The Who Threatened with Deportation by President Trump

Look, I’ve always been a huuuuuge fan of rock and roll. Big fan of The Who. Tremendous music. But what’s happening with them–The Two, really–is a total disaster. Sad! You’ve got Roger Daltrey, who used to swing that microphone like a champion, like a gladiator. Now? He’s swinging it like a guy trying to fish his car keys out of a storm drain. It’s pathetic. It’s weak. And frankly, it’s un-American.

The Who: From Rock Gods to Retirement Gigs
I saw the footage. I watched The Who’s so-called Farewell Tour–which, by the way, has been going on longer than some wars. They said goodbye in 1982, then again in 1989, then again in 2015, and now it’s 2025 and they’re still out there, wheezing through “Baba O’Riley” like it’s a bedtime story. That’s not a farewell. That’s a hostage situation.

Roger Daltrey–he’s got a pot belly now. I’m not body-shaming, I’m just saying: when you’re on stage pretending to be a rock god, maybe don’t look like you just finished a meatloaf. And the voice? Gone. Finished. They’ve got a nine-piece choir backing him up like he’s the Pope of karaoke. It’s not music–it’s assisted living with amplifiers.

And Pete Townshend–great guitarist, used to be incredible. But now? He windmills like he’s trying to swat a fly off his shoulder. The energy’s gone. The fire’s gone. The rebellion? Replaced by orthopedic shoes and backstage humidifiers. I’ve seen more danger in a Cracker Barrel rebrand.

The Who’s Nostalgia Racket Must End
So I said it loud and clear: If The Who doesn’t stop pretending to be The Who, we’re going to deport them. That’s right. We’re going to have ICE send them back to England, where they can play farewell shows in retirement homes and tea shops. Maybe they can do a threesome with Elton John’s hologram. Maybe they can headline the Glastonbury Geriatric Tent. But they’re not going to keep defrauding American audiences with this nostalgia racket as long as I’m president, which I hope is forever.

Because let’s be honest: this isn’t rock and roll anymore. It’s a liturgy. It’s a ritual. You’ve got fans showing up in vintage merch like it’s church. They chant the lyrics like scripture. They cry during “Love, Reign O’er Me” like it’s a baptism. It’s not rebellion–it’s reverence. And I don’t do reverence. I do winning.

And don’t get me started on the ticket prices. $300 to watch two guys perform with a choir and a PowerPoint? That’s not a concert–that’s a TED Talk with guitars. You want to see real music? Go to a Kid Rock show. Go to a Ted Nugent barbecue. That’s America. That’s patriotism. That’s volume.

No Choirs, No Windmills, No Mercy
The Who used to stand for something. They were dangerous. They were loud. They smashed things. Now they’re just smashing expectations–in the worst way. They’re the musical equivalent of a farewell cake that keeps getting re-frosted. And I’m tired of it. The American people are tired of it. We deserve better.

So here’s the deal: if The Who wants to stay in this country, they need to prove they’re still The Who. No choirs. No phony farewell tours. No windmills performed at half-speed. I want mic swings that could decapitate a cameraman. I want screams that make dogs howl in the next county. I want guitars smashed like subpoenas.

Otherwise? Deportation. Immediate. We’ll send them out with a commemorative vinyl and a coupon for fish and chips. Because in Donald Trump’s America, we don’t do nostalgia. We do greatness. And if they try to come back for another farewell tour? We’ll build a wall. A sonic wall. And they’ll pay for it–with royalties from Tommy.

Wanna read about a vital artist, visit Morgan Wallen vs. Cancel Culture: Who Really Got Canceled?