Moon: The Life and Death of a Rock Legend by Tony Fletcher (Avon, $30)

“Hope I die before I get old.” — From “My Generation” by Pete Townshend of The Who.

A couple of years before his own death, Keith Moon described his way of life: “I always get up at six in the morning and I have my bangers (sausages) and eggs and I drink a bottle of Dom Perignon and half a bottle of brandy, then I’ll take a couple of downers, (tranquilizers) and then it’s about ten o’clock and I’ll have a nice nap and sleep until about five or six.

“Then I’ll get up, have a couple of black beauties (amphetamines), some brandy, a little champagne, and go out on the town. We’ll go out and have something to eat.

“I’ll have a little brandy and some champagne and then we’ll go out boogying.. Then we’ll wrap it up about three or four, go to bed, wake up about six or seven and start all over again.”

Not a lifestyle calculated to ensure longevity.

Sure enough, Moon duly took his leave of this earth just over 20 years ago, aged 32. It was no surprise. Indeed, it could be argued that he demonstrated an iron constitution by managing to survive for as long as he did.

“Moon; The Life and Death of a Rock Legend,” is evidence that he has not been overlooked by those generations as yet unborn when he died. Along with Buddy Holly, James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Elvis, he has been awarded the rock equivalent of canonization.

Maybe this is simple justice. As the original drummer for The Who, he worked tirelessly at his chosen trade of rock star. Nobody else spent as many hours toiling away destroying hotel rooms.

Nobody else risked more ruptures picking up huge TV sets and hurling them from windows. And not only TVs; chairs, tables, lamps — anything not nailed down — all succumbed to the immutable jaw of gravity.

Some articles that actually were nailed down, Moon wrenched from floors or walls at great physical effort, and at considerable personal danger and duly defenestrated.

Modestly, he never sought payment for his work as a removal man. His only reward was a gigantic bill from the hotel, invariably accompanied with a polite but firm request never to favor the establishment with his presence again.

His behavior inevitably resulted in a great deal of publicity in the press.

When he was not battering through hotel walls, he battered the drums. He possessed a talent for this which, within the somewhat narrow intellectual confines of rock ’n’ roll, amounted to genius.

Moon was the first and only rock drummer to put percussion on an equal emotional footing with the guitar. He did not play with technical brilliance, but he knew how to make his drums talk — or, in his case, shout. Generating excitement took precedence over laying down a steady beat.

Fortunately for Moon, and fellow bandmates Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend, and the impassive and imperturbable bass guitarist John Entwhistle kept The Who running on a disciplined rhythmic track. The result was a series of stage performances of literally deafening volume, backed with eye-popping laser displays and the deliberate busting-up of electric guitars that electrified audiences worldwide. Only the Rolling Stones came close as a live act.

Here I must declare an interest, as the politicians are supposed to say. In the beginning The Who was a West London band, and I was a West London lad way back in the 1960s. As the group steadily

burgeoned into international stardom, we locals basked in the reflected notoriety and partied with them at their annual Christmas bash at the Hammersmith Odeon, a London concert hall.

Then, in the late 1970s, I spent several hours on various occasions in Moon’s company. At that time, the idea of anyone wanting to write his biography would have seemed, I imagine, laughable. The notion of posterity would have meant about as much to him as the concept of “putting a few quid aside for a rainy day.”

No one was taking notes, for sure.

The rock world is not richly endowed with Boswells, as author Tony Fletcher ruefully attests. Days in Moon’s company were likely to be remembered hazily the following morning, if indeed one was capable of remembering anything at all. I do recall Moon telling me that he sweated off about seven pounds during every live show. Whether that is true or not is another thing. He may have just liked the idea of it.