Boris The Spider

Hey Zoo Freaks, it’s your lantern-swinging Zoo Crew drifting in from the misty meadows of THE ZOO, where the moon’s got eight legs and the shadows are spinning webs. We’re dropping The Who’s “Boris the Spider” from the crunchy comp Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy, and man, this little ditty is pure eight-legged anarchy. John Entwistle, the Ox himself, scribbled it in a boozy haze back in ’66 after a pub crawl with pal Bill Wyman—John was so sloshed he saw spiders everywhere, so he growled the creepiest lullaby ever: “Creepy, crawly, creepy, crawly…” In a ’90s Guitar World chat, he laughed, “I wrote it in six minutes, pissed as a newt, and it became my signature tune.” That death-metal baritone? All John, layered over and over till it sounded like a spider choir in a crypt. Pete Townshend hated it at first—called it “childish”—but the band slipped it onto A Quick One anyway, and live, John would milk the “creepy crawly” chant till the crowd howled back like wolves. Fans on X still post grainy ’67 clips from the Beat-Club where Roger swings the mic like a flyswatter while John looms in the shadows, eyes bugged out. One viral thread dubbed it “the only nursery rhyme that could headline a horror flick.” And get this: in ’72, John’s solo band played it so slow and heavy that roadies swore the PA speakers sprouted legs. Pure bass-driven bedlam, Zoo Freaks—like a black widow’s kiss on a full-moon night.

Now let’s roll the reel back to the bomb-site playgrounds of West London where four wild ones first tuned their thunder, ‘cause The Who didn’t just stumble into the mod spotlight—they detonated it with sweat, feedback, and a whole lotta heart. Pete Townshend, born ’45 in Chiswick to a sax-playing dad and singer mum, was already smashing toy guitars by age twelve, soaking up Link Wray riffs and dreaming in windmill chords. Roger Daltrey, a sheet-metal worker from Shepherd’s Bush, started the Detours in ’59—a skiffle crew covering Buddy Holly—then snagged John Entwistle, that quiet giant from Acton with a French horn and a bass he built from scratch. Keith Moon crashed the party in ’64, drunk and gold-lamé, smashing another drummer’s kit mid-audition till Pete yelled, “You’re in!” Name changed to The Who after a pub argument, then briefly The High Numbers for a mod single that flopped. Manager Kit Lambert scooped them up, dressed them in Union Jacks, and by ’65 “I Can’t Explain” cracked the charts, followed by “My Generation”—Pete’s stuttering anthem of teen rage. From Shepherd’s Bush dives to Monterey Pop’s guitar pyres, they smashed amps, eardrums, and hotel TVs, turning rock into performance art. Through tragedies, line-up changes, and Pete’s windmill arm still spinning at 80, they remain the loudest poem ever written on four strings.

If Boris is crawling up your wall, Zoo Freaks, scuttle over to the official The Who site for tour scrolls, Ox bass auctions, and fresh Who’s Next vinyl spins. Gather the mods on Facebook—millions strong, swapping bootlegs and windmill wisdom. Peek the pinball on Instagram for Quadrophenia reels and Roger’s riverboat grins, or thunder into X where Pete drops cryptic koans amid fan-forged fire. For the faithful, the Who Live fan hub archives every smashed cymbal, while Facebook’s The Who Official Fan Club brews setlist debates and rare relics. Dive deeper at The Who Tour for gig diaries, or haunt Who Collection for vinyl vaults and Entwistle sketches. Crank the feedback, raise the chalice, and let’s creep and crawl till the dawn breaks, my midnight marauders.