ROCK OF SAGES SERIES: "Love Reign O'er Me" The Who (#5)
The Storm We Knew, The Brother We Lost, The Song That Never Ends
It began with a play.
Seventh grade. Oshkosh Civic Theater. Oliver! He was the Artful Dodger—a perfect fit for his sly grin and rock ‘n’ roll spirit. I didn’t know Tom well. He went to another Catholic school across town. But backstage, between lines and lights, our friendship was forged by a shared appetite for mischief and magic we couldn’t yet name. Music bound us. So did the ache beneath it—the driving force of rock and roll. By high school, at Lourdes Academy, our circle had grown—Rick, Mike, John, Tim, Doug, Joe, Todd…. Summers carved themselves around pick-up games, basement bands, late-night movies, spying on girls, and soundtracks that played louder than our words. In the mix: Zeppelin. Floyd. Van Halen. And then… The Who.
Especially Love, Reign O’er Me.
It didn’t play so much as summon. Thunder. Timpani. Rain. Then Roger Daltrey’s voice cracked the heavens:
“Only love can make it rain / The way the beach is kissed by the sea…”
We didn’t know what it meant. But we knew what it felt like. It was the sound of our souls cracking open.
Teenage Wasteland, Real and Remembered
The summer after eighth grade, my family moved to Washington Avenue. Within two blocks lived seven of my classmates. Amid the laughter and late nights, adolescence swirled like a storm just off the shore. It was joy tinged with something darker—a teenage wasteland on training wheels.
Freshman year, a girl hosted a party while her parents were away. Three of the most beautiful girls there drank too much. After mopping up spilled drinks and righting furniture, I was just chilling on the couch with them, catching their tears as laughter collapsed into sobs. They spoke of breakups, betrayal, family fractures. In their haze, something sacred surfaced.
I didn’t feel heroic. I felt responsible. Because we shared the same hallway lockers, air, and ache. That night previewed others to come:
Upperclassmen prowling the vulnerable.
Guys waking up to wreckage.
Girls crying over rejection.
Laughter masking shame.
Anesthetics: alcohol, sarcasm, sex.
The storm wasn’t on the horizon. It was here.
And Love, Reign O’er Me wasn’t just a song—it was a shelter. A place that didn’t judge, didn’t fix, didn’t explain. It named.
"On the dry and dusty road / The nights we spend apart alone / I need to get back home to cool, cool rain."
We Weren’t Looking for Noise. We Were Looking for a Name.
Pete Townshend wrote the song as the emotional apex of Quadrophenia, a rock opera tracing the spiritual unraveling of a young Mod named Jimmy. But beneath the teenage rebellion was a deeper cry: not for attention, but absolution.
Townshend, influenced by Meher Baba, spoke of thunder as God’s voice. Rain as divine mercy. This wasn’t music for the charts. It was scripture for the bruised.
We didn’t have the theology. We just had the longing.
"God, I need a drink… / Of cool, cool rain."
Moon Never Found It. But We Did.
In the beating heart of this teenage anthem, Keith Moon didn’t just play the drums. He inhabited them. He exploded behind the kit like a man outrunning something that always found him anyway—grief, addiction, the ache he couldn’t name. Chaos, brilliance, grief—all baptized in sweat and cymbals.
He was the storm at the center of Love, Reign O’er Me, pounding out redemption he never found. While we were chasing girls and discovering the meaning of life, Moon was crumbling in hotel rooms, laughing too loudly, dying too early. His drums were not background—they were prophecy. Every fill was a flare. Every crash, a cry. By the end, it wasn’t performance. It was prayer. And if you listen closely, what you hear in those final thundering rolls is a man pounding at the gates of heaven, asking to be seen.
Don’t forget me.
He was the cry beneath the music. A psalm of desperation wrapped in volume.
And in our own teenage way, we heard it. Not consciously. But in our bones. Because we, too, were beginning to see the storm. Moon was the teenage wasteland. And the warning. He left behind craters of sound and a silence that screamed.
Keith Moon, one of the greatest drummers the world had ever known, died at 32. Overdosed on the very pills meant to still the roar within.
He was also the reason we heard the song differently. Because deep down, even in our teenage daze, we sensed the storm wasn’t meant to destroy—it was meant to purify. To break what needed breaking. To baptize.
The Storm Didn’t Break Us. It Named Us.
We grew up. Moved cities. Married. Buried. Battled. Tom built a company, raised a family, and founded Substitute: Tales From The Who—a cover band that doesn’t just play the songs, it reveres them. His daughter and son would later attend Hillsdale College—alongside two of ours. My brother taught them. The web of friendship had become a spiritual brotherhood.
And still, when I’m exhausted by the noise, when grief lingers like smoke, when hope feels like a rumor—I get in the car. I roll the windows down. I crank it.
“Rain on me…
Rain on me…
Love, reign o’er me…”
The Cry That Still Echoes
This isn’t nostalgia. It’s revelation. It’s the whisper from the whirlwind saying:
You are not your shame.
You are not your scars.
You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.
Let the storm fall. Let it strip you. Let it wash you. Let it reign.
Homeland, Harmony, and the Song That Never Ends
This weekend, we return to Oshkosh. Homeland. Sacred ground. Where our stories began. Where laughter still clings to leaves and the names of those gone—Augie, Dave—ride on the wind.
We’ll gather again—my brothers and their wives, joined by classmates at Fox River Brewing Company—raise a glass, share some songs, crank out to some WAPL, and remember.
And the night before, my eldest son, Seph, a recording artist with Sony/Provident, will take the main stage at Lifefest. Same town. Same dirt. Same storm. A new song.
His #1 hit isn’t just a career milestone. It’s a continuation.
"God, I’m still counting my blessings…"
It’s Love, Reign O’er Me—wrapped in praise.
"Father, on this side of Heaven
I know that I’ll run out of time
But I will keep counting my blessings
Knowing I can’t count that high..."
From Thunder to Testimony
Keith Moon’s drumbeat may have stopped. But the cry never did. In our kids, our friendship, our worship—it still rolls.
This isn’t the end. It’s the echo of a cry passed from father to son, friend to friend—a sacred sound thundering through generations, saying:
Love still reigns. Keep walking.
The promise that the storm was not for nothing.
The rain did not drown.
The ache was not wasted.
Because the love that reigned over us… still reigns.
We came from the storm.
We stand in the rain.
We walk toward the light.
And love—still—reigns.
Here’s a remarkable version, The Who's performance at Hyde Park London on 26th June 2015, as part of their 50th anniversary tour… sans Keith Moon, and much older, but still belting out the prayer we all have in our depths: Love, Reign O’er Me!
Greg Schlueter is an author, speaker, and movement leader passionate about restoring faith, family, and culture. In addition to directing communication and marketing for the Institute of American Constitutional Thought and Leadership, he leads Image Trinity (ILoveMyFamily.us), a dynamic marriage and family movement, and offers thought-provoking commentary on his blog, GregorianRant.us. He hosts the popular radio program and podcast IGNITE Radio Live alongside his wife, fostering meaningful conversations that inspire transformation. They are blessed with seven children (one in heaven) and a growing number of grandchildren. Recent books: The Magnificent Piglets of Pigletsville, Twelve Roses, Ride Of A Lifetime, and Slaying Giants (SlayingGiants.us).
HELP US SLAY GIANTS at SlayingGiants.us, with a forward by Fr. John Riccardo—a story being called "Captivating," "Beautiful," "Powerful."
