Page 24 - the NOISE May 2013

THE PUNKS AND THE GODFATHER
[The British “ye” is not pronounced like the American yee, more like yih or yuh]
Pete Townshend was on a bender.
The Who’s guitarist and songwriter had been on dozens of benders, but this one could win awards. It was March 1977. He and former manager Chris Stamp were at the Speakeasy in Soho, and both felt like they had just come from a funeral.
In a way, they had. A few hours prior, the two men attended a meeting Townshend had been putting off for years. Papers were signed that legally dissolved The Who’s managerial contract with Track Records and Kit Lambert.
Before anyone in the world gave a damn about The Who, there was Lambert and Stamp. The two had never managed f*ck-all in their lives. The Who were their first clients.
They were born hustlers. Kit Lambert was flamboyant and openly gay. He was a dreamer, willing to take absurd chances, but always with flair and panache. Not a dollars-and-cents man, but a great bullsh*tter. Chris Stamp, like The Who’s Roger Daltrey, was a tough street kid who talked with his fists, ready to bust some heads or knee some groins if the situation required. Stamp dealt with the undesirables, the crooked promoters and hang- ers-on looking to shaft the band out of any money they could.
Lambert and Stamp should have reacted like oil and water, but their personalities meshed perfectly in their singular devotion and belief in The Who. Lambert came up with grandiose plans while Stamp took care of the nuts and bolts. It was Kit Lambert who pushed Pete Townshend toward writing more ambitious music. The very idea of the “rock opera” was Kit’s. Townshend had publicly acknowledged that Tommy, the work that put The Who on the map in 1969, was as much Lambert’s creative vision as his.
The success of Tommy turned The Who into a serious cash- making machine and they eventually outgrew Lambert and Stamp. The band got professional managers and accountants who demanded an audit of Track Records to find out where all the money went. Stamp had left the organization in 1971, and Lambert was no bookkeeper. British tax law requires every penny accounted for, and Townshend knew what the audit would show.
In the beginning, The Who’s notoriety was based on smash- ing their instruments at the end of each gig. When they toured America, the destruction extended to hotel rooms. They spent lavishly, well before they could afford it. There was money for drugs, money for payoffs, and Kit and Chris made twice the usual management salaries. All of this put The Who deeply in the red for years. They were constantly scrambling for cash wherever they could find it.
But Lambert and Stamp did so much that went beyond mon- ey. Most of The Who’s best-loved music would not have existed without Kit Lambert’s inspiration. And how do you put a price on the sweat, the sleepless nights, the negotiations, the bad shows, the pep talks when the band’s spirits were low, the thou- sands of tiny things the two did that kept it all going? They were more than The Who’s managers and fans. Kit and Chris were their
Pete Townsend, photo by MikeFrankel.com
friends and their comrades. As drummer Keith Moon put it, “They were like us.”
The whole ordeal was ugly, but had to be done. The other three members of The Who were demanding it, and Lambert had had plenty of time to doctor the books and balance the numbers. When it was all over, Track Records lay ruined and Townshend was presented with a cashiers’ cheque for nearly two million pounds in unpaid songwriting royalties. It was little compensa- tion for the feeling in his stomach.
Inside The Speakeasy, Townshend stared at the cheque while Stamp brought another round of drinks to their table.
“Put that bloody thing away, already. Stop torturing yourself.” Pete placed it back in his pocket and continued his diatribe on the music industry. Stamp wryly observed that Townshend would make a fantastic revival preacher, if he could stick to one
subject.
The previous year, punk rock had exploded in Britain. Most of
Townshend’s peers laughed at the punks for their lack of musi- cianship, but Pete recognized their smash-it-up, f*ck-you attitude as similar to the spirit of the early Who. This Malcolm McLaren fel- low had clearly learned a thing or two about stirring up publicity from Lambert and Stamp.
Sex Pistols singer Johnny Rotten had made comments in the pressregarding“boringoldfarts,”andTownshendknewhisband was included in that heading. As Pete blathered on about the punks, Stamp wasn’t sure if Townshend loved or hated them. Probably a little of both.
Mid-speech, Townshend stopped as he observed two young kids at the bar who kept glancing their way. He nudged Stamp with his elbow.
“‘Oo are those two?” “Where?”
“Against the bar, the punks.”
Stamp squinted through the cigarette haze.
“Why, I do believe a couple of the dreaded Sex Pistols have
graced us with their presence.” “Oh, yeh?”
Abruptly Townshend rose, giving the table a hard bump. Stamp caught their drinks just in time. Pete strode across the room and stopped in front of the pair perched on their stools.
“Oi, what’re you liggers doin’ in a piss’ole like this?” “What the hell YOU doin’ere?” the blonde one muttered.
Townshend responded by grabbing the front of his jacket and hoisting him up to eye level. His barstool clattered to the ground.
“Uh ... hiya Pete. Nice to meet’cha.”
“Alright Mr. Rotten now listen ...”
“I’m not Johnny. My name’s Paul Cook. I play the drums.”
Townshend’s grip loosened.
“This is Steve Jones, he’s our guitarist.”
Townshend relaxed and the drummer’s feet touched floor. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“S’alright. Happens all the time.”
“Tourists, probably.”
“Wot?”
“Tourists, they probably mistake ye for Johnny.”
24 • MAY 2013 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us