The Kicks Aren't Alright

There I am!

As the operator of a seldom read and completely obscure personal blog, I was incredibly surprised at winning the exclusive rights to publish the first excerpt of the highly-anticipated autobiography  The Kicks Aren't Alright - the story of Keith Moon's heavily abused drum set.  The press release on the book hints at the stories behind the explosions, the generation-defining hits, and the backstage travails of a drum kit stuck in the savagery of an early rock and roll band.  Enjoy!

The Kicks Aren't Alright

I’ve been beaten, bled, and broken all in the name of rock and roll.  Despite its barbaric history, rock music became the most popular music genre and prospered on the backbeats of my percussive ancestors.  And I’m here to tell you, the life of a rock star isn’t all separated bowls with the brown M&M’s taken out and shark-fucking groupies, it’s an exploitive industry interested only in the flash and awe of the final product without a second thought about the torment hidden within that sound.  We all start out alone, be you a snare, or a crash cymbal, or even a lowly cowbell, but once we coagulate together our combination keeps the heart of rock and roll beating.

Everyone looks to Van Gogh as the archetype of the tortured artist, and I’m sure cutting off your own ear is painful, but give me a break.  Did he ever endure a 10-plus minute drumstick beating of a solo culminating in a pyrotechnic display?  Painting the French countryside while losing an ear and your mind seems like a fucking Sandals resort to me.

I can’t lie; my life hasn’t been all bad (private plane compartments and being serenaded by the smooth in-time groove of John Entwistle’s bass lines).  When I wasn’t busy getting beaten on the most famous stages the world has to offer, I had some wild times.  Times that percussion instruments from here to a commune-led drum circle could only dream of.  But more on those adventures later.

Coming from a struggling working class family, my folks were ecstatic when I landed my gig with Keith Moon back in the summer of 1964.  Times were definitely changing - from the schizophrenic meters of my father’s jazz generation back into a hard 4/4 backbeat that the kids called rock and roll. Jobs in this new trade were high-paying and easy to come by (the same can’t be said for my fathers jazz world or even my mothers backup singers tambourine gig), but I would have greatly enjoyed finding a freelance job with a gentle nylon drum brush in a slow jazz quartet.  However, I’ve come to notice that the universe doesn’t take much stock in the thoughts of a humble drum kit.

Things with The Who moved quickly.  Within a year, “I Can’t Explain” was a hit single.  And boy let me tell you did the hits (on the chart and on my hide) keep on coming.

Quickly our hyper-energetic reputation grew around London and was furthered by an otherwise unassuming show at the Railway Tavern.  With the show winding down, Pete slowed down halfway through the show.  Looking over it was clear that his guitar’s neck split in half after slamming into one of the amplifiers.  Pete came to a complete stop and upon inspection realized his instrument was done for.  To keep up with the show’s high energy, he slammed the broken guitar against the ground - unknowingly setting a signature precedent of destruction and euthanasia that continues to this day with the band’s current geriatric lineup. 

Up until this point Keith and I had always gotten along as well as possible.  Sure, we had our differences namely that he was going to pound me during the show, but afterwards I could always count on a gentle feather dusting or at the very least a few kind words of encouragement.  Those were the tolerable days.  Keith’s kinder side was a rare sight, the hotel room toilets done in by his cherry bomb and dynamite cocktails can attest to that. 

With the crowd calling for more after watching Pete violently destroy his guitar, Keith gave me three swift kicks and pushed my whole set over.  That first time happened so quickly I don’t remember much other than a shot to my cymbals and 2 and a half measures later I was strewn across the floor of the stage struggling to breathe. 

I honestly can say I believe that the first time Keith just wanted what most of was long for - a collective cheer from a large group of young drunk people.  But then he realized how much he enjoyed this “auto-destructive art.”

And so began of my 14-year rock 'n' roll nightmare….