Between “I Can’t Explain” and Live At Leeds, I adored the Who as fervently as anyone’s ever adored any rock ’n’ roll act. It wasn’t only the way they sounded and moved I loved, but the amazing stuff they wore. Backstage at Winterland in San Francisco, I once had had a chance to pilfer the unguarded gold sequin jacket Pete Townshend wore over ruffly shirts through most of 1967. Half of me yearned to possess the jacket as implacably as the protagonists of The Robe, starring Victor Mature, yearned to possess that which Christ wore on the cross. On the other hand, the Who were my heroes, and it wasn’t in me to do anything that might cause them dismay, so I sighed a prodigious sigh, left his jacket where it was, and went back out front, where Keith Emerson of the Nice was jamming daggers between the keys of his organ. Much better, I thought, that he should jam them between the ribs of bass guitarist Lee Jackson. Anything to keep the boy from singing!