1964 and outside of London the mod town of Brighton was the second home for the fledgling band The Who. When they released ‘Zoot Suit / I’m the Face’ as the High Numbers the word got round quickly about this great new band and owning a copy was the height of cool. You had the Lambretta or Vespa, the Parka, the mod chick and now you needed that piece of vinyl.
By the time they had reverted back to being The Who and released ‘I Can’t Explain’ they had been adopted as a ‘local’ band by the Brighton mods. Their frequent Wednesday night gig at the Florida Rooms was the place to be seen at. For the princely entrance fee of one shilling and six pence (15 pence in new money) you got blown away by one of the loudest bands around, heard some the finest British blues/rock of that era and got to pose about in your latest mod gear. I was 15 at the time and it wasn’t always easy to get in, although being tall for my age and hanging with some older guys I usually made it. If all else failed then there was always the Aquarium steps where you could sit and hear them and feel Entwistle’s bass patterns vibrating through the entire seafront. Word spread and their fame grew so that for the Who’s Easter Saturday gig in 1965 the crowd inside was around 1,700 packed in like sardines with another 500 or so sitting on the Aquarium steps. Imagine what health and safety would make of that now.
The Who were a band for guys – they were loud, didn’t perform pop songs, they brawled amongst themselves and with the audience if they were up for it. The gigs always had a tension about them that matched the edgy music. Would the perfectionist Daltrey be happy with the sound quality, would Townshend be happy with Daltrey, would Moon destroy his kit before the gig ended? Would someone in the audience take exception to someone spilling their beer or being one step ahead in the fashion stakes? The crowd became part of the band and vice versa – that was the Who’s appeal; they were part of the gang. There was a lot of preening and posing by the mods in the crowd. Peacocks strutting their stuff to the sound of their band, their music, the soundtrack to their lives. Some mod girls would venture in; the hardcore fans who wanted a piece of Roger the blonde mod god.
The Who were four very distinct characters and unlike any other band around at the time. Not suited and nicely turned out in matching outfits, no sweet, toothy smiles and cute affectations. This was not 60s pop, all love songs and sing-a-long lyrics; this was gut throbbing British rock at its best with lyrics that dealt with everyday life for a young man. Words and music that let you know that they understood what was happening in your world. It knew all about your insecurities, desires, confusion, anger and fears. It didn’t offer answers but created a channel for everything so you wanted to kick the shit out of the world. It also provided an identity that could be draped over your shoulders like a uniform to identify your comrades in arms.
The Who were scowling, surly, aggressive, energy-driven and manic, in Moon’s case bordering on insane and dangerous. Daltrey posed and strutted showing the crowd how looking cool and mod was achieved and at the same time rattling out harsh, powerful vocals and blowing blues harmonica. Townshend wrung the neck of his guitar, squeezed out feedback and smashed his way through windmill chords. Entwistle was just an enigmatic shadow pumping out the bass to drive the whole band along. Moon exploded on the drums, swearing, leering, a grinning wide-eyed demon threatening to wreck his kit, the stage and the entire venue given half a chance.
After a Who gig it would be time to head out and meet your chick so she could have the pleasure of your company. Tell you how good you looked and hang on your arm and your every word. We were hedonistic chauvinists, arrogant narcissistic mods who loved our band. The Who went onto greater heights and originality and we discovered Hendrix, The Floyd and the like, and grew into flower children. Brighton lost its Florida Rooms, it gained the Concorde venue as well as some rocking pubs, the big touring bands played the Dome before the stadiums took over. But the charged atmosphere of a Who gig in the Florida Rooms was a brief glorious moment that will never be replicated. The kids ended up alright.
WORDS BY ALLAN FOWLER
