Dear Boy: The life of Keith Moon (85 page)

But when he phoned Kim at Campbell Close out of the blue (he had called for her at Tara and successfully begged her new number from Joan), something connected between them. By the time Keith came back from America they were a couple. When Keith heard as much, the revelation sent him spinning even further and faster than he already was. The thought of his wife sleeping with anyone else was too much to handle.

Of course, Keith had been sleeping around ever since he married Kim. And by Christmas he too had a new partner, 24-year-old Patti Bygraves, the niece of the famous British singing comedian, Max Bygraves. Patti was exactly Keith’s type – beautiful, blonde, intelligent and from a well-heeled family. He invited her to spend Christmas with him. It was a week in which he revealed almost every facet of his personality in rapid order.

On Christmas morning, Keith dressed up as Santa Claus and, on a pony and trap he hired especially for the occasion, rode over to Ringo Starr’s new house at Tittenhurst Park near Ascot with Patti and bundles of presents. For the Starkey kids with their worship of ‘Uncle Keith’ it was a fairy-tale Christmas come true. After dinner, Dougal came over in the Rolls Royce; Keith drove it home and left Dougal to negotiate getting the pony and trap back to their owner. Keith never paid the hire fee. In the end, to avoid bad feelings (or bad press), Ringo met the cost of Keith’s surprise visit to him and his family instead.

Three days later, Keith was driving the Rolls Royce Comiche with Patti near Tara when he collided with another car at Chilsey Green roundabout, spinning off the road, across a ditch and through a hedge. The Comiche billowed so much smoke that the occupants of the other car, David Jenkins and Paul Fleming, ran over to make sure it was not on fire. A drunken Keith emerged from the wreckage with his new blonde escort in tow, pronounced himself fine, and got Patti to call Dougal to, as always, come down and sort out the mess.

Yet again Keith avoided prosecution. Dougal got Keith straight back to Tara, and by the time the police came, Moon had fresh brandy on his breath (to suggest he had been drinking
after
the accident to calm his nerves, not before it). Assurances that the other car’s damages would be paid for eased the issue of insurance. Besides, the police were good and close friends who did not want to see their illustrious neighbour put away unnecessarily. It was all handled out of court.

December 30 was Kim’s twenty-fifth birthday. Keith phoned her at Campbell Close, and was at first his charming, pleasant self. Gradually his mood changed. “Oh, and as a birthday present,” he concluded before putting the phone down, “your boyfriend will never play the piano again.” Unable to win Kim back, he was now bent on revenge, and had hired a well-known music business heavy to break Mac’s fingers for £250. According to McLagan, Keith was unable to keep quiet about it within the Who, and Pete Townshend promptly offered the man £250
not
to break Mac’s fingers. The heavy was £500 up without lifting his own fingers, and true to his usual self, Keith forgot all about the threat within days. As ever, there were new adventures to keep him occupied.

K
eith Moon had always had great reserves of energy and ambition; now, with the collapse of his personal life, he drew upon those qualities more than ever, in order to stay too busy to mope. During the first half of 1974, he appeared in two major films, began recording a solo album, played on three other albums, and toured parts of Europe and America with the Who, a phenomenal burst of activity by any criteria. But it was not enough for Keith just to work to forget Kim’s departure; he also embraced the bottle with an increased vengeance, to the extent that those who knew him best would later pinpoint the breakup of his marriage as the event that heralded his decline. If it was his self-motivation that had got him this far in life, it would be his self-abuse that would prevent him going further, and for the next few months, these two contrasting traits overlapped. The result was frequently devastating, in varying and sometimes all definitions of the word: overwhelming, brilliant and destructive. The trail of dazed acquaintances and bemused partners were left to conclude, somewhat nervously, that the previous ten years of his life had been nothing so much as a warm-up.

January was meant to find him in New York making a cameo appearance as a rock star in a B-movie called
Arizonaslim
in which his occasional flame Pamela Miller had the lead female role. He didn’t show, and he didn’t send excuses or apologies either.
⁶⁴
He was preoccupied with bigger film projects.

A movie of
Tommy
had been in the works for several years, held up by Universal Pictures having first right of refusal (the Who being with its sister company, MCA Records) and Kit Lambert’s insistence that his own script be used. As the Who’s relationship with Lambert deteriorated, Robert Stigwood stepped in as producer, negotiating a deal with Columbia Pictures, confirming the controversial Ken Russell as director, pumping some of his own money into the project and involving himself in casting: as well as Jack Nicholson and Tina Turner agreeing to cameos, Ann-Margret, the buxom American singer actress who had appeared in
Viva Las Vegas
with Elvis Presley, was brought in for the role of Nora, Tommy’s mother.

Other parts were cast closer to home. Roger Daltrey, recognisable to the public as Tommy from years of singing the part on stage, was given the lead despite his lack of acting experience. Similarly, Keith Moon had laid his claim to the Uncle Ernie character with his rousing performance at the Rainbow in 1972.

Ken Russell made only one major casting decision, but it was pivotal: he insisted that Oliver Reed, the rugged, hard-drinking, upper-class actor with whom he had a long working relationship that included his biggest movies
The Devils
and
Women In Love
, take the role of Tommy’s Uncle Frank.

Reed’s box office credibility was tempered by the fact that his vocal ability -and the movie’s every line was to be sung – hovered on a par with Keith Moon’s. This posed a problem for Townshend and others, but Moon championed Reed’s involvement. The likelihood that Keith simply fancied having an equally renowned character to party with is demonstrated by the fact that once Reed’s role in
Tommy
was confirmed, Moon immediately arranged to visit the actor at his lavish Surrey estate, Broome Hall.
⁶⁵

He and Dougal Butler made the journey across Surrey in a helicopter. The nature of their arrival frightened the actor’s horses, provoking the famously short-tempered Reed to come running downstairs semi-naked from the bathroom, out on to the lawns, and, as he puts it, “attack Keith with my two-handed sword.”

He did not do this in jest. The 35-year-old Reed’s upbringing was sufficiently upper-class (his grandfather, a great practical joker himself, was knighted for his services to the theatre) as to have bypassed rock’n’roll; his musical heroes were still Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. The actor had barely heard of the Who and had no inkling of Keith Moon’s reputation. That was about to change. Reed freely admits that Moon, from that first encounter at Broome Hall where the drummer responded so gamely to the aggressive welcome as to end up staying the weekend, made an impression on him like no one else he had met before or since.

“We just fell for each other directly we saw each other,” says Reed, who in the 1990s retired to Ireland, his reputation as a hard boozer and ready fighter having rendered him all but professionally unemployable, yet a public legend – perhaps the nearest to a ‘Moon the Loon’ character still drawing mortal breath. “He was the path I was looking for. Keith Moon was a fellow who convinced me that there is a sense of the bizarre in life, that life should not and cannot and
will
not be taken seriously. It can be taken seriously in as much as there is pain and there is laughter and there is sweetness, but in between those olfactory senses, and the senses of smell and hearing, there is a sense of the bizarre.”

To the suggestion that he must already have had some of this peculiarity in his system, Reed is adamant in his denial. “No. I was taking life a little bit too seriously,” he says of his early Seventies self. “I was working very, very hard, back to back, and I really had had nothing untoward apart from having my face cut at the White Elephant
⁶⁶
– and that was only villains and protection and stupidity. I was fairly set in my ways. I knew the path to the bar, but not to the bizarre. Thank God he showed me it. Keith showed me the way to insanity.”

Reed offers this observation, almost nonchalantly, over a lunchtime beer in an Irish market town hotel bar. Seeking confirmation, I reply that it seems a strong statement to make.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “But that’s okay. He showed me that way.”

Until shooting on
Tommy
was to begin in April, there was little opportunity for the pair to pursue their mutual embracement of ‘insanity’ further, although they did meet again in January 1974 when the Who began re-recording tracks from
Tommy
at Ramport, with both Ann-Margret and Oliver Reed contributing their vocals. Pete Townshend had accepted a $250,000 fee to become musical director for the movie and to compose new material as part of the process. He did not realise at the time that he was about to give up almost a whole year to the project. To Keith’s dissatisfaction and detriment, the Who’s career was about to be put on virtual hold while Townshend and Daltrey became completely absorbed in the making of
Tommy.

Among the few band activities that year was a short French tour. Sunday, February 10, the Who played to 25,000 people at the Palais des Expositions in Paris. The concert began at 5.15, neatly timed for what would be the penultimate performance of
Quadrophenia
, and allowing plenty of opportunity for post-show celebration. Keith, of course, maximised every moment. After swanning around the bar of the Georges V hotel in a hotel bathrobe, drinking Tequila Sunrises and champagne spiced with brandy, he dragged his friend Roy Carr, the
NME
journalist on a junket to review the show, out on the town with him.

Carr tells of a typical night of hysterical yet harmless Moon mayhem. “His pockets are stuffed with money and he’s already smashed,” he recalls of their setting off. “We get in the cab and he’s giving the cab driver £100 to go a few blocks. So I take the money from him and take control. We hit everywhere. Somewhere late at night we end up at the Crazy Horse saloon. We go to the door and there’s this guy dressed up as a mounted policeman, and Keith is going, ‘I’m Keith Moon of the Who,’ and the guy is saying, ‘ooo?’ and they don’t recognise him and everything is lost in the translation. Fortunately one of the girls working in the foyer recognises him and suddenly it’s all ‘big celebrity’ and out of nowhere a table and chair and a bucket of champagne arrives.

“After half an hour Moonie says ‘I’m going to take a leak,’ and goes off and I’m left on my own. I’m thinking, ‘Where’s Moonie? Has he passed out?’ I go looking for him. He’s not in the toilet. I go back in the club and I see Moonie sitting at a table with a bottle of champagne. I go up to him and he says, ‘Dear chap, what are you doing here? Do have a drink, sit down.’ I say, ‘Keith, we
came in together.’
So now we’ve got two tables going where it’s difficult to get one. He says, Aren’t these girls lovely?’ and he starts taking his clothes off and he’s going to join them on stage. Suddenly he’s got his boots, his shirt, his socks off, and he’s about to pull his pants down, and I’m trying to stop him!”