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Posts tagged ‘Pete Townshend’

Jul 11

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‘Quadrophenia: A Mod Ballet’

For me, if for no one else, the Who completed the important phase of their work in the period that began at the start of 1965 and ended in the middle of 1966, encompassing their magnificent first four singles: “I Can’t Explain”, “Anyway Anyhow Anywhere”, “My Generation” and “Substitute”. I’d add “The Kids Are Alright”, recorded for their first LP but released as a 45 after they’d skipped labels from Brunswick to Reaction. And I can’t dismiss the later “I Can See For Miles” and “Won’t Get Fooled Again”. But I could never enjoy Pete Townshend’s rock operas in the same way, much as I admired his ambition.

So I was surprised by how much I liked the version of Quadrophenia presented at Sadler’s Wells this week: a full-blown ballet production, directed by Rob Ashford, with Townshend’s music rendered in pre-recorded orchestral arrangements by the composer Rachel Fuller, who has been his partner for more than a quarter of a century. No lyrics or dialogue, of course. I liked that. Show, don’t tell.

The dancing, choreographed by Paul Roberts, is wonderful, led by the nervily agile Paris Fitzpatrick as Jimmy and the lustrous Serena McCall as Mod Girl (the roles taken by Phil Daniels** and Lesley Ash in Franc Roddam’s famous 1979 movie version). There’s a warmly welcomed cameo for Matthew Ball as the Godfather, while the peroxide-rinsed Dan Baines takes Sting’s role as the Ace Face.

On stage, in this format, Townshend’s creation seems much closer to West Side Story than in its previous incarnations, particularly when the two gangs sweep back and forth in a recreation of the Mods versus Rockers battles on Brighton sea front, using a freeze-frame technique now familiar from war films. Equally stunning is a sequence evoking the PTSD nightmares suffered by Jimmy’s intolerant working-class dad as a result of his wartime experiences.

All of it is enabled by Christopher Oram’s brilliant set design, sliding back and forth in conjunction with video projections to recreate an office, a suburban home, a coffee bar, a Soho club (the Marquee), train compartments and the Brighton beach and promenade. On my rare outings to the theatre and the ballet these days I’m usually struck by the creativity with which modern resources are deployed, and this was a fine example. The climax, with Jimmy alone on a jetty against the sweeping tide, is something that won’t fade quickly.

Two instrumental bits of original Who recordings are used: “I Can’t Explain” and an extended mix of “My Generation”. Otherwise Fuller’s orchestrations are lush and brassy, and do the job satisfactorily, although they were actually a bit too loud, which might seem a strange thing to say about something based on the music of the Who, in their prime the loudest band I ever heard.

The other criticism would be that the individual identities of the characters playing the four elements of Jimmy’s character — the Tough Guy, the Lunatic, the Romantic and the Hypocrite — are never fully established, however well they’re expressed by the quartet of dancers. Of course they all have to be wearing the same kind of three-button Tonik suits as Jimmy (designed, at Townshend’s request, by Paul Smith), but even subtle colour variations can’t make it clear.

I never thought Quadrophenia contained Townshend’s best music, but this ballet may be its most satisfying iteration. It’s on at Sadler’s Wells until this Sunday (July 13), and it wasn’t quite full earlier in the week, so there may be a few seats left.

* Box office: sadlerswells.com. It’s also at the Lowry in Salford from July 15-19: thelowry.com.

** Thanks to all those who corrected my original mention of Paul, not Phil, Daniels…

May 18

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Lambert & Stamp

Lambert & StampIt amazes me that so many documentary makers fail to heed the principal lesson of Asif Kapadia’s Senna, which is that any relevant archive footage, however scrappy, is more interesting than a talking head. It’s a pity that James D. Cooper didn’t learn it before he started putting together Lambert & Stamp, his film about the two men who managed the Who from their first success in 1964 until the relationship broke down in acrimony 10 years later.

A compelling subject is enough to carry the first half of the film. After that the viewer tires of extended close-ups of Pete Townshend, Chris Stamp and Roger Daltrey sitting in hotel rooms or studios, even when they’re saying interesting things. The archive clips are chopped up and edited fast on the eye, to borrow Bob Dylan’s phrase. Too fast, in fact. The eye wants to rest on them, to be given time to absorb the details. A technique wholly suited to the titles of Ready Steady Go! is not appropriate to this very different project. The exception is a wonderful piece of footage of Stamp and Kit Lambert encountering Jimi Hendrix and Chas Chandler in a London club, possibly the Ad Lib or the Bag O’Nails; we do get to look at that properly, thank goodness.

It’s a story that certainly deserved to be told. Stamp — born in London’s docklands, the son of a tugboat captain — brother of Terence, the male face of ’60s London — almost as good looking but sharp and tough, with more front than Harrods. Lambert — Lancing, Oxford, the Army — the gay son of a celebrated English composer — explaining mod culture to foreign TV interviewers in fluent French and German — empathising immediately with Townshend’s latent talent and Keith Moon’s very unlatent lunacy.

A pretty bruiser and a bruised prettiness: it was a potent combination. “I fell in love with both of them immediately,” Townshend recalls. It’s easy to see how he and, to varying degrees, the other members of the Who were jolted into self-actualisation by the vision and audacity of a pair of energetic wide boys whose real ambition was to get into the film business and who initially saw the music as a vehicle for their ambition.

The viewer does not come away with the impression that the whole truth about the break-up in 1974 has been told, and a few other salient features of the story have gone missing. One is any acknowledgment of Peter Meaden, their first manager when they were still the High Numbers: an authentic mod who helped establish their direction. Another is Shel Talmy, the producer of their first three (and greatest) singles, given only a passing and mildly derogatory mention, without being named.

Lambert died in 1981, aged 45, worn out by his destructive appetites, although the immediate cause of death was a cerebral haemorrhage following a domestic fall. Stamp had conquered his own addictions long before his death in 2012 at the age of 70, having spent many years as a therapist and counsellor. His interviews with the director are used extensively but, lacking the matching testimony of his former partner, his wry eloquence inevitably seems to unbalance the narrative.

At 120 minutes, the film eventually feels bloated. If the first hour passes like a series of three-minute singles, the second is a bit of a rock opera, the occasional interesting fragment separated by long stretches of filler. But, of course, anybody interested in the era should see it.