Despite their famous lyric, two of The Who's four original members are still with us after decades of excess and countless trashed motel rooms. Their history is marked by tragedy: the premature deaths of two of its members, the deaths of eleven fans before their 1979 Cincinnati concert, and Keith Moon accidentally running over his chauffeur. Few bands have endured so much while remaining so influential. I first saw them live as a gangly sixteen-year-old shortly after my family moved from Long Island to Scottsdale, Arizona. Friendless, too young to drive, and desperate to see my favorite band, my father nobly escorted me to the performance. It became one of my favorite memories with him and one of his worst nights. I neglected to mention that #thewho had once been recognized as the world's loudest band, clocking in at 126 decibels. My father's hearing rang for nearly a week. Watching Pete Townshend demolish his guitar, and Keith Moon reduce his drum kit to rubble, convinced him the crowd was seconds away from a full-scale riot. Somehow, we both survived. The Who's songs of alienation, frustration, and disaffected youth spoke directly to young men like me. The more proto-heavy metal bombast of Led Zeppelin attracted a broader audience. But for me, there's no comparison. Led Zeppelin isn't worthy to drink The Who's bathwater.