Saint Aura (plinksnotdead) wrote,
Saint Aura
plinksnotdead

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"Icon?"

TITLE: "Icon?"
FANDOM: The Who! One of my few surviving Who fics.
RATING: I'll give it a G.
PAIRING(S): Um... The Who and all their own wives.
SUMMARY: Pete's thoughts as he stands on the stage...
STATUS: Finished!

Icon?

It was the life of an icon.

Standing on the stage of the Goldhawk, looking over the crowd of hundreds of mod faces.

They were all waiting expectantly for the next song. And they all knew what it was going to be.

"I Can't Explain". The mod masterpiece. The anthem of anyone who dared wear a white jacket with five-inch side vents and two-tone shoes.

But he was sick of it. Abso-fucking-lutely sick of it. Pete fucking Townshend, sick of being a mod icon.

He wasn't really, he just thought. But it was all the songs fault.

"I Can't Explain".

Then "Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere".

Yep. Nothing got in his way, not even locked doors.

But his own bloody mod songs did.

So Pete had broken out. He didn't want to be the two-hit wonder that his father had been.

Nope.

He had written his magnum opus, his masterpiece. His new anthem.

And not just for the mods either.

Pete was a rocker, bohemian and beatnick all rolled into one. He went to art school, played guitar in a band, smoked pot, popped pills and told the little mod chicks he pulled that he had a Vespa, when really he had a big old Cadillac.

So he had written the theme song to the 60's. The song for every rebellious teen, be they rocker or mod, motorbike or Vespa, leathers or zoot suit.

And now everyone would hear it.

"People try to put us d-down..." ("Talkin' 'bout my generation...")

"Just because we g-g-get around..." ("Talkin' 'bout my generation...")

"And things they do look awful c-c-cold..." ("Talkin' 'bout my generation...")

"I hope I die before I get old..." ("Talkin' 'bout my generation...")


And that was the line. The line that pushed it from "good song", to "great song". From "rebellious", to "mind blowing".

Add a big windmill and a strut around the stage. Excellent.

Pete looked back into the crown again. The houselights were nearly blinding him, as usual, but he could make out the people he recognised.

Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp were up towards the back, nursing their drinks inconspicuously. Peter Meaden was dancing along with most of the crowd, in his full mod regalia.

Irish Jack was amusing the girls around him, wearing an enormous strapped-on rubber nose and windmilling an air guitar, mimicking Pete's actions perfectly. Pete didn't particularly like it when Irish Jack imitated him so well, especially with the nose, but it drew in the crowds, so hey, why not?

Alison Wise demurely looked on, mirroring John's bored expression. Jackie had been around earlier, but had now disappeared, probably caused by Roger.

Keith had his legions of girls cheering him on in the audience.

But Pete had no one.

Scanning the audience again, he noticed the tall, slender girl standing near the front, watching him. He smiled to himself.

He had asked Karen earlier that day when he had seen her at school if she would come to the Goldhawk tonight. She had said she would think about it.

And now she was here.

Okay, maybe the life of a mod icon wasn't that bad, after all...

THE END.
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