Tommy used to work on the docks. Wait, wrong guy. This was the deaf, dumb and blind boy who played PacMan or something. A half century ago, a band Who you may have heard of, released their rock opera about little Thomas Walker and his dysfunctional family and followers. That same year, a young guy named Bruce played the silver ball and also bought a ticket to see Pete, Roger, Keith and John perform their opus at the Electric Factory in Philly. 50 years later, the older Bruce was invited down to DC’s John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts to sit through a Broadway Center Stage production of The Who’s classic (sorry, not Quadrophenia). I figured the old man would appreciate the show since he loves the classic music and he is the patriarch of his own dysfunctional family.
First bit of disappointment was when he learned that the last two living band members were too busy on their own tour to lead the singalong at the small Eisenhower Theatre (capacity ~1200). “You mean I have to listen to a bunch of nobodies?” I explained how I felt the same way when I saw a Les Miserables play with Sai and there was no sign of Catwoman or Wolverine. But at least the talented performers would be sub-septuagenarians. I mean no offense to the old guys (except for dad, I offend him all the time), but at that age, feel free to retire or run for president or something.
Second disappointment was the exotic café menu that offered frou-frou dishes like duck confit and no plain burgers or chicken fingers. Order of fries for dad’s dinner. It reminded me of my idiot brother’s vegan Ireland trip where he spent a week eating only French fries (but washing them down with copious quantities of Guinness goodness). The duck confit wasn’t bad either, but not sure it was worth $23. I enjoyed the Port City Monumental IPA chaser as we surveyed the DC sites from the KC terrace: Watergate Hotel where I swear I saw some of the president’s henchmen with flashlights searching for Hillary’s emails, the Washington Monument (too bad the forefather lacked Trump’s brilliance for branding and has been forgotten in our history), ditto for Lincoln’s and Jefferson’s Memorials. Losers!
Back inside we found our seats toward the back of the orchestra level where the balcony above protected us from sunburn or rainfall should the roof fail and the sun return ten hours early (the overhang proved unnecessary in the end for these purposes, but at least it kept the people above us from sitting on our laps). In the modestly sized but ornately adorned (adornately?) theatre there wasn’t a bad seat in the house, except for mine, seated beside a grump with no appreciation for ducks or rock operas without rockstars. And did I mention that he smells funny? By funny I don’t mean like Teddy, who when he smells flowers he blows out instead of inhaling in (I trust this is a sign that my boy genius immediately recognizes that he doesn’t like the flowery fragrance but is too polite to decline my invitation to smell the flowers and not because he’s weird, but genetics may work against him.) No, I’m saying Bruce stinks, but he probably thinks the same of me (runs in the family). Luckily for everyone else, our row was otherwise empty. In the crowded theater, the usher was clearly singling the two of us out, which doesn’t really add up, but he was bigger than us so we let it go. The show must go on (I’m getting there!).
ACT ONE
The semi-hidden house band kicked in from the back of the stage with the rocking opening to the Tommy Overture, a medley of melodies from the rest of the album in purely instrumental fashion, and for Pete’s sake, I felt like we were at a real concert!
I’ll tell you the basic story in boring prose that will fail miserably to capture the brilliance of the lyrics and the vibe of the music. If my story strays from the real meaning of the classic, then I’ll fall back on the defense that these things are subject to the interpretation of the beholder (even if the beholding audience is a fool), and that I’m not a good interpreter (i.e. you get what you pay for when you read my free blog). I’ll also skip a few soundbites because you should listen to the album (or worse, watch the silly movie) for the full effects. I’m offering a snack-sized sampling, not a full course meal. Get your confit elsewhere.
1941 – Captain John Walker goes to war and disappears behind enemy lines in Nazi Germany. His young, pregnant wife is told that her husband is presumed dead. Tommy is born after hearing in utero a song about how his father is gone and he’ll never get to know him. (That is to say he heard the message about his dad while inside his mother’s womb, not that he prematurely heard the awesome Nirvana album that wouldn’t be released for another 52 years).
Four years later, Mama Walker is celebrating her 21st Birthday with her new lover (listed as Lover in the Playbill) and her boy when I started to wonder how young was she when Cap knocked her up? Did dead dad bang a sixteen-year old?* Wait, here he is, let’s ask him! He survived, the war ended, and rather than accepting that his wife moved on after thinking he was dead and moving in with a volleyball like Tom Hanks did when Helen Hunt dumped his Castaway ass, the soldier opted to confront Lover (who at least waited until the girl was of legal age), started to get his ass kicked, then shot Lothario. In case you were wondering if it’s better to be a lover or a fighter, score this round for the NRA.
*[I confess some confusion on account of this song. Listening to the album, I always thought it was about the year 1921, not Mrs. Walker’s 21st year, but since the show was set about WWII, did they reinterpret the number for her instead of the earlier year? Maybe she was lying about her age to the new Lover and Captain Walker wasn’t the perv I accused him of; sorry about that Cap, please don’t shoot me too. Regardless, I think “I think ’21 is going to be a good year” will be the mantra and perhaps ’21 the song of the century if the 2020 election goes differently, but I digress, unnaturally]
Mrs. Walker was surprisingly quick to accept her man back and to help him cover up the homicide, but what about the boy? Let’s browbeat little Tommy to the point where he goes catatonic, no longer seeing anything, hearing anything, or saying anything about anything at all. Wow, problem solved! Cap goes free like George Zimmerman, and the happy family moves on with a normal life except for the newfound deaf, dumb and blind boy in the home. I’m pretty sure the kid’s reaction had nothing to do with PTSD but was more likely a result of an evil Measles vaccination. (Historical correction – the vaccine was developed in 1963, so it wouldn’t have been around to turn Tommy autistic in 1945 but try getting antivaxxers to understand that logic).
The evil doctors poke and prod the unresponsive young actor (awesomely played by a seven-year old Kennedy Center debutante named Declan Fennel). Despite Declan’s talents, I think the theater budget was insufficient to offer aging for the actor to jump him up to ten-year old Tommy, played by another good statuesque kid. A priest, perverted Uncle Ernie, and prick Cousin Kevin (sounds like a bad joke) all play along and no one can get a reaction from the kid, even as big Ern fiddled about (the most disturbing scene of implied pedophilia since The Nightman Cometh). More doctors try to figure out WTF is wrong with Tommy, and no child services is called to ask WTF is wrong with complicit mom, murderous dad, rapist Uncle Ernie, and sadist Cousin Kevin. I’m pretty sure any kid would retreat into his own shell in such a fucked up family environment. I actually appreciated the smelly old guy next to me in comparison.
Did I mention that (Tom’s) dad sought the help of the Gypsy, the Acid Queen, a kick-ass Tina Turner type performer who rocked the house and wanted to rock the ten year old’s world in a night that would certainly change the boy (more Nightman nightmarish child abuse)? In case you were on the fence about Captain’s culpability in his son’s condition or his eligibility for any type of parenting award.
Sixteen songs in, and despite plenty of catchy tunes, it was a pretty depressing story. The Acid Queen, even if she was a crazy, drug-fueled child rapist, that girl could sing! The audience erupted in applause as she exited the stage. Definitely a highlight of the first act, leading into the last song, a little ditty named Pinball Wizard. As the iconic opening chords were recognized by everyone, people practically jumped out of their seats and not just to be first to the restrooms. Young Tommy found his calling in the arcade. Cousin Kevin the douche and his cohorts realized that T sure played a mean pinball, crowded around him and blocked our view so that we did not see him age before our eyes another ten years (another actor, though I really think they should have had Declan try to play all three roles to demonstrate his full range).
We intermitted still on our Acid Queen and Pinball highs and I toasted another Monumental to dad’s water (he even drinks boring). “It’s okay” was his midpoint take on the show. I’d call him a mother fucker for the lackluster response, except I’m kind of glad he was an MF, or I might not be here today to type up this report, and you’d all be the poorer for it. Fifty years ago when he watched the band play these same songs in concert, he was probably high as a kite (if not from his own substances then from second-hand smoke, 1969 – think about it), and his hearing was definitely keener, so I’ll let his lame response slide for now, but if he doesn’t act happier after act 2, his ass is walking home in the rain.
ACT TWO
Act Two opens with the underture, more instrumental beauty, before Tommy still baffles the doctors and his parents when he only relates to pinball machines (why waste those crazy flipper fingers on crappy family?). Tommy sings to himself in the mirror (Listening to You) until Mrs. Walker finally loses her cool and looses some escalating high notes of frustration before shattering an imaginary mirror (smashing a real mirror is bad luck, even if you are family friends with a gypsy). Mandy Gonzalez (Mrs. Walker) was good to this point, but she elevated her game on this number! “I’m Free” Tommy realizes afterwards, and I’m a “Sensation” as he decides to take his pinball wizardry to stadium stardom as a singer, which was an interesting overnight transition, but I guess he was listening after all to the talented performers singing around him for the last hour plus and figuring out his own voice.
Tommy takes his show on the road and they flashed cities on the screen behind him (London, Paris, Berlin, etc.). I was wondering if they’d give a shout-out to DC, since I’m kind of a homer like that, and sure enough, the tour ends with a big Washington DC label, sending our crowd into raucous applause (just like Spinal Tap’s acknowledgement of Springfield). It’s such an easy trick, I still don’t understand why more bands don’t do it. Just play to your audience a little bit as if you really care about their town.
Sally Simpson decides she’s in love with Tommy because her mother told her that her part is to be what she’ll be, which in this case is a crazy groupie. More bad parenting advice, but not worse parenting advice than to tell your kid to be deaf, dumb and blind and then wonder why he’s so quiet. Tommy’s roadie, jerkoff cousin Kevin objects to the chick (because he’s a racist too), and he and his cronies rough her up before Tommy eventually stops the abuse. Really, with pinball reactions like his, I would have expected a quicker response, but I guess that would have lacked drama and this was a Broadway show at one time you know.
Tommy decides to leave the road and welcome anyone and everyone to his family home, which he hadn’t seen since mom broke him free of the mirror. It was finally time to pick up the pieces. Sally and Kevin and a bunch of other players follow him for his Life of Brian-like wisdom, when he tells them that they are the special ones that he is becoming like, and not the other way around. Total bullshit from the messiah, and “we’re not going to take it” they proclaim (another possible song to sing after the next election (let’s forget you better still)). His fans leave him, including little Sally Simpson (she clearly lacked his mother’s loyalty, but it’s hard to find a girl who measures up to mom, especially when you’ve spent your formative years deaf, dumb and blind). At least they didn’t crucify him.
On that happy note of abandonment, Tommy reunites with his estranged parents, forgives Uncle Ernie, even hugs Creepy Kevin. One big, happy f’ed up family! The end. Tommy offers: Listening to you, I get the music; gazing at you, I get the heat (dear mom). Following you, I climb the mountain; I get excitement at your feet (dear deadly dad). From you, I get opinions (evil Ernie); from you, I get the story (cock Kevin). I don’t know, I think I’d prefer not to see, hear, or speak to any of my family again if they were as wacky as these people. They arguably are as wacked, which is why at any given time I’m not seeing or hearing from half of them (and I’m always as dumb as a pre-pinball Tommy).
The rest of the cast returns to the stage to sing the “Listening to You” reprise / finale, to a standing ovation, leaving the stage to the music of our favorite Pinball Wizard. They all danced off in fun fashion, particularly the young Tommies, the youngest of whom “flossed” his way away (my nine-year-old nephew told me that’s what the action is called when I described it to him. Like Tommy, I’m getting old, but unfortunately, I’m not a timeless classic).
Were the musicians as truly talented as the originals? Not a fair question. Were the singers as good as the Who? You can ask Who’s Better, Who’s Best? But I thought it was pretty cool to see the rock opera imagining portrayed by people as imagined instead of by the bald old guys themselves. They wrote it (at least Pete Townshend did) and deserve (almost) all the credit in the world, but that doesn’t mean they have to be the only ones to perform it. Can you imagine if Stephen King insisted upon being the star of every movie based on one of his books? If Prince had insisted upon being the only singer of “Nothing Compares 2U” we would have no idea who Sinead O’Connor was (look her up for those of you who still don’t know or don’t remember the cute shaved head chick who once tore up pope pics on SNL for some reason).
No, this was a good show. A rocking good time. Great music, great performances, great venue. If you like Rock of Ages, this is similar in terms of wanting to sing along but was nowhere near as cheesy (ROA aims for cheese and hits the mark well). If you like Phantom of the Opera, then I’ve got nothing to offer you because I found that shit to be boring as hell. I was not bored at Tommy.
As for dad, I think he enjoyed it. At least he faked it well enough to get a ride back. Would he have preferred to stay home and watch Law & Order SVU reruns? Debatable, but I won’t ask him to make that Sophie’s choice.
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 