Dear Boy: The life of Keith Moon (132 page)

Finally, although they are not officially available, Keith’s radio shows with John Walters are occasionally found and swapped among tape collectors. They are well worth hearing to discover just what a talent was lurking unexploited in that capacity. I had closed out this section in 1998 by stating my hope that John Walters would do something with the tapes of the half-completed comedy album that followed this radio series; sadly, Walters passed away before the opportunity presented itself.

I have often been asked whether this book is ‘authorised’ – to which my response remains that Keith Moon was unfortunately not available to give or withhold his permission. Certainly, there is concrete evidence that he wanted his life story told even before he died, at which time such a book, as I have discovered from my own past projects, would have been a much more sanitised read than this one. I would like to think that the overwhelming honesty and openness of those people I talked to (all of whom were quite adult enough to make their own decisions on contributing, regardless of anyone else’s) was a reflection of their enthusiasm to see his life story told faithfully, warts and all. I recognise that the passing of time enables people to tell stories they may previously have held secret for fear of causing offence and, having seen so many political and other entertainment field biographies full of quotes off the record and from anonymous sources, I realise and am grateful that earthiness and informality has always been part of the rock’n’roll culture’s attraction for its participants and observers.

In alphabetical order, those interviewees were: Keith Allison, Keith Altham, Jon Astley, Mick Avory, Bill Ayres, Tom Ayres, Ginger Baker, Lenny Baker, Michelle Banky, Richard Barnes, Frank Barsalona, the late Lionel Bart, Jeff Beck, Rodney Bingenheimer, Mick Bratby, Jerry Brezlar, Tony Brind, Peter ‘Dougal’ Butler, Roy Carr, Hal Carter, Chris Charlesworth, Ron Chenery, Neville Chester, Dave Clarke, Doug Clarke, Richard Cole, Ray Connolly, Alice Cooper, Bob Cottam, Brett Cummins, Bill Curbishley, Pamela des Barres, Amanda DeWolf (née Moon), Jeff Dexter, the late Ian Dury, Dr Geoffrey Dymond, Dave Edmunds, Allen Ellett, Bobby Elliot, Steve Ellis, Robert Elms, the late John Entwistle, the late Gerry Evans, Michael Evans, Chris Farlowe, Ed Goodgold, Karl Green, Richard Green, Larry Hagman, Colin Haines, Roger Hands, Steve Harley, Roy Harper, Bob Henrit, Karl Howman, Annette Hunt, Lou Hunt, Ramon Hunt, Alan Jay, Bruce Johnston, Nick Jones, Howard Kaylan, Jim Keltner, Dermott Kerrigan, Gary Ladinsky, Corky Laing, Dave ‘Cyrano’ Langston, Rob Lemon, Nancy Lewis, Carlo Little, ‘Irish’ Jack Lyons, Dr Neil Mann, Jocko Marcellino, Ann-Margret, Dave Marsh, Jack McCulloch, Ian McLagan, Kim McLagan, Steve McNerney, Barry Miles, Linda Mills (née Moon), Norman Mitchener, Vic Much, Paul Nicholas, Roger Nichols, John Otway, May Pang, Basil Parkinson, Meg Patterson, George Patterson, Reg Presley, Viv Prince, Sir David Puttnam, the late Noel Redding, the late Oliver Reed, Willie Robertson, Michael Rosenfeld, the late Dave Rowberry, Peter Rudge, Patti Salter, Doug Sandom, John Schollar, John Sebastian, Sandy Serjeant, Mike Shaw, Colin Shirwin, Scott Simon, ‘Legs’ Larry Smith, Chris Stamp, Zak Starkey, Chris Stone, Peter Stringfellow, Gary Stromberg, John Stronach, Skip Taylor, Peter Thorpe, Mark Timlin, Peter Tree, Michael Verdick, Mark Volman, Phil Wainman, Joe Walsh, the late John Walters, Pete Wandless, Chris Welch, Bruce Wensch, Barrie Wentzell, Vicki Wickham, Chris Wincup, John Wolff.

Although they are already mentioned in the above list, I would like to offer an additional note of exceptional gratitude to Kim McLagan, Annette Hunt and Dougal Butler, the only three people to have lived with Keith in adulthood and shared his private life on a regular, ongoing basis. Each of them (and their partners) took me into their respective homes in Austin, London and Stockholm, and shared their memories, scrapbooks, letters – and hospitality -over lengthy interviews that they no doubt assumed would see the back of me. They each then endured my numerous follow-up phone calls or visits without so much as flinching at the most personal of questions. Without them, this story could never have been properly told. I am deeply indebted.

There are only a few names missing from the above list of interviewees that I wish could have been included. Among them is Keith’s mother, Kathleen Moon, who felt that the non-musical aspects of Keith’s life had been detailed quite enough over the years; she was also frustrated that the time she had devoted to Roger Daltrey’s proposed film had produced no tangible results. She concluded that it was time to let her son rest in peace, an attitude I respect, though this book obviously does not allow for her wish to be granted to the extent she might hope.

Roger Daltrey felt that my biography conflicted or competed with his proposed film (an opinion his partner in that project, Chris Stamp, did not share). Unfortunate though this may be, I had considered all along that if I was forced to do without one member of the Who it should be Roger, for the simple fact that he saw less of Keith off stage than the others – although after Keith’s death, realising how much he missed his drummer despite their occasional conflicts over the years, I think Roger may have regretted that this was the case.

(Shortly before
Dear Boy
was published, Daltrey contacted me by phone; he had come across an advance copy of selected chapters of the book, and was concerned as to how he had been described in places, both by myself and by those who had toured with him. Once we moved beyond this issue, which took some time, he expressed his opinion that the book had “nailed” Keith and assured me it would do very well. We talked a little about Keith’s personality, some of the other characters that featured prominently his life story, and Daltrey’s proposed movie on his former bandmate. Roger left it that we should meet up. Since then, he’s been derogatory about the book in public. I can only reiterate in writing what I said on the phone that day: that I had a poster of Roger on my wall throughout my adolescence and have never grown beyond that reflex action of looking up to him. It was never my intention to offend him and he remains one of my musical idols.)

Pete Townshend was, of course, one of the first people I approached for this biography. I wanted his involvement less for his anecdotes – his memory is notoriously imaginative – than his overview, given that his intelligence and insight are without compare among his generation of rock musicians. His office was helpful and enthusiastic from the beginning, and I would like to thank Nicola Joss in particular for being unfailingly polite and immediately responsive throughout all correspondence and conversations. Quite inadvertently I timed my approach with Pete’s busiest year in decades: the Who’s re-formation, a solo Greatest Hits album, the launch of
Tommy
in London’s West End, etc. all combining with his renewed commitment to Alcoholics Anonymous, but we finally put a day aside during time off on the Who’s late ’96 American tour. As I readied myself in New York to go to interview him in Cleveland, Nicola called from London with news that Pete had sent her a fax overnight rescinding his inclusion. He had, he explained in that fax, “no longer anything to say about Keith that is kind”. This, of course, seems illogical and absurd given what we know about their relationship and although I was not able to convince him to change his mind, he did later elaborate upon his reasons in a lengthy letter that he requested I did not print. I can therefore only suggest that his decision, and his bizarre explanation for it, extends, in particular, from the events in his life following Keith’s death, which are detailed in the final chapter. I now believe I was unlucky to be approaching him at a time when his anger at Keith, both for influencing his own alcoholism and for still being absent from the group after all these years, was at its peak. Shortly before this book went to press I heard that he apparently now regretted his decision, which is exactly what those close to him intimated would happen. Had I taken yet more time on this book, he may well have contributed his memories. Then again, he may not. Mercurial is an adjective invented for Pete. Still, as he pointed out to me in writing, his views on Keith have been well documented over the years and I have been sure to include them. In the meantime, I’d like to thank him for his time and his office’s continued affability and other technical help after and in spite of his ‘intractable’ decision.

I found myself making friendships along the way with the core of Who historians, each of whom are reminders of the power of music to inspire lifelong devotion. Thanks then, in purely alphabetical order, to John Atkins, Ed Hanel, Melissa Hurley, Joe McMichael, Andy Neill, Olle Lundin and Jan Reyneart. An extra special ‘alright’ to Matt Kent, with whom I have found much else in common, despite our support of two other, rival south London football teams.

Miscellaneous gratitude to Eamon Sherlock for invaluable help with archives and contacts, Jeni De Haart for additional UK research, Rob Burt and Pete Frame for their historical perspectives, Jim Fraser at the Crown and Cushion (which avidly promotes Keith Moon association with the place: how times have changed!), Phil Lawton, Danny Barbour and Max Ker-Seymer. I’m grateful to Dave Stark for the Shel Talmy interview. Thanks also to Brian Gruschecki at Alperton Community School and all the Alperton and Wembley County ‘old boys’ for their enthusiasm, especially John Oliver and Tony Archer.

Enormous emotional debts are due to the two editors from the two different publishers who sponsored this book. Chris Charlesworth, with whom I have worked on and off for over a decade, has proved a loyal friend as well as editor; he committed himself to unilateral help even when it was not certain he would be publishing this book, and never failed to take on every minor request for information or contacts as a personal crusade. Tom DuPree at Avon is a new associate and will become, I hope, an old friend. His fervour has frequently bordered on the contagious. Both editors also showed admirable patience and belief as they stretched their intended deadlines and word length almost to breaking point to enable me to devote the necessary time and space to tell the story properly. Thanks also to Andrew King and everyone else at Omnibus, Lou Aronica and everyone else at Avon. And thanks also to Sandy Choron, my agent, equal parts champion and castigator who played a major part in seeing this all come together. And thanks to Loren Chodosh for helping instigate that relationship.

A special nod to Paul Harmer for reasons he’ll understand.

For the third biography in a row, I found myself taking on some of the less savoury aspects of those who I was writing about. Thankfully, I stopped short of Keith’s very worst tendencies, but it was disturbing enough to find myself developing a fond taste for Courvoisier, suffering lengthy bouts of insomnia, and experiencing terrible homesickness as I wrote about those exact same issues in Keith’s life. There is a scientific study waiting to be undertaken somewhere there, but I certainly don’t wish to make myself any more of a guinea pig than I have already unintentionally been. Neither can I pretend I was easy to live with during the process of actually writing the book, virtually around the clock for an entire year. To turn an old cliché on its head, I am incredibly fortunate to have a wife who understands me, and who offered me continued encouragement and love when I least deserved it. Posie, in case I didn’t say it enough while slaving over my computer: I love you.

Finally, thanks to the Who for the music, and Keith Moon for everything else he gave us in his short life. Though I sometimes found myself playing a particular Who album for days on end while detailing that period of Keith’s life, it was never (at least, not until towards the very end) a burden. I imagine, therefore, that I’ll still be enjoying the music on my deathbed. I’m equally sure I’ll be marvelling at Keith’s drumming, and falling off my bath chair in hysterics at the sight of him upstaging the Smothers Brothers, Russell Harty and anyone else who dared impose authority on him. This book has been incredibly hard work, but it has been an immense pleasure.