Pete Townshend-Who Came First

Let me start with a digression.
In the fall of the 7th grade, our English class was presented with the idea to collect original material and place it in a collection, representing our work as writers, poets, and whatever 13 year olds put down on paper.
I was doing well in English class and had, what I would consider, to be a bond with the teacher. Nonetheless, 7th grade proved to be one of those years where the idea of social stratus was much more important than grades, especially harebrained ideas like collecting the written words of our English class.
Much of the stuff I had written, personal stuff that was guaranteed anonymity from my peers, would be completely out of the question for this collection. Since we had the final say in what would be included, I quickly drew up a completely stupid short story written from the perspective of Pete Townshend’s guitar. It was juvenile and I knew it. Yet I submitted it for entry anyway.
My English teacher stopped me after class and, knowing that I had written much better material than the Townshend piece, asked me to reconsider. I refused. Worse, I lied, saying that I really liked the story. She didn’t challenge me further and let it go into the collection as planned.
The idea or fear that I had was that it would be safer to include a funny little story about a guitar instead of acknowledging some real emotional piece that might subject me to additional ridicule from friends. I was growing in the social ranks, so why on Earth would I subject that to a composition that may prove to be disastrous in the lunchroom, at the football game, or on the long walk home after school? For Christsakes, that walk was already hindered by a stupid looking trombone case, so why make matters worse?
The collection came out and it was filled with the obligatory bad poetry, poorly executed artwork, and creative input that you’d probably come to expect from 13 year olds. In short, it was the stuff you would be embarrassed with five years later, no matter how good it was. And adding to the embarrassment was my stupid little story about Pete Townshend’s guitar.
The guitar feared for its life every time Pete picked it up. It whined about how hard the owner played it. It viewed Pete as a guitar killer, as several of his “friends” had died after Pete smashed them on stage. I can’t remember how it ended, but it was probably something stupid like “Oh no! Here he comes again! I hope he picks the Rickenbacker!”
What killed me was that inside of the collection, a girl by the name of Lisa had written a poem entitled “Their Brother.” Lisa was not a very popular student. Born into less than privileged means, she wore a perpetual scowl on her face, seemingly acknowledging her social place and telling everyone what side of town she resided in. I didn’t know Lisa. I never actually spoke to her and I never saw her smile. But I did know that her poem was the best thing in our 7th grade English collection.
For a few days, I debated on the idea of approaching her and telling her this. It would have been an honorable thing, perhaps the act may have prompted her to try harder and continue on with her talents. It’s presumptuous of me to think this, of course, but at the very least some positive feedback may have made her feel better about her day.

Honor wasn’t what I was about at age 13, and I never spoke to her about obvious talents displayed in “Their Brother.” The poem, with no hint of rhyme or the structure that 7th grade English told us that poetry should posses, was a heartfelt admiration of an older brother in one of Lisa’s group of friends. I’ve never told anyone about this until now, and I’m sure that if I would have pointed it out, particularly at the time, it would have been ridiculed (“That’s a poem?! It doesn’t even rhyme man!”) and reinforced her status as “scurve.” As chickenshit as it seems now, I knew it was great, and I studied Lisa a little more closely than I did before.
Lisa ended up not graduating with our class; by the 10th grade, she was placed in the “alternative” school, the one that allowed the kids to smoke outside and, seemingly, come and go as they pleased. In our town, the classrooms were usually held in an old elementary school building, one that had been abandoned by the school district in favor of cost cutting measures, but structurally sound enough to house the “bad kids,” or in politically correct terms: at risk children. They were the ones that either prompted the “What the fuck happened to that guy?” reaction by the senior year or were met with surprise when their blurry school photographs (not the professional ones that the rest of us had) were included in the yearbook.
I bring up this long-winded digression because I recently went Christmas shopping and, as one frequently does, found an item that I ended up purchasing for myself. I was sent to Best Buy, a task that I hate going through during the holidays because every douchebag in America has to go to Best Buy during the holidays immediately after they their shit at Wal-Mart.
I picked up an sd card for my girlfriend’s parents, a Joss Stone cd for my Mother (my Mother didn’t ask for it, and I’m not very familiar with the work of Ms. Stone, other than her cover of “Fell In Love With A Girl,” which was polite enough for me to remember “I bet my Mom would like her.) and Aretha Franklin’s I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You for my Dad (again, he didn’t ask for it, but everyone should own a copy of this soul classic).
While perusing the cd racks, as I’m inclined to do whenever cd racks are present in a store, I came across a reissue of Pete Townshend’s first solo album Who Came First. I remembered that Ryko released the disc several years ago before letting it fall out of print. The title stood out to me because I used to own this album on vinyl as a kid and remember being intrigued by it.
It was a weird case of synchronicity too, because on a few occasions lately, I’ve found myself singing the words to “Parvardigar” to the little one while giving him a bath. Strange, not necessarily because of the subject matter (essentially an interpretation of Meher Baba’s prayer, whom Townshend was a follower at the time) but because I remembered the lyrics (“O Parvardigar the Preserver and Protector of all/Without beginning are You Lord without end”) a full twenty-five years after I had even heard the album. Meher Baba, it had seemed, had sent this reissue and place it in front of the racks of the “T” section as a sign.

Coming off the success of Who’s Next, Townshend was pressed by label executives looking for a solo album, particularly after Who bassist John Entwistle released Smash Your Head Against The Wall on his own. Waving a promise of contributing some of the solo album’s royalties towards various Baba projects, Townshend agreed and started compiling material, both new and leftover Who fragments, to round out the effort.
I should note at this point that I am not a huge Pete Townshend fan and, with that being said, this shouldn’t be an album that other non-Townshend fans first pursue. It’s worthy enough, but novices should seek out other more fully realized Townshend solo efforts (Empty Glass, All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes) before starting here. As for me, I enjoy hearing Townshend’s building blocks, even more than the aforementioned titles, which is why I only have the demo-derived Scoop and now Who Came First in my own collection.
The early versions of “Pure And Easy” and “Let’s See Action” are great as they’re presented here. There’s also a great Ronnie Lane track (“Evolution”) as both Lane and Townshend shared a common bond of drinking and being followers of Meher Baba.
My favorite track is the acoustic “Sheraton Gibson,” which is a very basic “I’m on the road and I miss my home” song with a chorus that sings the praises of Cleveland, Ohio, the home to a band that Townshend provided huge support for, the James Gang.
The rest of the album is, essentially, songs inspired by or provided for Meher Baba. The object of Townshend’s affection was an Indian spiritual “avatar” with an extensive history of regimented discipline and obedience from his followers. Meher Baba, which translates as “compassionate Father,” remained silent from 1925 until the time of his death, a good example of the discipline he required of himself. He gained a certain amount of notoriety during the late 60’s when he was interviewed about the spiritual aspects of drugs. His response clearly contradicted the prevailing psychedelic culture at the time yet, ironically, his overall message of (literally) “Don’t worry, be happy” became common fodder on dorm room posters across America.

I’m generalizing, obviously, but something in Meher Baba’s lifelong teachings and messages clicked with Townshend around the time of Tommy and he’s remained, at fluctuating levels of devotion, a follower of the avatar’s message ever since.
Who Came First is a very relaxed, personal, and enjoyable journey into Townshend’s spirituality and a good example of the range of his talents.
But more than anything, its message for me is the strength in actually releasing it. When word got out of Townshend’s newfound spirituality, many Who fans looked at it with skepticism and some hostility. This was a band, remember, that was huge on bravado and had a history of aggression (mod supporters, the Smothers Brothers show, etc.). So it took a very brave Pete Townshend to show a lack of concern for his fan’s perceptions and agree to release something as personal as Who Came First. Maybe if I had understood this and been a little braver myself, I wouldn’t have worried so much about what others thought about a middle school English project.