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Who are you? How do you think he does it? What makes him so good? Why don鈥檛 you all f-f-f-fade away?

At Budweiser Stage Tuesday night, it was the audience鈥檚 turn to ask the question: Does The Who, they of raucous chords, aggressively lofty rock operas and instruments smashed to bits on stage, still have it as they embark on their farewell 鈥淭he Song Is Over鈥� tour?

The answer is a loud, resounding yes.

Supported ably by Tom Cochrane, who brought out Rush鈥檚 Alex Lifeson midway through his energetic albeit meandering opening set, 81-year-old Daltrey and the 80-year-old Pete Townshend muscled through a brisk, tight two-hour retrospective of their rowdy, strident career.

Despite what his age and history may suggest, Daltrey鈥檚 voice still has the definition, the grit, and the pulsating power that made him one of rock鈥檚 great vocalists. Over the course of one evening, he deftly conveys intimate emotion (鈥淪ee Me, Feel Me鈥�), biting cynicism (鈥淭he Seeker鈥�) and dour melancholy (鈥淏ehind Blue Eyes鈥�) without breaking a sweat.

There鈥檚 a certain dark, chronological irony in witnessing the everlasting stamina of a man who once told the world that he hopes he dies before he gets old, but Daltrey made it work, and it wasn鈥檛 lost on those who have a front-row seat to it all.

鈥淭his guy just gets better and better,鈥� an awed Townshend exhaled following Daltrey鈥檚 climactic bellow on 鈥淟ove Reign o鈥檈r Me.鈥�

Townshend, for his part, is a far more measured and grandfatherly version of his past self. But his iconic windmills still pack a punch, and his lead playing retains its frenetic, tuneful melodicism even if, as his longtime bandmate insists, his hearing isn鈥檛 what it used to be.

鈥淗e can鈥檛 hear anything I鈥檓 saying,鈥� Daltrey joked. 鈥淗e can鈥檛 hear anything I鈥檓 singing!鈥�

Though the spotlight shone firmly on Daltrey and Townshend, bassist Jon Button (Sheryl Crow, James Blunt) and drummer Scott Devours (Oleander, Ima Robot) did a solid, if unremarkable job replicating the rhythmic work of their long-revered predecessors. Keyboardist Loren Gold (Chicago, Don Felder) and Simon Townshend were, likewise, pleasant and forceful additions, even as portions of the night got ensnared in technical difficulties.

The setlist, though hefty enough, was by no means exhaustive; some of the band鈥檚 more tender cuts (鈥淏lue Red and Grey,鈥� 鈥淚magine a Man鈥�) were left unsung, while a few of their campier, cheekier tracks (鈥淪queeze Box,鈥� 鈥淏oris the Spider鈥�) were omitted.

But that hardly detracted from the overarching nature of the band鈥檚 ultimate goodbye. Their most ambitious arrangements still have power and gravity (鈥淏aba O鈥橰iley,鈥� 鈥淓minence Front鈥�), and the simpler stuff continues to work just as it always has (鈥淚 Can鈥檛 Explain,鈥� 鈥淢y Generation鈥�).

It felt complete, just as any sincere farewell should.

As he gazed back on the Who鈥檚 fledgling expeditions in his 2012 memoir, 鈥淲ho I Am,鈥� Townshend claimed he had little hope that the band would evolve past their simple roots and be anything more than an ephemeral, Mod-inspired R&B project bound to implode as soon as the sonic tides changed.

鈥淲e would chop away at our own legs,鈥� he wrote of his thinking following the release of the band鈥檚 first hit in 1964.

As it turns out, he couldn鈥檛 have been more wrong.

The Who are an enduring rock institution and, while time may have taken some of the shine off their shoes 鈥� and drugs and alcohol taken half of their original ensemble 鈥� they鈥檙e still able to put together a show worthy of their palatial status.

鈥淲e are saying farewell,鈥� Townshend said, before cracking a subtle, wry smile. 鈥淏ut we may come back in disguise as a completely new band.鈥�

If the song is, in fact, truly over, it was a mighty fine one.