“Why don’t you all f-f-f-fade away?” – The Who.
How immortal they must have felt, that first generation of rock stars. As beat turned to psychedelic rock in the US and the UK, The Beatles, Kinks and Doors recorded masterpieces. Motown records had the Midas touch and would go on to invent funk and disco, the African American blues greats, represented by Muddy Waters and Taj Mahal, finally got the accolades they deserved for the 20th century’s greatest invention…Rock’n’Roll.
When the Who stood at Woodstock and sang “I Hope I die before I get old”, did they really mean it?
Pete Townsend, one of rock’s most eloquent purveyors of youthful angst, is preparing to celebrate The Who’s 50th anniversary. But it is not The Who without Moon and Entwistle, one of the most charismatic rhythm sections of all time. It is two old men reminiscing about The Who.
Paul McCartney becomes closer and closer to becoming the crazy old uncle every year. A man who created pop music of such quality that even the classical critics stopped and listened. Now he is 72, and despite constant touring and recording, youtube videos such as his Meat Free Mondays rap (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UXzS1JHm04w) suggest that his critical faculties are fading by the day. His closest contemporary , Brian Wilson, lost it years ago.
So what happened to this generation that thought they would change the world with rock’n’roll? The first generation of working class kids to escape from the shackles of stage-managed images and elevate the music of the people to a respected art form?
I was a teenager in the 1990s. Our generations rock musicians looked back to the 60s for inspiration. The generation before us has seen punk stars spit at the bloated rock dinosaur forefathers. Our generation watched videos of Hendrix at Woodstock through cheap rose tinted sunglasses. But beneath this fascination with the Summer of Love was also held resentment. Our parents had been that the generation. The post-war, baby-boomers. Our parents had invented teenagers and youthful rebellion, free love and experimenting with drugs. But they gave all that up and voted for Reagan and Thatcher. The opinion of 15 year old me was that our parents did not deserve the 1960s.
Obviously with age, the mystique of the rock god falls away. Lennon, the man who sang give peace a chance, was a violent hypocrite, and there are precious few stars from the 60s that stand up for scrutiny. If they didn’t die young, they got old, and I realise now that it isn’t my parent’s fault that the 60s disappeared and the 80s happened. It’s just time, and you can’t stop time.
Jack Bruce, bass player in Cream, died last week. I despise Eric Clapton and cannot listen to Cream, but I have to recognise Bruce as a key British musician during the one the finest moments of pop music. However, at the age of 71, his death isn’t a tragedy. The average life expectancy in the UK is 81, but no one is saying Bruce died too young. Time marches on and now we will watch the 60s generation die one by one. How long before Dylan, McCartney or Keith Richards go? I often think, when I have children, will they be born in a world in which all the Beatles are dead?
But as people, as skin and bone, they don’t matter. Townsend will never make another record as exhilarating as I Can See For Miles, but because of him and his generation, people still continue to make vibrant and immediate pop. The 60s came and went, they were just a collection of moments that inspired each other, the groundwork was done, and we continue to build. Maybe one day, because of the golden generation, someone will write a pop song that will change the world.
