Toots and the Who Mix Reggae and Rock

Dcember 1975; reviewed by Dale Anderson

“The Who Play Room,” one of the dressing room doors says. The backstage passes are just for Toots & the Maytals, it’s been advised, not for the Who. They want to play alone.

Jamaica’s leading reggae band follows handshakes with a clenched fist salute. They’re gearing up for their brief opening set with a round of ganja, which they smoke as part of their religion – Rastafarianism.

“I am Rastafari,” the compact, shirtless Toots asserts in West Indian lilt. “Ras-ta-far-eye. I follow the will of God. That’s why the government in Jamaica does not outlaw ganja. It is the creation of God.”

The Who, like other mid-60s British mods, were into reggae and the Maytals long ago. That’s why they’ve asked Toots to tour with them, though Wednesday night’s sell-out crowd in Memorial Auditorium is only mildly taken with the chunky Caribbean beat.

A typical reaction comes from a member of Buffalo’s most popular rock band. “I’m not into that kind of music,” he remarks, “but they sure are funky.”

The seven Maytals are indeed a super-funky rhythm machine, churning out complex impulses like a taxi on a cobblestone street. And they’re quick. “Pressure Drop,” for instance, goes at twice the tempo Robert Palmer uses and revs up even faster at the end.

For his energy and the way he hurls himself about the stage, Toots has been compared with Otis Redding. He works hard, but rushes the excitement to get as much as possible into 35 minutes.

Compared with his show here Nov. 2, Toots is far less suggestive and more clowning. With two sidemen, he does an amateur chorus line that would drive a Motown choreographer up the wall.

The Who, making their first Buffalo appearance in 6 years, receive a tumultuous welcome as big as their legend. Extra cheers greet drummer Keith Moon for his somersaults across the front of the stage.

Guitarist Peter Townshend pumps out the first chords of “Can’t Explain,” a decade-old favorite and one of the group’s first hits. Golden-maned singer Roger Daltrey whips around a mike with a big orange grip. It looks like a carrot.

Each personality is clearly defined. Daltrey, fringe on his vest flying, is a classic rock idol. Townshend, a Meher Baba medal around his neck, looks like a saint. Moon is a loony in white mechanic’s overalls. Bassist John Entwistle is an eccentric baron in black.

The years haven’t much changed the Who. The cutting edge of their thundering tunes is still adolescent alienation, as in “Teenage Wasteland,” though Townshend has turned 30.

Townshend’s leaps and Daltrey’s mike-swinging recall days of old, also. But age takes its toll there. “They can’t jump like they used to,” an associate who saw them in 1969 observes.

Only the suggestive single, “Squeeze Box,” and “Thinking From the Waste” represent their new “Who by Numbers” album. Entwistle does a couple of his songs – “My Life” from “Who’s Next” and the creepy “Boris the Spider.”

They hit a peak in the “See Me, Feel Me” section of their “Tommy” medley, thin laser lights needling from the back of the stage. Daltrey’s mike becomes entangled in his stand in “My Generation” and he needs half the song to get it loose.

A bit of old Who violence surfaces as Daltrey beats a tambourine to pieces and throws it to the crowd.

They finish “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and throw their arms around each other. Daltrey tosses his magic mike to Moon, who lets it hit the floor for the first time in the 1¾ hour show.

Daltrey grimaces under his golden ringlets, shrugs and prances off to “The Who Play Room.” The Who, like Peter Pan, remain eternal kids at heart.