Pete Townshend’s windmill strum gets remembered like a circus move: big arm, big noise, big legend. But the truth is more interesting and, frankly, more useful to anyone who actually plays guitar.
Townshend’s windmill wasn’t born as stage choreography. It came out of a very unglamorous need: be louder, more percussive, and more relentless than the other bands crammed into tiny mid-’60s rooms. In other words, it was a practical solution that happened to look insane.
The origin story: not a gimmick, a survival tactic
Townshend has described seeing Keith Richards do a big arm motion, then copying and exaggerating it until it became his own signature. In the version that stuck, the circle was less about posing and more about delivering repeatable, high-impact downstrokes with a consistent arc. That consistency matters when you’re trying to turn a guitar into part of the drum kit.
In an interview with KQED, Townshend specifically connects the windmill to watching Richards and adapting the motion into his playing vocabulary.
“I’d seen Keith Richards do it… I thought it looked really good.” – Pete Townshend (as reported by KQED)
The key is what happened next: Townshend kept the move because it worked. It made the guitar hit harder, lock tighter with the band, and read clearly in messy club acoustics where subtlety died on contact.
Why the windmill works (even when it looks ridiculous)
Most classic rock technique is built around control: small motions, efficiency, minimal wasted energy. The windmill is the opposite, so people assume it’s all show. But as a technique, it solves a few real problems that rhythm guitarists still face.
1) It forces a big, confident target: open chords
Townshend’s most punishing rhythm moments are built on open-position and barre chord shapes that ring with overtones. The windmill is basically a commitment device: if your arm is making a full circle, you’re not “maybe” strumming. You are hitting the chord.
On the “My Generation” song overview, the track is framed as a youthful statement with a raw, aggressive performance style that matches the era’s live intensity.
2) It turns the guitar into a percussion instrument
Townshend wasn’t trying to be Clapton. He was trying to be a rhythmic engine powerful enough to stand next to Keith Moon, who played drums like a street fight. A wide arm arc can create a sharper pick attack and a more obvious transient, which makes the guitar function like an additional snare or tom in the groove.
The band’s own official overview of The Who captures how central sheer physical impact was to their identity, not just melody and harmony.
3) It helps you “cut” without blues licks or long solos
In many ’60s bands, the guitar’s job was either lead heroics or polite accompaniment. Townshend did a third thing: he made rhythm guitar the headline. The windmill’s visible violence isn’t separate from the sound – it communicates rhythm as spectacle.
That matters because it reframes what audiences listen for. Instead of waiting for a solo, the crowd locks onto the chord hits, the stops, and the dynamic surges. This is “riff” thinking, not “lick” thinking.
The Who’s loudness problem: the windmill as a mixing strategy
One of the most overlooked truths about early rock is that bands were often under-amplified, badly mic’d, and fighting awful acoustics. When you can’t rely on a clean front-of-house mix, you build a personal solution: play so the band balances itself on stage.
In that world, the arc-and-attack approach Townshend is famous for isn’t just “loud.” It’s repeatably loud. A large motion makes it easier to deliver consistent force for an entire section without drifting into timid, wrist-only strumming. That consistency is what makes the guitar feel like it’s stapled to the drums.
Townshend’s real job description: rhythm guitarist as lead instrument
Calling Townshend “not a lead guitarist” is technically true and musically misleading. He’s often the most forward element in The Who’s sound, even when he’s not playing a melodic solo. That’s because he leads with arrangement: chord choices, stops, accents, and the architecture of a song.
That role shows up clearly in interviews where Townshend discusses how he thinks about songs and performance: guitar as a structural tool, not just a solo voice.
Rhythm leadership looks like this
- Big harmonic shapes that ring (often open strings, suspended tones, and wide voicings).
- Stabs and gaps that create drama (silence is part of the riff).
- Dynamic extremes that act like arrangement cues for the whole band.
- Physical attack that makes the groove feel dangerous.
The windmill is the visible tip of that iceberg. You’re watching someone conduct a rock band with downstrokes.
Technique breakdown: how to “windmill” without just flailing
If you try to copy the windmill literally, you’ll either miss the strings, hit too hard, or wreck your shoulder. The practical version is less about full circles and more about a large, relaxed arc that delivers emphatic downstrokes.
Step-by-step (player-safe version)
- Pick grip: hold the pick firmly enough not to spin, loosely enough not to lock your wrist.
- Anchor the groove: start with strict downstrokes on quarter notes.
- Widen the motion: increase forearm participation until the sound gets more percussive.
- Control the contact point: aim closer to the bridge for sharper attack, nearer the neck for more thump.
- Use muted “ghost” passes: let some strums skim muted strings to emphasize rhythm without chord smear.
- Save the big swing: deploy the biggest arc for chorus explosions and dramatic hits, not every bar.
What you’re listening for
- Transient clarity: the initial “crack” of the chord should be obvious.
- Evenness: loud does not mean random.
- Kick-and-snare lock: your downstrokes should feel synchronized with the drummer’s backbeat.
This is why the move can be functional: it’s a way to make rhythm guitar behave like a drum while still generating harmony.
Gear and volume: why it mattered in the ’60s, and what to do now
Townshend’s windmill is inseparable from amplification culture. The Who became famous not only for songs but for volume, aggression, and a stage sound that felt physically overwhelming. In small clubs, an “average” strum can disappear, but a punishing attack plus loud amplification becomes a wall.
The history of “My Generation” places the song in the band’s early breakthrough period when their identity was tied to sharp-edged performances and high-energy delivery.
Today, you do not need to be painfully loud to get the effect. You need the contrast: a clean-to-crunch dynamic range where attack changes the texture.
Modern windmill-friendly setup (without ear damage)
| Goal | Practical choice | Why it helps |
|---|---|---|
| Big chord impact | Medium action, stable tuning | Hard hits stay in tune and don’t choke |
| Percussive attack | Brighter pickup position | Attack reads more clearly in a mix |
| Rhythm clarity | Less gain than you think | Too much distortion turns chords into mush |
| Controlled aggression | Compressor lightly, or none | Preserves dynamic punch of the strum |
The edgy take: the windmill is anti-virtuoso propaganda
Here’s the provocative claim: the windmill strum is one of rock’s most successful acts of anti-elitism. In a culture that often worships speed and “tasteful” blues phrasing, Townshend made a case that the real flex is rhythmic authority.
The move says, loudly: “I don’t need to outplay you. I need to outgun you.” And in crowded, chaotic club rooms, that philosophy wins.
In practice, the windmill is easiest to understand by watching how the arm arc translates into audible downstroke impact rather than treating it like pure choreography.
Try this: a Townshend-style windmill practice mini-routine
Keep it simple. The windmill only matters if the rhythm is rock solid.
- 2 minutes: downstrokes on an open A chord, quarter notes at a comfortable tempo.
- 2 minutes: same chord, eighth notes, but accent beats 2 and 4 like a snare.
- 2 minutes: alternate A to D with clean chord changes while keeping the same arm arc.
- 2 minutes: add a stop-time figure: hit, mute, hit, mute (tight left-hand muting).
- 1 minute: play one chorus-worth of “big swings,” then back to normal strumming.
This is the point: the routine trains attitude and delivery, but only because it forces consistency – conviction in rhythm, not random violence.
Conclusion: the windmill is a tool, not a trick
The reason the windmill strum became iconic is not because it looks cool (though it does). It became iconic because it solved a real musical problem: how to make rhythm guitar loud, percussive, and impossible to ignore in a band built on maximum impact.
Townshend didn’t invent a gimmick. He weaponized a strum, then built an entire philosophy of rock rhythm around it.
