Free Dear Boy: The life of Keith Moon by Tony Fletcher

Like every other group in the country at the time, they were building a set around songs by Cliff Richard and the Shadows, and any gigs they might get would only be at the local youth clubs, but a band was a band. Gerry was on his way. Keith still didn’t own a kit.
    Desperate to be part of the action, Keith attended the Escorts’ rehearsals in the back room of the Prince of Wales pub on the Kingsbury roundabout on Sunday mornings, where in return for helping set up Gerry’s kit, he’d be given a chance to play with the band. But his timing was all over the place, as was his accuracy: he’d just throw himself at every drum and cymbal as if hoping for the best. Half the time it seemed as if he were trying to hit drums that weren’t there, that the standard rack torn and floor torn, snare, kick, hi-hat and crash cymbal that sufficed for the rest of the world’s drumming population simply weren’t big enough for this miniature adolescent. Yet although it was obvious he couldn’t play as well as Gerry, who was steady with the beat if not particularly imaginative with his style, the other members of the Escorts warmed to Keith; his enthusiasm was contagious and he made them all laugh whenever rehearsals dragged. He became an honorary member.
    That autumn of 1961, Keith began taking evening classes at Harrow Technical College at the top of the Watford Road, two miles north of his home. (In years to come, once he adopted the upper-class voice as his own, he would tell people merely that he had been educated at Harrow, leaving the more gullible to imagine Keith Moon as a typically eccentric child of the wealthy élite at one of Britain’s top public schools.) Despite his failures at Alperton, no one could mistake Keith for an imbecile, and his RSA in science clearly indicated an aptitude towards electronics. At Harrow Tech., he turned that inquiring mind towards the wiring of transistor radios and the like, and used that knowledge to get a menial job at a company called Ultra Electronics in Park Royal. The nine-to-five routine drove him half crazy and he knew the employment wouldn’t last, but it was an area of work that mildly interested him, he needed the money if he was ever to get a drum kit, and he was always able to turn a mundane situation into an assembly line for practical jokes. Alf and Kit breathed a sigh of relief that Keith was finally applying himself productively. His sister Linda, having passed her 11-plus, was doing well at Wembley County Grammar School. Lesley would soon be going to Barham. The generation gap was none of their faults; it was just the era they lived in. Hopefully it could be narrowed in time.
    And then one Saturday, when Keith went to visit Gerry at Paramount, his friend took him aside. The hardworking Evans had become the golden boy of the store, beginning to carry clout of his own.
    “Listen,” said Gerry. “I’ve got a great deal for you. See that pearl blue drum kit over there, the Premier one? It’s a beauty. Good as new. I figured it would be the perfect kit for you.” Keith’s face lit up at the prospect of a deal. “I can sell it to you for £75.”
    Keith looked crestfallen. It was about four months’ wages. “How am I going to get that much? I’ve only just started work.”
    “It’s all right,” said Gerry, “I’ve had a word with my boss. If you can raise 15 quid, you can have the rest on HP over two years. You won’t even notice you’re paying for it.”
    Keith’s expression regained some of its customary colour. The introduction of hire purchase had allowed working-class families to buy televisions and cars with low down payments; now teenagers were using it to buy suits and musical instruments too. Putting it on the ‘never never’, they used to call it.
    “There’s just one thing,” said Gerry. “I’ll need your dad to sign the papers. Someone has to guarantee the payments.”
    Keith left the store with the paperwork and returned a few days later