In een blog op Village Voice blikt Richard Goldstein terug op de Murray the K shows in 1967 en het bezoekje dat hij backstage aan The Who bracht.
"Itis the fifth show of the fourth day in Peter Townshend’s week. Hecracks his knuckles; his throat. Peter is making his American debut aslead guitarist and composer of the Who. Murray the K is about tointroduce him to that pulsating mass of squealing, squirming THEM.
Muffled scratching is audible from behind the stage door. TheGroupie brigade. They bribe the doormen with a wink, a kid-giggle. Youcan never lock them out totally. They squat outside the dressing rooms,scratching like exiled cats. "Let them in, it’s a party, isn’t it?" Thebig one with braces and a huge distended tongue is eyeing Keith, thedrummer. Paper cup in hand, he slips on the corridor floor. "Betterwatch it," she murmurs.
"Why?" Keith laugh-answers.
"Cause I might jump you."
Even though this is New York and it is cold and rainy out, thegroupies are scratching. In Germany, Peter had to haul off on anespecially demonstrative cat. In London, they rip clothing. In NewYork, they scratch on doors. The big one raced down the gray stairwell,past Mitch Ryder in his purple see-through plastic shirt. ("He sat onme," she exalted. "Keith sat on me.")
Peter brushes past a livid Murray and turns on his guitar whileKeith Moon — famous Keithy of the pop-art tee shirt and the rubberwrists — mounts his drums. The bored curtains creak open and the Whoblast off.
They do their song — "My Generation" — because it is basic andeasy and it gives Roger Daltrey a chance to pucker his lips and shout:"Why don’t you just f-f-f-fade away" while the kids gasp "Didhesay?juheahthat?" Also, "My Generation" is one of the least challenging ofthe Who’s creations and in a treadmill show like this, nobody doesanything real. Even the best material becomes routinely strenuousplayed five times a day. ("10.15 a.m." says the sign beneath Peter’sdressing room. "Fines if late.") So, they sing: "People always put usdown/Just because we g-g-g-get around," and they roll the vowels a bitfor variety and they twang the magic twanger.
Peter Townshend pulls hard on the wire which connects his guitar toits amplifier until a flash of light explodes behind the echo box. Itis what everyone has come to see. Because the Who has built areputation, not on their compositions or arrangements, but on theirability to attack a song. Every night, they smash the stage up a bit.Sometimes a guitar neck splits, or a drumstick goes awry, or anamplifier bursts a blood vessel. But any real destruction iscoincidence. Mostly, the Who manages to set off a minor chemical flashand an impressive cloud of smoke which rises overhead an stinks up thebackstage area (disgruntled, the go-go girl holds her nose and mutters:"I smell the Who"). Then, Roger takes his microphone and rubs itaffectionately against Keith’s cymbals while Keith flays the air with ahalf dozen drumsticks. Peter cracks his guitar over his knee, usuallyavoiding the stress points. He waves it overhead and throws it crashingto the ground. It survives.
The Who’s act ends with Keith shoving the drums from under him untilthey tumble like loose wagon wheels all over the stage. When thecurtains close, everybody rushes in to assess the damage, while thecrowd whistles: "More." By which time, Peter is backstage and into thegray again. It is comforting — all that brick passivity. By the timethe fifth show is over, one begins to look at any wall that doesn’tglow as a bed."