The Who get robbed
by Regis Boff
“Can I have a word?” Pete Townshend says to me by hotel phone around midday.
We were having a laugh working out a new poster for an upcoming Canadian leg of a Who tour when his call came.
Canada is big and mostly settled by moose. So far we had a drawing of a frog with a big piece of Canadian bacon in it’s mouth hopping from city to city and landing on the towns we had scheduled to play. The so green amphibian was outfitted in a Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniform with a proper little hat. He appeared to be pursuing a masked beaver. The bacon was my touch because I grew up eating it.
Townshend on tour was not a daylight creature. There are fables of morning sightings of him where observers were never heard from again.
The phone call dampened me. I headed down to Pete’s suite.
He did not look well. He had his tea.
”Did you give me money last night?” he said without looking up. I got the feeling that if I lied to him, he would be pleased. ” Yes,” I said.
He looked up when I told him, “Fuck,” was all he said.
“How much? ” he asked. “Fuck, fuck” he groaned.
“Want me to put Jim on it?” I said.
“No, it’s gone, thanks,” he said.
And I left.