Martoons

MY TRIP TO MECCA

The Who at Pontiac Stadium, Michigan

Dec 10, 1979. 44 Years Ago.

(897 words)

High school buddy Felix and I were cutting classes to attend this show. That’s how important it was. In all of high school I’d never missed a single class. Just this one time.

The night before I‘d received a phone call from my other buddy Adrian’s father. In a very stern yet calm voice he announced that Adrian and his younger brother would not be permitted to join us to attend this concert. I’d already purchased the tickets in advance including Adrian’s two but that topic was not discussed.

Bright and early the next morning, a Friday, Felix and I boarded the tour bus at Exhibition Park, Toronto. The vehicle was near capacity with only two seats glaringly empty. Road conditions: Dry. Weather: Cool with mild with a low-teens temperature. Sky: Grey, bleak. Destination: After a two hour journey we’d arrive at the Stadium in Pontiac, Michigan, which was at the outer edge of Detroit city approximately 40 km from the core.

The bus-riding concert goers were subdued, understandable for a Friday morning. Customs was uneventful and efficient. Next major task was disembarking the tour bus at the gigantic Pontiac Stadium parking lot. A very important announcement was issued by the tour guide: “At the conclusion of this concert, this bus – note the number six-six-seven – will wait here at this specific spot for 30 minutes. If you are not present, we will depart without you.” Felix and I memorized the number and got a feel for the general location. It looked as if we’d have no problem finding the bus; at this time it seemed to be the only one in the parking lot.

Then the wait began. It was 2 pm. The show was to start at 4. The lineup was a monolithic, single file slanting down a long slope to the main entrance to the stadium. We were perhaps 100 metres back. The whole lineup was out in the open, the skies were darkening, and neither Felix nor I had rain coats. That minor worry was pushed aside. We felt to be part of something almost historic.

The lineup was amiable and patient. No drugs or alcohol or rowdy behavior whatsoever. Maybe it was the time of day or maybe it was the time of rock history. As we rubbed elbows with the locals in the line, Felix suggested to me as an aside, “Maybe you could sell your two extra tickets.” So I asked around and a fair price was bid but I could only offer Canadian dollars for change. I held out a bill with the Queen’s face on it and my prospective client inspected it. “What’s that? I can’t use this here.” So the deal fell through.

Folks in the line were mainly 20s-ish young persons like us, with similar attire and hair styles. One notable exception was a scraggly, thin man with out-of-style rebelliously long hair and an untrimmed lengthy and haggard beard. He looked straight ahead as he shuffled past us to find his place in the line. “I was here in ’76 when Keith Moon played with the Who.” His utterance immediately garnered the attention of those within earshot. Comments of approval hailed forth. “Wow!” “Amazing.” “Lucky.” “That concert was legendary.” The haggard hippy neither smiled nor blinked an eye. “It was,” was all he said with an air of superiority. Felix and I were both deeply envious. We had sky-high expectations for this concert but I somehow suspected it would only be a shadow of the one in ’76. Times had changed in 3 years – in music, in society, in us. Keith Moon was dead. The Who had short, neatly groomed hair and tailored outfits. The crazy days were over. The fans in today’s lineup were keeping the dream alive, but within a year or two that dream would be gone.

Inside the behemoth Pontiac Stadium, seating took place in an orderly, efficient fashion. It was comparable to people filing into a huge church. Everyone had their seat. Felix and I had ours although we were very far from the stage. Nevertheless we were comfortable and relaxed.

The backup band was forgettable to us however I did note the general approval from the audience for a few of their songs. This indicated to me they were a regionally familiar band.

The main concert by the Who was a blur, looking back now. Almost nothing seemed to stand out. Yet it was the Who – well-dressed, well behaved, crisp sounding; surprisingly not at ear-splitting volume; tight arrangements, underlain with disciplined, doctrinaire drumming from the new drummer who’d replaced Keith Moon: Kenny Jones. Gone were Daltrey’s mic whirls and Townshend’s windmills.

I now realize the first star of the show had to have been John Entwhistle. That was my golden nugget take away from this show. When my attention waned during parts of the concert I would zero in on the Ox’s playing and was repeatedly amazed by his skill, the speed at which his fingers moved, and his overall intensity and professionalism. Now, 44 years later, I could supersede that scraggly hippy in the lineup and say, “I saw the Who at Pontiac Stadium in ‘79 when John Entwhistle was the bass player.”

By Marty West

31 Dec 2023