It’s your old pal Keith Moon here. You know, “Moonie,” “Moon the Loon” …or, as I very much prefer, The Greatest Rock and Roll Drummer that Ever Was, that is. Or was. I think… But I digress.
Anyroad, we meet today so that I may bring your undivided attention to this marvelous new DVD disc entitled – just a moment here, as I do want to make sure I get this completely correct – ahh, yes. Keith Moon, Final 24: His Final Hours.
Well then! I guess you could call this the, well, final word on the subject, ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa!
Final 24: His Final Hours. Yes, a tad redundant, I do agree, but nevertheless this splendid disc does promise to, in the very words of its very own press sheet you see, “unlock the hidden secrets, psychological flaws and events that result in the tragic deaths of global icons.” Here here!
“Maps out the final twenty-four hours of a famous person’s life,” it goes on. “Weaves the star’s back-story with events from their last day, which lays bare the threads of fate that led inextricably from childhood to the moment of death.” I see! “These are no ordinary biographies.” I should hope not… “They’re psychological detective stories attempting to uncover the mystery of why the celebrity died.”
You know, I’ve been wondering that myself quite a bit, I must say! ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa!
MY “final 24” then: Bailing out on Paul McCartney’s Buddy Holly Story premiere party – a dreadful bore, it truly was …and I don’t just mean the movie – then home for a quick cutlet and Dr. Phibes – now THERE’S a movie, mate! – lay it all down beside the missus for a quick kip and then… and then…
To be perfectly honest, things do get a bit, shall we say hazy from this point onwards, as I’m sure you can understand, ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa! But this disc here really does seem to do a fabulous job at pulling all of the pieces quite properly together, as it were.
For a starter, there’s a lovely little segment spent on my long, long-ago childhood. Even shows one of my old Alperton Secondary School reports: “Retarded artistically”? “Idiotic in other aspects”?? Not by ‘alf, then, ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa! I mean, it’s simply called ADHD today, innit? But back then, it was just a whack-it upside the be-hind, and “catch us if you can”!
But I reckon, when all was said and sung, I didn’t turn out all that pitifully, now did I?
Nice that they show some marvelous old Gene Krupa footage as well – now THERE’S a drummer! – and before you know it I hook up with Pete and Roger and John and, well …you know, they never did really ask me to join. Nobody ever actually said “You’re in.” They just said “What’re you doin’ on Monday?”
But I took that as a “yes” nevertheless. ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa!
My, my. And look at all the wonderful people they have interviewed about my Final 24. My almost-biographer Annie Nightingale – how are you, my darling? – and my own Best from the West, Pamela “I’m With The Drummer Tonight” Des Barres, looking as utterly scrumptious as ever. As well as some less, shall we say delectable writers such as Roy Carr and Tony Fletcher. Dear, dear Tony. He really did write a wonderful book on me. And I do appreciate it. Just make sure they don’t let Roger hire Mike Myers to play me in the movie version, Tone – ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa!
And there’s Richard Barnes and dear Dougal Butler, speaking of Who books, and Jon Wolff, speaking of Who roadies – ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa – and Kenney Jones, oh my and, oh! What have we here?
Alice Cooper, talking all about our lost Los Angeles weekend – or in my case, incredibly misplaced twenty-seven months, ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa – alongside John Lennon and Harry Nilsson and Micky Dolenz and Ringo and even dear old Steve Cropper, shown here trying his damndest to produce one of my, um, recording sessions, quote unquote. ah-HA-Ha-HaHaHa! Sorry about the carpet, dear boy. And the glass. And oh yes, the 16-track…
But who is this now? Legs Larry? Legs Larry Smith? Yes yes, telling all about the night we… we…
Well, there was an accident, you see. These bloody skinheads had surrounded my Bentley when we came out of the pub, getting all stroppy and shaking us and the car every which way. My dear, dear driver Neil Boland got out to chase them away, or at least try to reason with the bastards, as they were frightening my wife Kim.
But just as I took to the wheel to try to save him, they threw Neil under the bloody tires! And I couldn’t see, and I ran… I ran him over. Killed him, I did.
It wasn’t my fucking fault.
NOT my fucking FAULT, alright?
And Amanda? Mandy? Is that you I see now?? Haven’t you grown up all proper and lady-like, just like your mum! I love you, Mandy. I miss you, my little girl.
And Annette? My love? There you are, my sweet! God, it is good to see you again. You look almost… almost real.
Oh, Christ. I must turn this off now. I’m sorry, everybody. I truly am. It’s just that I… I mean, if only I could…
“He made it longer than Hendrix or Joplin or Brian Jones or Jim Morrison,” Miss Pamela says. Damn right I did!
“So that was pretty surprising that he actually lived as long as he did.”
I see, Pamela.
Listen, everybody. Watch Keith Moon, Final 24: His Final Hours. Really, you should.
But when you do, all I ask is that you remember what Alice Cooper says:
“If you take away all the insanity and just listen to the drums, he is irreplaceable.”
You see? Irreplaceable.
Or, if you will, The Greatest Rock and Roll Drummer that Ever Was.
Right. See you all soon then?