Keith Moon
Two Sides of the Moon (King Biscuit)
by Nik Rainey
Fuck all these self-righteous dildoes with neon punji-stick hairdos and Exploited patches the size of bedsheets safety-pinned to the backs of their meticulously-ripped Salvation Army jackets – ya want yaself a real punk, try Keith Moon.
I know, I know, Keith came outta that whole superstar ethos that punk was s’posed to’ve rendered obsolete (did a great job of it, too, huh?), all laser shows ‘n’ days-of-the-week Rolls-Royces ‘n’ tour riders specifying no fewer than two underage Asian groupies backstage at every arena gig or no third encore – but if yer textbook def. of “punk” (a term as nebulous and difficult to define for today’s youngsters as “irony”) involves transcending your trappings and recreating your surroundings to a fine turn, jes’ the way you like it, then, my babies, Moon the Loon fits the bill like a wet Union Jack jumpsuit.
Punks scowled and spit through their dental Dresdens of anarchy, but Keith had it swirling around him like a cartoon aura-cane full o’ dirt, loose teeth, and lager. All right-thinking pogo-jockies get on their worn prayer rugs and bow towards Ann Arbor in homage to Iggy, and I’ll admit I’ve done the same – he’s loose, you know – but Keith was just as full of power tartare and his lust for life was equally omnivorous. He also did the right thing by fulfilling the promise his pal Pete welshed on, to snuff it ‘fore he got too paunchy, lost his hair, and spent his declining years making grandiose concept albums that nobody buys and fewer get. He even has a couple legs up on the Doc Martenians in that a) he was a hell of a lot more fun (and funnier) than any punk you’d care to name and b) unlike the human carwrecks (Vicious, Thunders, et. al-anon.) who spike-skulls lionize mostly for being dead, and thus no less skilled on their instruments than before, the boy was insanely talented – the best rock drummer, bar none, that ever lived (you name a better one, sporto).
Now the Geritol-swiggers at King Biscuit records, usually responsible for works of, um,dubious relevance (not that that Wishbone Ash CD didn’t ignite a vicious interstaff bidding war that destroyed several people and left only pseudonyms on the masthead), has (re-)issued a reminder of Keith’s drunken-imp eminence by remastering his only solo LP, 1975’s Two Sides of the Moon (christened by Ringo Starr when MCA, for some odd reason, turned down his proposed title, Like a Rat Stuffed Up a Pipe), as part of its unfortunately-named “Mausoleum Classics” series. And how’s this for punky perversity – this inspired skin-slammer with no discernible vocal prowess (Townshend’s famous “I saw ya!” at the end of The Who’s “Happy Jack” was directed at him as he tried to sneak back into the vocal booth from which he’d been banished) plays almost no drums on the record, leaving it to capable (if less godlike) time-keepers like Ringo, Jim Keltner, and José Ferrer’s son Miguel (!?), opting to warble his way through material like “Don’t Worry Baby,” “In My Life,” and “The Kids Are Alright.” So, as you might imagine (and despite the presence of a stellar bunch of oddball friends (from Harry Nilsson to Klaus Voormann, Dick Dale to Rick Nelson), the virtues of this record ain’t exactly musical. Good thing, too. Who wants to listen to another drab hunk of ’70s virtuoso side-project ejaculate? Gimme a tossed-off piece of good self-indulgent fun like this and I’ll almost forgive all the narcoleptic dead-fish noodling that keeps bobbing back to the sick-smelling surface of Nostalgia Lake. I may not listen to this daily, but I ain’t givin’ it up, either – after all the damn pap I hafta slog through to do my purported job, this will never fail to raise a sloppy smile, not to mention a tall glass of brown ale aimed towards the Great Hotel Suite in the Sky (which Keith is presumably still trashing). This one’s for you, dear boy. Cheers.
(www.kingbiscuit.com)
