds like an endorsement for Scuba gear is in the making. Then there’s “A Man in a Purple Dress,” a brutally sanctimonious piece of tripe that shows how far Townshend is grasping to remain relevant. And of course there’s “God Speaks of Marty Robbins,” a dull and meaningless little ditty about “waking up and hear(ing) the music.”
Speaking of waking up, “It’s Not Enough” “Black Widows Eyes” and the lovely title cut are among the few things on the album that keep you interested. Every once in awhile, Townshend’s power chords and Daltrey’s howl, which is in surprisingly good shape, come through to show you the ghost of the splendid cacophony they once combined to create.
But you can’t help but ask yourself, “we waited 25 years for this?”
The album actually sounds more like Townshend’s solo material than The Who in whatever incarnation you choose to remember it. An accompanying DVD of the band live at Lyon is best ignored. Better to buy a copy of The Who “Live at the Isle of Wight Festival 1970.”
Look, it would be embarrassing for a man in his 60s to sing of the frustrations of young men. And yes, people grow and things change. To be sure, this is an album showing where the band is now as opposed to where it’s been. So in that sense, it shows a new phase for what’s left of the band.
But if you want products that better reflect the “brand” of the Who, you’re better off checking out “Who’s Next,” “Quadrophenia,” “Live at Leeds,” or even “The Who Sings My Generation.” But “Endless Wire” is not the starting point for getting to know the Who. If anything, it represents a sad footnote in the band’s career.
