The Who
Endless Wire

ENDLESS WHORE.

I'll open a parenthesis (or "paresis" given the theme) on the latest exploits of this duo of "historic" musicians from the beloved island across the channel. I say duo because essentially THE BAND no longer exists, and here they've truly lowered themselves to cobbling together scraps of emotions now mired in years past.

I find myself at the Old Whore Glory Institute in London, a dilapidated barrack that hosts singers now out of the loop due to age, who gather here to karaoke their old hits, between a broth soaked in crumbled crackers and a dizzying procession of nurse-fish who whirl around with trays full of pills with bizarre and reassuring names (ProstaTEX, MemorWHAT?!, WHOareyou etc.).
Oh no... little detractors, I am not a patient against my will but have been invited to write a review of this "Endless Wire" by the recidivist WHO (now called WHOWHAT!? due to the frequent use of the receiver by the now half-deaf guitarist), presented in an afternoon listening with the two "singing" in playback on this latest CD, released a full 24 years after the previous "It's Hard" (1982!!).
Original presentation, I would say... no?
On stage, set by the Sister Mothers of San Reginald Smith, besides the 2 microphones for the two (broth)Stars, there are two IV drips of rejuvenators, along with 2 wheelchairs further back in the shadows (once on stage they used to change guitars between songs. . . bah, perhaps at other concerts!).
In the front row are the seats reserved for VIPs (Liza Minelli, Tony Renis, and Barry White above all) and further back the peones in robes and pajamas, ready to worship their idols, armed with noisemakers and church trumpets.
It's time!
Pete and Roger enter amidst a flood of applause, supported by two nurses, who seat them on two stools anchored with elastic straps to prevent them from tipping over at the first clapping.
It starts with "Fragments" and it’s the effect it has a bit on everyone: oh God what is it? A mix between E, L&P, and the Dire Straits from 4 centuries ago! It continues with the soporific "Man in a purple dress" complete with a rasping voice, only good for dubbing some villain of some morning soap opera on Italia Uno. The more it goes on, the more it feels like listening to a stale LP like the fossilized phlegm of a T-Rex.
Onward with "Mike Post Theme" (what the hell kind of titles are those?), everything very saccharine and flavorless, soporific and limp as few.
But what a sadness to see a legendary band like this reduced to this state! With "In the ether", the voice annoys even more, but the geriatrics don't care and continue to sing the lyrics projected on a prompter to the side, with Sister HArringa widely directing the choir. I have sudden bouts of sleep and swipe the pillow from my neighbor who snores like a champ and collapse comfortably with this molasses that overflows fluid and sugary into my subconscious now more over there than here. Arrangements more cliché than TG of Fede and more obtuse than the faith many have for the TG. Banale, tasteless, and sung LIKE DOGS (I reflect fervently in my R.E.M. phase in terminal phase. . . virtually the last 2 albums).
The legendary and fridigerian Sister BigTeeth (would be Sister Dentona to us) suddenly applauds, and everyone in unison begins to clap, myself included, without knowing who, what, and when and especially "why".
Forward with "Two Thousand Years", "God Speaks To Marty Robbins" and "It's Not Enough" and it really feels like listening to music from years ago. . . terribly old and rehashed at least a billion times. . . a pathetic thing in interpretation both vocally and musically, without any bite and with an exacerbated acrimonious flatness (?!). Damn, I ask myself: did it really take 25 years to compose this half crap?!?
I return to the world of dreams, kicking a toothless 90-year-old from a sturdy ash stool that I use as a footrest with a well-laid punch on the foreword reducing him to a pile ready for cremation.
It's the turn of "You Stand By Me" (so I've been told) in a country-folk version mocking Johnny Cash and struggling to stand like poor George singing with a voice barely managing, resembling Pappalardo just before transforming into Hulk.
I am now overwhelmed by acoustic broth over any acceptable level of tolerance, crumpled like a homeless person on three stools (or an homage on three pans) and covered with two checked brown and ocher blankets, by some damn whoever, smelling of urine and alcohol.
How much longer does this ordeal last?!
And so pass the colorless "Sound Round" and "Pick Up the Peace", little watery rocks to use instead of a colander or the following "Unholy Trinity" which feels like an Irish ballad stolen from an out-take from Springsteen’s "We shall overcome" album (not bad at all) not to mention the "ballad" (if you’ll allow me the term) of "Trilby's Piano" sung worse than Omar Simpson when wandering drunk around Springfield.
If they’d only go to that place too, I wonder, keeping the show going as long as they can: and who can blame them?!... let them do whatever the hell they want and those damn old nostalgic fools buy these records... I'll take this pharaonic nap and whomever sees it has seen it, damn... after all, there’s space for everyone... if there's a market for the anachronistic Van DeSfroos or the eternal Pooh, it's okay that these are around too, damn it.
At least they did SOMETHING GREAT AND UNFORGETTABLE in their lifetime!!
I sleep but hear with a third ear "Endless Wire"... this and another 3 or 4 tracks I don't remember or that my subconscious has removed.
Sister Luxury wakes me after a quarter of an hour, asking me to lift my boots as she needs to sweep.
I wake up with a thick mouth and discover no one is left.
The lights are off, musicians are in the canteen, George and Pete in their dressing rooms, eating their milk and Plasmon, the audience in their dorms... I suddenly feel like the biggest fool of the evening without really knowing why.
And with this air of defeat and a feeling of loss, I trudge home while in the distance, Sister Cool Hit (sounding much like "colitis" to us) swears at me for the mud my boots left on the stools.

Perhaps I was cynical and cruel in this little unobjective and even less professional report, and perhaps I got "distracted" by a context not exactly "encouraging" for judgment. And I'm sorry for that bunch of rockers with now faded tattoos who will feel bad about these few denigrating words... but ONE THING are the WHO and what they represented and ANOTHER is this album on which I cast a merciful veil.

This album will always and still be sloppy (in arrangements and execution) and as boring as few (especially in interpretation) and no aesthetic context, afterthought, nostalgia, and more will matter.
It’s very true: the eye wants its part, but the ear demands much more.
Damn it!