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It's hard to believe it's 30 years since Keith Moon – genius drummer and genial hellraiser – died at his flat in London. Melody Maker mainstay Chris Welch, who knew the man all too well, penned this obituary in the days after the Who lost their engine house.-- Barney Hoskyns, Editorial Director, Rock's Backpages

ON THE RADIO they were playing a tribute to Keith Moon. They put on "My Generation" by the Who. We heard the line that now has a hollow ring. But at the crucial moment, they faded out the drums, that glorious outburst of percussive exuberance that epitomized Moon as man and musician.

It wasn't a "drum solo" in the accepted meaning of the phrase. Keith never played those. His whole style was to play as much as possible, wherever and whenever he could. He knew no barriers and disciplines in that respect, and yet he produced a musical style that was uncompromising, natural, at times devastating, and totally honest. In some ways his contribution alone was equal to the sum parts of Pete, John and Roger. The sheer SOUND of the Who depended on that relentless, unswerving, but loving commitment from the acres of drums and forests of cymbals that Moon attacked with terrifying energy.

Moon's image as hellraiser and Court Jester of rock and roll sometimes obscured the fact that he was a fine musician, who took his playing with the band as seriously as any symphony percussionist or jazz drummer. Despite his battered health in recent years, his playing seemed to grow in stature. It was one of the key factors in the new album Who Are You, where he considerably updated his style. It was while going through a difficult passage during the making of the album that Keith yelled out to the producer: "I'm the best Keith Moon-type drummer in the world!" And he was.

For all the grimaces and by-play during a performance, Keith was equipped with a combination of stamina, sheer will-power single-minded dedication, and a very valid technique. Tony Williams, American jazz drummer, idolized by legions of players, who came to fame at the age of 17 with Miles Davis, once told me, quite spontaneously, that his favorite drummer was Keith Moon. "He's beautiful. Totally free."

Right from the beginning people used to worry about Moon. Another night I recall was spent at the Manor House in North London, then a regular rock gig. The Who concluded a deafening, but exhilarating set in the tiny packed room with a smash-up finale. Suddenly Keith collapsed and was carried out feet first through the crowd by two roadies, unconscious from the combined effects of heat, beer, pills and his own frantic endeavors. Already it looked like he was killing himself. But gradually there grew the belief that Keith was super-human, indestructible.

Gradually the impish face and huge staring eyes became haunted by his own frustrations and yearnings. People were often surprised to find Keith, the wild monster of the front pages, so polite, so charming and well-spoken, when he wanted to be himself. Whether this was the real Keith Moon, any more than were his other roles, it would be hard to tell. The simple answer was that he was all the roles he played. He was consumed by a passion for life that nobody else could survive for more than a matter of weeks, let alone years.

He never much wanted to talk about drums and hardware and other players, in the manner of most percussionists. But in retrospect I don't think this stemmed from lack of interest, so much as a genuine shyness and perhaps even a deep-seated lack of confidence, although watching Keith attack the famous Premier showkits, especially built for him, this might have seemed hard to believe.

But he did take playing seriously and a few years ago turned up to a drummer's convention in the West End, much to the concern of more sober players like Pete York of the Spencer Davis Group and Ian Paice of Deep Purple. I could sense the mounting tension as Keith gaily took over a kit that had been set up for a drum battle and proceeded to demolish it with wild, untutored swipes.

It may have been a far cry from Joe Morello-style finger control, but it was great fun, and as Ginger Baker once said, "you've gotta know how to dance on a drum kit before you can play one." Keith often seemed to be dancing with his kit as he pushed the bass drums and tom-toms flying, and as the cymbals swung dangerously past the heads of Townshend and Daltrey. Forgive the "I remembers"...but there was the night at the Marquee around the time of "Magic Bus" when I heard two skinheads almost shriek with delight. Keith had produced a large silver hammer and was proceeding to pulverise his valuable cymbals. But it was all in mime and not even Keith would play Zildjians with a two-pound hammer.

Keith always got a great sound from his kit. His snare drum crackled with living fire. No muffs and pads and blankets for him, if he could avoid it. His drums used to ring and shout and this is well demonstrated on "Cobwebs & Strange," one of his contributions to A Quick One While He's Away (1966), where he played a series of faster and faster drum breaks to screams of protest. This was also the album for which Keith wrote one of his few songs, the moving "I Need You," a facet of his career that he should have developed. If his work here seemed unsophisticated then by the time Tommy was recorded in '69, there was a new Moon rising. His contributions to Tommy were conceived in a grand, orchestral fashion: his booming tomtoms and that kind of run-up to an accent that was Keith's trade mark were ideally suited to Pete's symphonic construction.

On Live At Leeds his battering drive throughout "Young Man Blues" is one of the highlights of this live testimony to the Who at their on-stage best. Listen to those bass drums stop and the control Keith exercises over his cymbals. "Control" is not a word much used to describe Moon in action, but he had plenty of that over his beloved drums. When he wore headphones during the touring years, it was not for show. He was anxious to get the accents in the right places during complicated electronic pieces, and he wanted to be sure he could hear everything.

The last time I saw Keith Moon and The Who was at Charlton Athletic football ground in 1976. It rained. The crowd fought a lot. The Who were amazing. From a seat in the grandstand I was able to watch Keith close up, and was impressed not, as was usual, by the show of demonic energy, but by his attention to the details of the arrangements, by his accuracy and lightning reactions. Only an hour before, the Other Keith Moon had been tunneling his way through the roof of the dressing room, dropping down upon unsuspecting party-goers with shouts of laughter. On stage, the "bloody bell-boy" was just as entertaining, hurling his sticks into the crowd, grabbing the mike for some stagey announcements, his eyes rolling to heaven, a series of wicked expressions roller-coasting across his face. But if ever the musical party began to flag, if "My Generation" or "Magic Bus" seemed in danger of losing their spontaneity, then Moon would be in there, driving his mates onwards, never letting them off the hook.

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