In the past decade or so, it’s become fashionable to talk about creativity as the result of freedom, relaxation, and “flow”—that ineffable point where the artist connects with the sources of inspiration deep within the human soul. I, for one, believe in this idea. Art is really about connecting with the spiritual subconscious, and all of us have the ability to channel this source (although very few of us are willing to put in the work that is also required to develop it).
But not enough has been written about the role of conflict in creativity. Specifically, the role of rivalry, competition, and—yes—jealousy, at its most venomous and sincere. The history of art is, in some ways, a history of rivalries. Picasso and Matisse. Faulkner and Hemingway. The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac. Rivals have a way of inspiring each other, of spurring each other on in ways that “healthier” forms of motivation just can’t reach. The greatest rivalries of all are, perhaps, those that exist within a rock-and-roll band. Would Lennon have been as good without McCartney breathing down his neck? Richards without Jagger? Henley without Frey?
Such internal rivalries are more intense because they also bring the family dynamic to bear. A rock band is like a family, and the members are like siblings. They love each other, but they hate each other, too. Worst of all, they know each other’s weaknesses. Which buttons to push.
Surely one of the greatest rock rivalries of all time is that between Roger Daltrey, the mesmerizing lead-singer for The Who, and that band’s lead guitarist and resident genius, Pete Townshend. As in any rivalry, one competitor eventually gets the upper-hand—in the judgment of history, at least—and that is also the case with Daltrey and Townshend. Daltrey has long been acknowledged as a brilliant singer, but it’s Townshend who gets the real credit for The Who’s iconic status. After all, Townshend is the writer of the pair, the creator of all the band’s great hits, including the classic rock opera Tommy.
But I’ve long felt that Daltrey has gotten short-shrift in this comparison, a suspicion that is confirmed by the facts he recounts in his excellent memoir, Thanks a Lot, Mr. Kibblewhite: My Story. The title refers to a teacher who once told the young Daltrey that he’d never make it in music, and it seems to confirm my theory that Daltrey’s talent has long been underestimated, sometimes by Daltrey himself. Early in the history of The Who, the young singer realized that it was Townshend who would be the real creative force of the band, a fact which Daltrey accepted with nobility and aplomb: “I made the conscious decision that if my job was going to be the singer of Pete’s songs, and if Pete’s songs were genius, which they were, then I would be happy with my lot, thank you very much.”
Of course, Daltrey is selling himself short. Sinatra didn’t write his own songs, either, but that didn’t make him any less of a master. And, like Sinatra, Daltrey’s gift lay in his ability to find an emotional connection to his material, and to literally make it soar.
Our word for it was drive. Let’s drive, we used to say before a gig. Drive. Drive. Drive. I used to feel like we were trying to drive our music through the audience to the back wall. I’ve always done that, even at Woodstock, with no back wall and half a million people stretching over the horizon. I had to drive the curvature of the earth. It’s no good to play at an audience. You’ve got to play to them. You’ve got to try and move them. You have to drive through them. And it works.
Of course, the documented history of The Who tells us that, despite Daltrey’s amazingly gracious sentiment as expressed earlier, the band was forever roiled by conflict. At one point, Daltrey was fired from the band (a situation that the managers quickly reversed after realizing that Daltrey was as important to the band as Townshend himself). Amazingly, these tensions came to actual blows only once, in a rather hilarious scene that Daltrey recounts (I won’t spoil it).
And there were external battles, too—especially with the band’s managers, who were ripping off the royalties. Eventually, the band sued these erstwhile managers, as shown in a scene that Daltrey’s describes with sharp ruefulness.
We’d come full horrific circle from that first meeting, full of optimism and promise, in the Railway Hotel in 1964 to two enemies on opposite sides of the boardroom table, flanked by lip-licking lawyers.
But after reading this rollicking and very funny memoir, I can’t help but think of The Who as the story of two men chosen by fate—one to be the brooding, hyper-intellectual Great Artist, the other the bruising, working-class dude who keeps the band moving (“driving,” as he might put it). Fortunately, it ends on a note—or maybe several notes—of reconciliation, and even love. Daltrey supported Townshend during the scandal regarding the latter’s false arrest on grounds of child pornography, and Townshend supported Daltrey in his charity work. As Daltrey puts it:
For us, it was simple. Brothers can squabble. They can fight. They can fall out. We’d done plenty of that over the years. But when the shit really hits the fan, you realize that your brother is your strongest ally. I always knew that and I think Pete has come to realize it, too. Come what may, I would stand up for him.
(Author’s Note: this post originally appeared on my old blog, Bakhtin’s Cigarettes.)
Ash Clifton, Writer 