If you leave school at sixteen, become a massive rock superstar at seventeen, an international celebrity by the time you’re twenty-one and a potential millionaire by the time you’re twenty-three, where do you go from there? This decision is made even harder to reach if you are often surrounded by a bunch of grovellers who never disagree with you, especially if they think it might cost them either a quid or two or their place in your entourage, and if every woman—slag or lady, bint or bird—aims herself open-legged at your cricket set before you even have time to shake hands.
In Moonie’s case, the answer is to become a movie star and this, of course, is the direction in which he is headed when that great casting director in the sky decides that he has a bit part for him in the greatest epic of all and so pulls his earthly union card. Most people in the movie business agree that Moonie will make a superb character actor in the English Robert Newton/Oliver Reed style. Moonie’s only problem is that he is liable to over-rehearse with the brandy bottle between takes.
There is no question but that the few times that Moonie features amidst the poodle fakers and ponces he turns in very promising performances, but also shows that he does not have the necessary discipline to become a full-time big-time movie star which is, of course, where such as Oliver Reed score whatever their off-screen records show. The rock business, in its own strange way, is well able to cope with such ill discipline, not least because The Who and most bands of this stature own their own studios and facilities and are more or less in control of the finances. Whenever Keith is due to record, the other members of the band tell him that the session is booked at least four hours earlier than is in fact the case.
‘Listen, Keith,’ they say, ‘we want to kick off at twelve and we don’t want to hang about all fucking afternoon waiting for you.’ They know that Moonie will anyway be three hours late, and maybe four, so they turn up, along with the engineers and crew, around three and Moonie himself appears between three and four, looking sly and dead chuffed because he thinks he causes the other members of the Who to lurk about waiting for him. Of course, the other three encourage him in this illusion by slagging him off good and proper for turning up late and delaying the proceedings.
This kind of behaviour cannot be tolerated in the movies because every minute lost is another few grand down the pan and the people who finance movies will not put up with this even if the star is the legendary Keith Moon.
‘What about Marilyn Monroe and others like her?’ you ask. ‘It is well-known that she is never on time in her professional life and that even when she does manage to reach the right studio she never knows her lines.’ The answer to this is that Marilyn Monroe and others of this type have their days, by and large, many years ago when the world is a more tolerant place in the matter of throwing ackers about and nowadays, especially in the great British film industry, such profligacy is frowned upon. Even the so-called hell-raisers are usually referred to in terms such as these:
‘Oh yes, he/she snorts (or screws/buggers/shoots/pops/ drinks) but he is very professional.’ By which they mean he/she turns up on time, more or less upright, and more or less familiar with the writer’s original lines. Such behaviour seems to cast some doubt as to the degree of degeneracy in question because, to get back to Keith, there is no way that anyone abusing their brains and bodies like Moonie does can actually turn in a regular and professional acting performance on demand. It has to happen on his terms, and there are not many film directors who can handle that as they feel it is a personal affront and very damaging to the ego.
There is another reason why Moonie may never be a highly successful actor. He is not the sort of person who can manage large chunks of Shakespearian verse, or even tracts of Tennessee Williams, no matter how many prompts, idiot boards and cue cards are provided. Once more unto the breach, dear friends … is liable to become Once more to Beachy Head, lads, or stop up the brandy bottle. Furthermore, Keith’s personality is such that he will never be able to accept that he is not the star of every movie. As it is, in his brief movie career his presence on screen reduces most of those around him to the role of extras. If by any chance he is not recognised as the star on-screen, then Moonie will go to any lengths to ensure that he is the most noticeable person on the set, taking the piss out of his fellow actors, the director, the technicians and anyone else within range.
That’ll Be the Day is the first movie to feature Keith Moon. As I previously mention it is all about growing up in England during the nineteen fifties and is quite highly regarded, though it certainly will never feature in any lists of the top ten films of all time. Moonie’s role is very small, not much more than a cameo, and he plays the drummer of a struggling rock and roll band. Whenever he is on screen he dominates the proceedings with very little effort, which is not entirely surprising as he does little more than play himself. But it is off the screen and on the set that he really comes into his own because film sets are cluttered up with exactly the right sort of equipment for playing pranks and merry japes.
He arrives in typical style, turning up on location in the Isle of Wight in a helicopter, which in the normal course of events will cause little comment. But Moonie is not content to land at the nearest heliport, or even upon the lawn of the location hotel. He wishes to land on the roof of the hotel, which the architect who designs the hotel never envisages, being as he initiates his drawings around about the time that the Wright Brothers are gawping at our feathered friends and wondering how to emulate same—at least that is the impression this hotel’s plumbing gives. Moonie therefore requires me to provide a helipad.
‘Dougal, dear boy. Arrange a landing for me. I will be piloting my helicopter and I intend to land on the hotel.’ Well, Moonie can no more pilot his own helicopter than he can perform brain surgery. But I understand that he wishes to cause an impression by pretending to do his own Red Baron act and who am I to deny him this pleasure? So I do not demur when he commands me thus:
‘Make a large cross on the roof of the hotel so that I know which hotel to land on.’ It occurs to me that the hotel management will object to the entire manoeuvre if it sees me painting whitewashed crosses all over the building, but Moonie has this problem sussed too.
‘What you do, dear boy, is collect up a few waiters and get them to make the cross out of tablecloths. Slip them a few quid if you have to.’ I am in the middle of pointing out that I have roughly five bob on me, and that these waiters are unlikely to accept American Express plastic, when I find that I am speaking to a dialling tone. So I borrow a tenner and slip it to the head Italian, who in turn orders various minion Italians up onto the roof with plenty of second best tablecloths.
It is a most impressive sight when Moonie swoops out of the sky, dead on time—which is a sure sign that it is not Keith doing the piloting. He makes a beeline for the roof, which is quite crowded what with the various Italians standing by to watch and maybe pick up the pieces. I ask myself who is doing all the waiting at the tables below. All proceeds in the approved fashion of the manual of British helicoptering until the chopper is just a few feet above the table linen. Then the wind from the rotor blades causes all this linen to flutter off to the edge of the roof and one of the Italian waiters nearly flutters off with it in his efforts at recovery.
Moonie is delighted with his reception. He is in full Red Baron drag, with furry flying jacket, leather helmet and so on, and does not seem in the slightest fazed by the obvious fact that there is a highly professional chauffeur in the driver’s seat and that it is this chauffeur and not Moonie who achieves the perfect landing. Very soon we are all ensconced in the hotel bar and Moonie is already planning ways to enliven the proceedings in this staid Isle of Wight holiday hotel, that is more accustomed to receiving coachloads of distressed gentlefolk than it is to entertaining film crews, actors and their ilk. What he is not doing is learning his lines and when I mention these lines to him, believing that they are essential to the filming, he just waves his hand about and says:
‘When you’re a natural, dear boy, you don’t have to worry about incidentals like learning lines.’ He has so few lines, anyway, that I figure he will manage OK. Moonie’s arrival gives me great pleasure because I am finding that this filming malarky is not all that it is cracked up to be and consists largely of hanging around for hours on end, playing cards and listening to actors cracking on about the time they play Abanazar in panto in Barrow-in-Furness.
Though this hotel is not what you or I would choose, it fancies itself as an ‘in’ place and prides itself on staging such exciting events as dinner dances that feature The Roy Gristle Trio, and exhibitions of art and sculpture by persons who are registered as blind. This particular evening there is a fashion show and while this show will not rival the Spring Collection of Yves St Laurent, or even the stamp collection of my Uncle Eric, it does have the advantage of attracting various examples of the local crumpet who are supposed to parade about in naff evening dresses and awful trouser suits for the delectation of the local followers of fashion. The only question that remains to be answered is how do we get amongst this talent?
The etiquette handbooks suggest that the correct method is to stand suavely by the bar, wait until one of the lovelies pops in to wet her whistle, then order up a bottle of champagne and introduce oneself. Moonie, however, has other ideas though he at least starts off by standing by the bar. His attitude, however, is not suave, because he is rapidly very pissed indeed by drinking large quantities of brandy and ginger. From this bar, the fashion caper is just about visible and Moonie is increasingly interested in the bints that parade there. He is a sucker for model bints anyway.
‘Dougal,’ he remarks innocently. ‘This show needs livening up. What it needs is a guest appearance by someone whose sense of fashion is renowned throughout the civilised world. That is to say, me.’
‘Listen, man,’ I reply, indicating his flying outfit, ‘that may be OK for landing on hotel roofs but it sure as hell isn’t the latest thing.’
‘True. You are quite right, Dougal. What this needs, dear boy, is something a little more risqué. Something with a degree of je ne sais quoi.’
‘Do what?’ I exclaim as Moonie struggles out of his flying suit and stands there in a decidedly grubby pair of Y-fronts. Strange. The one thing he seems to prefer to dressing up is jumping about with absolutely no gear on whatsoever.
These Y-fronts look like they are getting on in years even at the retreat from Dunkirk and, indeed, from their appearance they probably witness same retreat. Anyway, they are by no means haute couture even for a toilet like the Isle of Wight. Though I am very entertained by this turn of events, I don’t know quite where to look because I can see that many punters present are beginning to give us the peculiar eye.
But the peculiar eye we receive in the bar is nothing to the looks Moonie gets from the local followers of fashion while he is capering about upon the model’s catwalk. This capering is performed in conjunction with a pretty little bint who is wearing a nice off-the-shoulder number in pink tulle. Moonie starts to jive with the bird as she is parading up and down the catwalk and she is no little annoyed at the intrusion, especially as Moonie is giving a loud and discordant rendition of Little Old Lady From Pasadena all the while.
The point is that when Moonie arrives anywhere—let alone a film set—he is not inclined to behave like Laurence Olivier or, indeed, like any other geezer who is a fair hand at the performance of thespian arts. No, he regards the making of films as one big joke from beginning to end. He is not impressed—even if he knows—that every delay in the schedule, every minute lost, costs the producers many hundreds, and maybe thousands, of pounds. During That’ll Be The Day, one time, Moonie delays the proceedings by a couple of hours just for the sake of a few more laughs. The director of this film, Claude Whatham, is just about to launch into a take and his assistants are calling for quiet on the set and standby, please, and all the other things that assistants are supposed to call for. The scene he is about to film is set in a dance hall and is complete with a couple of groups and a load of extras who are playing the punters so, one way or another, there are several hundred people and half a billion quids worth of equipment strewn around. In fact, the entire scene is typical of all movie sets where, despite the fact that the great British film industry is about as healthy as the economy of Haiti, it seems to be necessary to have half the population of the world present and unionised before a camera can be switched on. We are told, however, that things are now improving in the great British film industry and that it is no longer compulsory to employ two hairdressers, one for the straight hairs and one for the curly bits.
‘Quiet everybody, please. Quiet on the set!’
‘Standby.’
‘First positions, please.’
‘Quiet … quiet, please!’
Turn sound … camera …’
‘THE GERMANS ARE BOMBING NEASDEN … AN H-BOMB IS ABOUT TO FALL ON NEASDEN! THIS IS AN OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: YOU ARE DIRECTED TO GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE NEAREST BOMB SHELTER WITH YOUR GAS MASK: I REPEAT …’
‘What the fuck?’
‘… YOU MUST WEAR YOUR GAS MASKS AT ALL TIMES …’
‘Cut! Cut!! CUT!!!’
Now, of course, this dialogue about the Germans raiding Neasden by air is by no means included in the script of That’ll Be The Day, and it is especially not intended that these lines should boom out from the speakers on the set. Claude Whatham, who is no thickie, immediately realises what gives here and screams:
‘Find the loony! Find that bastard!’
All the minions start running around like chickens without any heads, searching here, there and everywhere for Keith and, although it is quite clear that he is somewhere on the set and is speaking out over the PA equipment, it is not quite so clear exactly where he is located.
‘Find him!’ screams Claude and the minions scurry even more fervently because Claude’s word is God’s word on this set and the lucky minion who finds Moonie may also find himself suddenly elevated to Assistant Director’s Third Assistant—at least for the rest of the day. Moonie’s voice, meanwhile, rants on:
‘DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME. I REPEAT: DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME. I HAVE A GATLING GUN AND I WILL NOT HESITATE TO USE IT. I AM ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.’
‘Find him!’ screams Claude.
Scurry, scurry! Rush, rush! Peer, peer! go all the minions, but what with all the equipment and cables lying about the place and all jumbled up like a gigantic spaghetti, looking for a lead that has Moonie on the end of it is like looking for a tadpole in a pot of black paint. Moonie continues over the PA in a very pompous BBC-type announcer’s voice:
‘YOU WON’T FIND ME. I AM IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND.’
‘Jesus Christ get that bastard out of here!’ rages Claude.
‘Yes, Claude. Of course, Claude. Certainly, Claude!’
‘IF THERE ARE ANY POLICEMEN HERE, I AM SMOKING A JOINT AND INJECTING HEROIN INTO MY MAIN ARTERY AT THE SAME TIME. EVERYONE ON THIS FILM HAS THE CLAP. AND CRABS. EVERYONE PRESENT IS INSTRUCTED TO REPORT TO THE NEAREST SPECIAL CLINIC. ALL THE GIRLS IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT ARE SLUTS AND HOOKERS AND EVERY ONE OF THEM WILL DROP HER KNICKERS AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION.’
Not only is Claude Whatham going berserk, the female extras are beginning to generate a degree of resentment at Moonie’s casting such slurs upon their characters. Moreover, the search and destroy operation that is being mounted to find Moonie is doing plenty of searching and even more destroying of the very expensive sets. Plugs are being unplugged and leads are being unravelled—but still the voice booms on:
‘TAKE NO NOTICE OF CLAUDE WHATHAM. HE IS BEING REPLACED BY ANOTHER DIRECTOR. A NEW DIRECTOR IS ON HIS WAY FROM THE LABOUR EXCHANGE AT THIS VERY MOMENT. CLAUDE WATHAM IS NO LONGER WANTED ON THIS MOVIE BECAUSE HE IS STUFFING THE CASTING DIRECTOR. DON’T DENY THIS, CLAUDE, BECAUSE WE HAVE SEEN YOU … WE’VE ACTUALLY WATCHED YOU SCREWING THE CASTING DIRECTOR.’
At this stage I am not a little concerned that Claude seems to be tearing his hair out by the handful. Moonie is nowhere in sight and I wonder if, somehow, there is a tape recorder rigged into the system. Eventually, however, someone remembers that some of the speaker cabinets on stage are not real speaker cabinets stuffed with electronics, but are mock-ups which are hollow inside and from one of these dummy cabinets someone traces a tiny and inconspicuous lead. When the back is ripped off this cabinet, there is Moonie, crouching, microphone in hand.
‘Tee, hee, hee,’ he says. ‘That livened things up a bit, didn’t it dear boy?’
Moonie is certainly capable of taking his search for attention to quite staggering lengths. He is very conscious of his star status and will become very neurotic if he is around anyone he thinks—rightly or wrongly—is getting more public acclaim than him. This tendency is made worse by the fact that even the biggest rock stars, by which I mean musicians playing in rock and roll bands as against pop stars like Cliff Richard or Donna Summer, despite the fact that they may sell millions of records all round the world, are often completely unrecognised by Mrs Spriggs of 43 Acacia Avenue. She will instantly recognise Cliff Richard because she constantly sees him on telly singing dozey love songs. She also sees him doing guest spots on variety shows and chat shows. But rock and roll musicians do not often take part in these events and, anyway, bands like The Who concentrate more on albums than they do on singles. Led Zeppelin are in a very similar position. They are right up there in the top league of sellers and rock fans everywhere recognize them. Nevertheless they remain a totally unrecognisable entity as far as the Mrs Spriggs of this world are concerned. Assuming he is not wearing his attention-getting gear, I dare say that Jimmy Page will be able to wander round London or Los Angeles unmolested by the general public.
The star of That’ll Be The Day is a young geezer by the name of David Essex and he is, perhaps, a medium star, what with the odd hit record, boyish good looks, a spot of acting here and there, telly appearances and, of course, plenty of do re mi. At the time of the filming he is very hot indeed. His hit record Rock On is recently Number One in the UK and the USA. What is more, he has great Mrs Spriggs-appeal and is on Top of the Pops and similar telly shows all the time. Many bints ask him for his autograph, amongst other things, and, indeed, if he is connected to the national grid, this country will have no energy crisis. Essex is a fairly straight geezer with all this heat and fame but, inevitably, it does not please Moonie at all. He is very jealous. The way he sees it is that it is bad enough that Essex, and not Moonie, is the star of the movie.
The Rock On Number One hit malarkey is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
One day Moonie suddenly bursts in the hotel where the film crew is staying waving a newspaper about and shouting and generally carrying on.
‘Hold everything,’ shouts. ‘Hold everything, dear boys. I have an announcement to make. I have just become the third richest man in the world.’ Naturally there are a few comments made along the lines of:
‘Oh yeah?’ and ‘Bullshit!’ But Moonie is not in the slightest surprised or fazed.
‘Yes,’ he continues. ‘It’s true. Years ago I bought shares in a silver mine in Australia and this mine has just become the hottest thing in the world. As you know, silver is very buoyant at the moment, and this mine has discovered two massive new seams. I am now worth roughly £186 million and I invite you all to celebrate my good fortune. We’ll have a party tonight in the hotel and everything’s on me. Right?’ Well it all goes to show how full of bullshit this entire business is because, despite a few sceptical looks here and there, most everyone raises a cheer and even the sceptical few are convinced when Moonie shows them the newspaper he is waving about. It reads:
ROCK STAR MOON BECOMES BILLIONAIRE OVERNIGHT.
There is much glad-handing and congratulations all round and, of course, everyone is well into the idea of free booze and a jolly-up even if Moonie has to pay for same out of his granny’s Post Office savings.
Come the evening, everyone gathers in the hotel bar and Moonie starts to order up the medicine. At this activity he is one of the all-time greats, the Juan Fangio of drink orderers. Consequently, in no time at all the hotel bar is jammed up with raucous drunkards who very quickly drive the respectable residents out of the hotel. Whoever else is present, there is no question but that Moonie is the star of the show and is on absolutely top form.
Just when things are at their most spectacularly noisy and it seems highly unlikely that the party could become more explosive without detonation actually taking place, the Dubliners enter.
Strictly rock fans may not suss that the Dubliners are an Irish band that sings such songs as Seven Drunken Nights and, by all accounts, believe that such songs cannot be sung without personally experiencing these seven drunken nights—preferably at least once a week. The Dubliners are quite surprisingly Irish-looking, what with having large, florid faces and plenty of beard here and there. Most of their music tends to go:
Yiddly-tiddly-diddly-diddly — ah — yiddly-tiddly-diddly ad infinitum (or even ad nauseam if you do not care for this sort of music) and they are a most entertaining act indeed. In fact, the quantity of yiddly-tiddly in the Dubliners’ act is only exceeded by the amount of medicine that is required to produce any yiddly-tiddly whatsoever. In fact, the Dubliners, it is said, are able to consume medicines faster than a coachload of Australians on their way to a test match.
The reason that the Dubliners are to hand is that they are staying in this hotel while they are on tour in the area, and Moonie quickly encourages to join in with the jolly-up by thrusting large measures into their hands. In very quick time, the Irish geezers out with their instruments and what we have going is a kind of Anglo-Irish jam session. Moonie is playing upon anything that comes to hand and there are accordions, flutes and all sorts of Gaelic-style instruments sounding off. The end result is a bit like something out of the Muppet Show but a good time is had by all, except, possibly, by the hotel management and anyone with a built-in aversion to yiddly-tiddly-diddly-diddly.
This jollification cheers Moonie up no end but, unhappily, the price for this boost to the ego must eventually be paid and the time to pay is at the crack of lunchtime the next morning. I go to Moonie’s room and discover him in tears. And the cause of these tears, which are real and copious, is not so much the pain that is left behind by the medicines of the night before, as by a bill, the size of which will bring tears to the eyes of anyone who is not either J. Paul Getty or A. Khashoggi. Although the first couple of figures on this bill are not very large in themselves, they are followed by an infinite number of zeros and it is these zeros that cause Keith to break down. As bills go, this is interesting, informative and even quite imaginative, as it lists and itemises every single expenditure including things which get damaged, such as occasional tables and fruit bowls, and it stretches four or five yards when laid out.
You may be thinking that a man the newspapers claim to be worth £186 million will not worry too much about his entertainment bills. On the other hand you may be thinking that Moonie is by no means worth the said amount and the newspaper story and his claims are nothing more than a pack of lies. The latter is, of course, the correct interpretation, as I very well know throughout because it is me who has to visit the nearest joke shop in order to get Moonie’s story printed up on a dummy newspage.
Moonie is really quite desperate.
‘I haven’t got any money,’ he keeps saying. ‘I can’t even pay this fucking bar bill. Why do I do these things, Dougal? Why? I can’t understand it.’ He is really quite broken up and it is one of those occasions when there is not much I can either say or do. Of course the bill will be paid, even if it is me who has to fork out the American Express to do so. Of course he has plenty of dough, even if most of it is notional at this point in time. What he is really peeved about is that he has to resort to deception and lies to come across as a bigshot. He firmly believes that his place in life is right up there at the top of the tree—both in terms of finance and celebrity. If anyone eclipses him, however temporarily, then he becomes very depressed and this is when he gets himself into trouble.
After a long while he comes round, but this feeling that he should be the star of the show is never far away all the while we are filming. By the time Stardust, the sequel to That’ll Be The Day, is in production, this feeling is with Moonie constantly and this probably explains the outbursts of childish temperament which follow.
We are filming in Manchester. Stardust is the story of a band that makes it from scuffling club gigs to international superstardom. It is a sort of fictionalised version of the Beatles story and the band in the movie is called The Stray Cats. The members of the band are played by Dave Edmunds, who if course does very nicely thank you in the music biz in real life, Karl Howman, an actor I mention elsewhere, Moonie and David Essex as the lead singer. We are on location in the Belle Vue, a large venue in Manchester, and the idea is that The Stray Cats are just beginning to get plenty of hysteria. The hall is chock full of extras, all decked out in sixties gear, and they must perform plenty of screaming and hysteria at the Cats. As Essex is the lead singer he of course, must command more of the hysteria than anyone else, especially female hysteria. (The storyline goes on to tell how this character becomes a superstar solo act and eventually goes somewhat bonkers with the strain of it all.)
The bints that are dragged in as extras perform a fine job and if I do not already know what is going on I will think that here is a genuine case of fan-hysteria. These birds are waving a picture of Essex around, screaming their heads off, and are pushing and shoving in the approved manner. During these scenes I can tell that Moonie is becoming more and more unhinged by the fact that he is not the centre of attention and things get so bad that, on one occasion, I go backstage and find him in tears again, breaking up.
Bloody hell, I think, here we go again.
I ask him what the problem is and he says:
‘I’ve been here before. I’ve done all this before. I’ve smashed up this fucking dressing room. I’ve had birds screaming and carrying on right in this hall—and I’m still not the leader of the band. Why? Why am I just the drummer? Why is everyone holding up David Essex’s picture? Why are they all shouting for him? Why don’t they want me?’
‘Come on, cock,’ I say. ‘What are you on about? It’s only a film. A movie. Make believe. You’re a fucking actor. You’re acting the part of a drummer in the group.’
But even as I talk to him I realise that he completely forgets that he is in a film and that he believes that this is real life. Sad though this may seem, it is certainly not the only occasion on which reality and fantasy become inextricably intermixed for Keith Moon. It is almost as though he enters another dimension in which only imagination exists. Once, I have to pretend to be the manager of a large hotel, because that is where he thinks he is and it will just be too complicated to go through the whole process of convincing him that this is not the case. I have to pretend to be room service, too, and take plenty of verbal battery on the pearly listeners when he finds that the breakfast that I lovingly fry is not up to West Coast standards—especially in the orange juice department.
So here he is weeping and wailing and quite obviously believing that he is at the Belle Vue with The Who that The Who are never going to make it and that he will spend the rest of his life schlepping around such toilets. All this stuff about not being the leader of the band is quite significant, too. Is this what he thinks all the time he plays with The Who? If so it is really very much a shame because it is a fact that however pissed off they get with him, the boys in the band love Moonie and by no means do they think of him as anything other than an equal in a great and exciting enterprise. Maybe this is the time that I finally realise that Moonie has such a giant ego that one day it will inevitably land him right in the excremental matter for good.
What eventually cures him, of course, is a couple of large brandies, a few words of commiseration and a spot of generalised jollying-up. Maybe you are thinking no wonder the poor sod gets to have medicinal problems what with his personal filling him up with liquor at every conceivable opportunity.
Maybe you are right at that. It is strange how there never seems to be a doctor or a strait-jacket handy when you need it.
One aspect of Moonie’s character that is truly surprising is the lengths to which he will go to be admired by people who rate him anyway. There is no doubt that despite, or because of, his lunacy he is one of the best-liked music business figures. Though he is probably the worst money-manager in the world (apart from the succession of Government treasury officials) Moonie is also genuinely rich and famous. Virtually all his peers reckon he is one of the all-time greats when it comes to playing upon the drumskins. So what else should he need? Why take so much trouble to seem either childish or megalomanic? Maybe the truth is that when he is with anyone outside the rock business, whether they are lawyers or actors, doctors or architects, he is both jealous and insecure. He cannot relate his achievements to theirs and does not see that they all recognise his success and that even the ones who disapprove of him most also probably have a sneaking envy of his way of life. This whole feeling is made worse by his realisation that some actors achieve the same degree of adulation, recognition and cash success, and that these actors can go on far longer than any rock star. Whereas an actor can grow old gracefully and lose little of his or her appeal (though this argument tends to collapse when it comes to the bints who rely on a certain amount of déshabille in the Bristol area) there is nothing more pathetic than a geriatric rock and roller—as anyone who sees Presley in his last years will testify. Of course, there are exceptions such as Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry, but these are really museum pieces who are still alive and I am sure that none of the boys wish to be playing Pinball Wizard just prior to clocking into the local Post Office-for their pension.
Not to put too fine a point on it, Moonie, deep down, seems to feel at a great disadvantage when he is with movie people, and therefore feels that he must build himself up. He cannot see how transparent his act seems when he puts it on—though, to be fair, not many movie people have the nous to see it either. But then they are usually so engrossed in how they appear that they are obvious to everyone else. You can see a similar phenomenon if you put a small mirror in a birdcage. Still, however transparent Moonie’s acts, they often give off several guffaws here and there.
On one occasion, when we are forced for no good reason that comes to mind, to stay in one of a grotesque chain of hotels, none of us can obtain any medicines. There is absolutely no chance whatsoever of any staff member of this hotel obtaining same. It is difficult enough to obtain a cold bottle of wine after nine o’clock in the evening in the dining room. We are debating what to do when Moonie suddenly outs with:
‘No problem, dear boys. No problem at all. We will simply go to my hotel.’
Obviously, someone pipes up:
‘But, Moonie, this is your hotel.’
‘No, no, dear boy,’ replies Moonie. ‘I mean my hotel. The hotel I own.’
‘Oh,’ says the cynic. ‘And where is that?’
‘Just down the road. We’ll go over there now. I’ve got a private suite there and it’s well stocked with this and that. Come on.’
This may not seem like the most convincing story in the world, but Moonie is definitely one of the all time great liars and, whereas I know him very well, the others present are not especially familiar with his ways. So by the time Moonie completes the blag as to how long he is a hotelier and how he does not like to talk of it, or even stay in it, in case people think he is being flash, it is clear that the actors present swallow the story hook, line and fishing rod.
When we pull up at Moonie’s hotel, it is one of those monstrosities about two hundred stories high and covering an area the size of Manhattan. It is so large that even the actors, who are very gullible indeed, are having their doubts as to the ownership of the gaff. But Moonie gathers everyone up and marches directly to the reception desk. He opens with:
‘Ah, good evening, dear boy. My usual suite, if you’d be so kind.’ The bloke looks a bit blank, then says:
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand. Exactly who are you?’
‘Come along, come along,’ says Moonie. ‘I don’t have all night you know. I want my suite and I want you to send up some cold meats and salads and half a dozen bottles of champagne.’ This geezer on the reception remains extremely blank.
‘But who are you, sir?’
‘Who am I?’ responds Keith, leaning nonchalantly on the desk and looking round at the actors with a knowing smirk. ‘That’s rich, that is. I, dear boy …’ and here, with impeccable timing, he turns back to the unfortunate, ‘just happen to be the owner of this hotel and if you don’t sort out this matter instantly, I will have you dismissed. In fact, I will make sure that you never work in the hotel and catering trade again. Anywhere.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t authorise …’ The geezer is certainly game, but he is no match for Keith Moon.
‘RIGHT. THAT’S IT. CALL THE MANAGER. AND YOU MAY REGARD YOURSELF AS ON THE DOLE. FROM NOW! OUT!’
One of the actors with us who specialises in sensitive roles is a little upset at this high handed behaviour.
‘Here, Dougal, this is a bit out of order isn’t it? I mean, perhaps the bloke’s new on the job or something.’
‘Ah, well,’ I reply, ‘Moonie’s a hard man when it comes to business. He won’t tolerate slackness, you know.’ While this dialogue is taking place, Moonie has got hold of the manager and is speaking to him in a most animated fashion. Words such as ‘sack’, ‘dismiss’, and ‘stupid bastard’ can be heard. Next thing, the manager marches over to the receptionist and gives him audio GBH:
‘What do you mean by this? Don’t you know this is Mr Moon? He owns the bloody place—not to mention half of Manchester. How dare you insult him? I can’t tolerate this. You’re fired. Now. Instantly. Get out. I’ll send you your cards.’
Of course, the receptionist is most downcast and commences to mumble about his wife and three children who, it seems, are unable to subsist without his meagre paycheck, and what about his crippled grandmother who requires expensive medical treatment in America? But the manager is relentless, insists that the receptionist leave this very night and then stalks off to fix up Moonie’s suite.
Next thing we know the receptionist disappears, then almost immediately reappears with his hat, coat and a small suitcase. He takes it on his toes out of the hotel.
The actors, and especially the one that specialises in sensitive roles, are flabbergasted. They plead with Moonie and ask if he does not think it a bit strong to give the poor man the heave ho, especially as he is encumbered with the wife, three children and the crippled granny who must be expensively treated in the USA.
‘The thing is, dear boys,’ retorts Moonie with glacial disdain, ‘when you are in the catering business, which is of course just one of my many interests, you have to be absolutely ruthless with the staff. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. Inefficiency starts to creep in—and then where are you? Before you know what’s what, Egon Ronay docks you are a star or two and the whole thing goes to the dogs. No, believe me, these people only understand the mailed fist. You’ve got to be cruel to be kind.’ He continues in this vein, sounding for all the world like something by Keith Joseph out of Mrs Thatcher. It is, indeed, fortunate that I realise that what really happens is that Moonie slips everyone concerned a few quid to play along with his little jape, otherwise I will begin to wonder what I am doing working for someone who makes Albert Speer seem like Ralph Nader when it comes to labour relations.
There is no question that, all in all, working in the movies with Moonie is a great laugh for, although they take making pictures more seriously than rock and rollers take making rock and roll, movie people are by and large a fair bunch of jokers, even if some of them do come the old madam here and there. As long as the epic masterpiece is not too badly interfered with, they are quite prepared to experiment with the medicines, tamper with the bints and generally misbehave in a quite disgraceful fashion. And, of course, the great thing about making movies is that there are so many people interacting in an ever changing string of locations that there is continual ferment—and this is well-known to be conducive to laughter and pranks.
In Stardust, it is necessary to recreate the old Cavern club in Liverpool, which is where the Beatles first spring to fame. These scenes are, in fact, filmed in Wapping which is well-known as a bit of a toilet in the East End of London. No offence to those from Wapping, of course, but even they will admit that there is a slight shortage of elegant boulevards and soigné cafes and a general air of gracious living. It is by no means in the real estate agents’ top ten. In fact, it is in their bottom five … a right khazi and the reason why we are filming there is that a right khazi is what is required. The location people excel themselves by finding this spot and before anyone knows what’s what we are filming a scene where The Stray Cats pull their van up outside what is supposed to be the Cavern Club but is, in fact, slap up against a famous pub which is a great tourist trap and goes by the name of The Prospect of Whitby.
It is the end of the day and everybody concerned is pretty well knackered. The shot is repeated many, many times, as is the wont of film directors. David Essex and Adam Faith are sitting in the front of the van, as befits the star of his band and his manager, and in the back are Moonie, Paul Nicholas and Karl Howman. They are partioned off from Essex and Faith so that it is really quite private in the back. In the lull before the next shot, four Japanesers, all festooned with cameras, spectacles and teeth, issue forth from the Prospect of Whitby, see the geezers in the back of the van, which has its doors open, and ask them what gives. It just happens that the situation is such that the Japanesers cannot see the lights, cameras and other such things that are necessary to turn life into art. But before Moonie or anyone else can dream up an answer as to what gives, one of the Japanesers, a most cordial fellow, sticks his bonce into the van and asks:
‘Ah, so you gentremen are musicians?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You pray lock rorr?’
‘Yeah. Matter of fact we’re just on our way to play in a nightclub round the corner.’
‘Ahhh. Excrerrent. You dilect us to night crub? We enjoy trypicar Engrish nightcrub. In Japan, evlyone rove lock rorr!’
The upshot is that the Japanesers are invited to jump in the back of the van and offered the inducement of a free pass into the night club if they will help the lads, with the gear. Naturally they are well chuffed to fall in with an Engrish lock rorr band, so they pile in. It turns out that this is a works outing for a Japanese fountain pen company, and the first thing they do is to hand around freebies.
A few seconds later comes the call for Action and Faithie drives the van round the corner, totally unaware that it is full to the brim with Japanesers. He pulls up outside the ‘club’. The cameras are rolling quite merrily and everyone is busy being an ‘actor’. The van doors open so that Messrs Howman, Edmunds, Nicholas and Moon, alias The Stray Cats, can exit. But instead, what happens? Out fall four confused looking Japaneser tourists, blinking in the glare of the lights.
‘Ah, soo,’ says the head Japaneser. ‘What the fucking herr going on?’
‘Tee hee hee,’ reply Moonie and the lads.
Considering that they are not treated at all well by the powers that be, the orientals do take this little prank in good spirits. By the time Moonie and the others fill them in as to what comes off and hand around a few autographs, the Japanesers are most enthusiastic about the movie and wish to become Toshiro Mifune. In the end they have to make do with dishing out a few more fountain pens before making off into the night. Considering they cause the demise of the great British motorcycle industry and are in the process of completing same toward the great British car industry too, they seem to be good blokes.
When it comes to situations that can be turned into comedy, you might think that a motorway café offers less potential than most. After all, what is funny about a depressing joint whose interior decoration is confined to dirty coffee cups, half-masticated doughnuts and a few soggy chips?
What could produce fewer laughs than plastic tables and floors that are slowly being eaten away by the regular spillage of acid-based gravies? Anyone that spends any time on the road with rock and roll bands must come across his fair share of motorway cafés, and no one in the entire history of rock and roll touring ever comes across one that does not rival Wigan on a wet Monday morning, as a source of gloom, despondency and general depression.
All this leads into another Stardust incident which involves The Stray Cats in a motorway café scene—the idea being that the band is touring the UK and is stopping off in this café for a bite to eat. The café chosen for the film is highly representative of its type having slightly less grace and charm than a third rate knacker’s yard. One the other hand it does possess a manager whose boundless enthusiasm is only matched by his complete inability to grasp the fact that he is the overlord of a squalid greaserama and not a five star hotel.
This manager clearly believes that to star his rip-off joint in a movie will do wonders for business and cause it to become the frequent haunt of stars of the silver screen and other famous personalities. He seems to have some crazy, lunatic dream in his bonce whereby HRH the Princess Margaret turns to her companion and speaks:
‘I say, why don’t we all pop up the M1 tonight to that delightful little motorway café that was mentioned in Country Life last week. I hear their double sausage, egg and chips is simply out of this world—and Foggy says the steak pie and beans is too too divine.’
From this you may gather that this manager is a certifiable lunatic and despite the fact that all we are after is a couple of scenes in a typical motorway café, he insists that all the tables and chairs are neatly arranged, that everything in sight is polished (though here he has a problem because none of his staff ever see polish in their lives, and one of them faints at the sight of a dustpan and brush). All in all he carries on like the maitre d’ of The Dorchester, which is really quite pathetic and only succeeds in making the flies on the Danish pastries feel uncomfortable.
The first shot entails the lads in the band all queueing up for their rations of grease, and on the counter by which they are standing there are many plastic panels to promote the day’s specials, such as prunes and custard and fried plaice and chips. The manager is most keen that they should be included in picture and he takes special care to ensure that they are relatively clean and legible.
Filming continues and a few takes are attempted. Then, as usual, there is some sort of cock-up and there is a break while the head cameraman tries to clear his equipment of the grease that clogs up the works on account of him filming within twenty-five feet of the kitchens. Naturally, I keep an eye on Moonie to try and keep him in order. But he seems to be remarkably quiet and is in a corner with Karl Howman. They are rapping away, huddled over something, so I ignore them and continue trying to drink a cup of coffee which the manager thoughtfully gives me. Though what he has against me at this stage, I do not know.
This scene is set up once more and the camera, now free of frying grease, seems to be working in the approved and kosher manner. The Stray Cats poke around at the dubious comestibles on view and shuffle forward in the queue.
Suddenly, there is a colossal commotion and a great deal of shouting and arm waving. I move across to take a gander and what I see is this lunatic manager prancing about in front of the camera gesticulating insanely. Well, as far as I know, the script does not call for a café manager to impersonate a Matabele dancer, so I gather that all is not well.
‘Stop! Stop it! Stop the cameras! I won’t have it! You’ve got to stop! I’ll sue you all! You’ll never come here again!’ This last is not a threat to take too seriously—in fact if it is a promise, most of the great British people will heave a collective sigh of relief. Just as I am thinking this, I catch sight of the cause of all the aggravation. Along the top of the counter, the ‘Today’s Specials’ cards are most tastefully arranged and their white plastic letters show up most effectively against the black plastic backgrounds. But instead of promising the culinary delights previously mentioned, they now proclaim the immediate availability of:
Fried Shit and Chips
Prunes and Piss
Bollocks on Toast
Inevitably, Moonie is absolutely convulsed with laughter and he can hardly stand up.
These and many other incidents will lead you to believe that Keith Moon does not have the correct degree of deference and/or respect when it comes to those who are in charge of movie-making—be they directors, producers, stars or writers. To Moonie there is only one act of creation and that is to sit behind the biggest set of drums in the world, behind the best rock and roll band in the world, and then to beat the shit out of those drums to drive the band into producing some of the best sounds ever to come from musical instruments. This is what he is very good at. Moonie relishes the freedom of rock drumming and this freedom enables him to create on the spot, with little or no forethought—for, no matter how full of ideas Moonie is, and ideas come to him thick and fast, he is hopeless at organising himself to carry those ideas through. Meetings, conferences, plans of action, let’s try it another way—these are not the things Moonie understands and movies are very dependent on these things.
Moreover, although members of the movie business do not usually qualify for founder membership of the Festival of Light and are apt to overindulge and point their mutton javelins at each other’s wives and girlfriends, most of them realise that there is a time and a place for everything. By and large they do not cock up their professional appearances. Moonie on the other hand has no such inhibitions and will cock himself up, and anyone else who is within range, at the drop of a bottle. For example, he visits Karl Howman one time when Karl is in a play which goes by the name of Teeth and Smiles. It is written by a geezer called David Hare, who is generally, regarded as being quite up-and-coming in the writing game, and it has more than one long word in it, as befits a play that is on at the Royal Court. What’s more there are several very kosher actors in it, such as Helen Mirren. After the play, Moonie wishes to pay a call on his mate Karl, so what he does is blag his way to the stage door and into the dressing room. There, the first thing he does is to leap upon Karl and wrestle him to the ground, which is most embarrassing to Karl as it is witnessed by several theatrical types present.
This is quite bearable, though, and everything remains OK until the end of the play comes up and it is time for the Thespians to take their curtain call. Now, to many such players, this is the most important part of the evening and it is the reason many of them go upon the stage in the first place. So they are not too delighted when Moonie insists on taking a bow with them. He is virtually on stage before anyone can restrain him.
‘Here,’ he says, protesting at the hands laid on him. ‘I only want to take a bow.’ Helen Mirren very reasonably points out that he is not in the play and is therefore not entitled to take a bow.
‘What are you talking about?’ replies Moonie. ‘I always go on stage with Led Zeppelin when I am at their concerts. And Eric Clapton. What’s so special about this?’ One way and another, however, he is prevented from startling the patrons of the Royal Court theatre with an unscheduled appearance, much to the relief of all—especially Karl. But Karl’s tribulations are not yet over because he foolishly invites Moonie over to the pub next door to have a few bevvies. For all I know, Karl feels that it is the least he can do to try and make up for Moonie’s disappointment at not being able to take a curtain call. Everyone in the play, including its scribe, David Hare, is in the bar and they are all talking quite amiably. Moon changes all this by button-holing David Hare.
‘Listen, dear boy,’ he says, ‘I have an interest in the career of young Karl here and I want you to make sure you always see him right. Young Karl will be a star and I want you to remember that. If I ever hear that you have given him a bad part, or any other sort of bum steer, I shall want to know why. Do you know what I mean?’
Naturally, Karl is somewhat embarrassed by all this and has to bicycle very hard indeed to cancel out this uncalled for testimony as to his acting prowess. But Moonie cannot see that he in any way is committing a gaffe. He has no idea that he does not carry the weight with these people that he does in the rock business.
So, despite the fact that Moonie is undoubtedly a natural actor and despite the fact that acting offers him perhaps the only way out of the trap he creates for himself with his manic rock and roll life, he never does give it his best shots. He has several other parts than the ones I mention here, including that of a nun in Frank Zappa’s 200 Motels, Uncle Ernie in Ken Russell’s Tommy and a poovy dress designer in Mae West’s Sextet. To all outward appearances, incidentally, Moonie and Mae West get on like a house on fire in the very brief hours they work together. Maybe it is a case of each recognising the outrageous in the other. It is interesting that despite the fact that these masterpieces are given a right good slagging by the people who are meant to know what’s what in movies, and singularly fail to place bottoms in cinema seats, almost without exception Moonie gets a small rave notice.
Of course, this is no great shock to me, for Moonie’s whole life is a movie which he produces, directs and stars in himself. He even finances it and expects very little return. He often says:
‘I am the best Keith Moon-type drummer in the world.’ It is a great shame and a pity that he will never say:
‘I am the best Keith Moon-type actor in the world.’