Four songs into his marathon set, Pete Townshend treated the sold-out audience at Chicago's House of Blues to a lengthy preamble about the origins of the Who's "Anywhere, Anyhow, Anyway," one of the only songs on which he and Roger Daltrey shared songwriting credits. Amidst the anecdote was a veiled, unexpected admission: If he had to do the Who all over again, the partnership with Daltrey might have had more of a Glimmer Twins bent. His revelation came during the Who's "Quadrophenia" tour last year, where the pair buried the creative hatchet and collaborated on musical arrangements for the first time ever.

That said, the reality is the only things Townshend and Daltrey ever really shared were the spotlight and the microphone. And since the band broke up -- again -- the spotlight's been on mostly Pete. Sure, Daltrey's voice is more formidable and identifiable, and the one we still hear on classic rock radio, but his post-Who career's been a virtual dud without Townshend to crib him material. Meanwhile, Townshend has battled workman's tinnitus and orchestrated a spry and audacious solo career befitting a virtuoso.

Last night, the brains behind the band, sporting a little more snow on the roof and a little less roof on the ceiling, returned to Chicago for the second annual Pete Townshend Benefit show, staged to benefit Chicago's Maryville Academy, an agency which cares for drug-exposed infants and misguided youth. Admission was a lofty $175 -- chump-change and an obvious tax write-off for the white-collared attendees -- and all that cash (more than $300,000 was raised) oughta help Maryville buy that magic bus.

The two-and-half hour show -- which works out to about $1.15 per minute -- wasn't a hits package by any means, but Townshend did steer clear of most of the cryptic, decidedly uncommercial material that comprised his last two rock operas, The Iron Man and Psychoderelict. For most of the night, he strummed an acoustic guitar, which turned any mid-song switch to the electric variety into a nostalgic frenzy. Townshend, of course, fed on the crowd's feedback and unleashed his first trademark windmill during the pulsating conclusion to the otherwise Kokomo-flavored "Save It For Later," the only song anyone seems to know by the English Beat.

An orchestra stand was in place to help Townshend remember the lyrics he penned, a drum machine provided the backbeat for the grungy "Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere" and "Save It For Later," and horns and harmonica accompanied pop jigs like "Let My Love Open the Door" and "A Little Is Enough." Blonde songstress Tracy Langran, a nice surrogate for pictures of Lily, joined Townshend on acoustic guitar for much of the night and lent silky pipes to the ballad "A Friend Is a Friend" and the cheery "Sensation."

While introducing "Acid Queen," Townshend broached the long-running conjecture about his sexual preferences with some cheeky remarks about whether it was he or Tracy who was the true queen. (As if the pink and white Stratocaster he wielded during the previous song, "The Kids Are All Right" didn't provide a clue.)

Long before Townshend lost his hearing, most of his hair and his bandmate, Keith Moon, Townshend was a juggernaut on stage. He ripped into his strings until his fingers bled and he had no compunction about puncturing amplifiers or splintering his guitar on a nightly basis. That, of course, was a long time ago. Preparing to play Canned Heat's hippie-track Volkswagen jingle "Going Up the Country," his guitar strap broke and his guitar fell to the ground. Some laughed, but Townshend didn't. Rather, he slowly, calmly picked it off the floor and said, "Just dropping them doesn't do anything." Meet the new boss. Almost the same as the old boss.

BLAIR R. FISCHER
(August 17, 1998)