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At the risk of spoiling a perfectly good cliche, hindsight is not always 20/20—in some instances, it can frankly be blind as a bat. That's the case with both the original critical reception and latter-day assessment of this one-and-only "solo" album by the late, legendary Who drummer, best remembered for its "high concept" cover shot of Moon's backside.
Not that Two Sides is some work of unappreciated genius—it certainly isn't, and we'll get to that in a minute. But almost all critics in 1975 and henceforth have marched in lockstep to the tune of "Why would anyone let Keith Moon do a solo record?"
Why, indeed. Beyond the mid-'70s trend that corpulent record labels were more than happy to indulge rock stars and their fans with side projects which promised profits without effecting contractual obligations, there were many reasons to think Moonie could make a good record. More than being probably the greatest rock drummer of all time (Bonham boosters, stand over to the left, Neal Peart fans... just be quiet), Moon had made significant contributions to the sound and spirit of the Who from the beginning.
The surf music obsessive (his first band was a West London quintet called the Beachcombers, if you can imagine!) had shared vocals on their covers of "Barbara Ann" and "Bucket T" on Ready Steady Who; He'd contributed the respectable psych-pop "I Need You" to the Quick One LP, and the powerful instrumentals "Cobwebs & Strange" and "Wasp Man." And he'd pulled off gruff but palatable vocal performances as Uncle Ernie on Tommy and the "Bell Boy" on Quadrophenia. Like his pal Ringo Starr, he was also blossoming as a media figure, making turns in rock films like That'll Be The Day, Son of Dracula and the forthcoming Tommy (whose production had put The Who on hiatus). If all of those elements could be assembled in one session, there was every reason to think a satisfying record could emerge.
Unfortunately, several forces conspired to keep that from happening. To start with, the record was made while a newly divorced Moon was sharing the notorious former beach house of Peter Lawford in Santa Monica, CA (where JFK and Marilyn Monroe had their trysts) with Ringo, John Lennon (then split from Yoko) and Klaus Voormann. All but the latter were heavily drinking at the time, and terrorizing Hollywood clubland from the Troubadour to the Rainbow (Talk about a scenario just begging for a docudrama movie!). The best effort that could have come out of this arrangement would've been a sort of "Million Dollar Quartet" type session—or at least a Moon/Starr comedy disc—but undoubtedly the different record companies involved (not to mention egos) kept that from happening. Instead, Lennon produced Nilsson's Pussycats album and struggled through his own Rock 'N' Roll sessions, while Moon conceived this record, drafting longtime Beatles confidante Mal Evans as an unlikely choice for producer (perhaps Moonie liked his work with Apple's Badfinger).
Evans could certainly supervise disciplined professionals (as the backing tracks here attest), but he was obviously the wrong choice to keep Keith, Ringo and their revolving cast of pals—including Voormann, Joe Walsh, Bobby Keys, Flo & Eddie, Rick Nelson and many, many more—on track. The four-month long Record Plant sessions for the album ended up costing MCA something around $200,000—an astronomical sum for the time (still pricey 31 years later) befitting Moon's typical excess. What they got was a semi-campy strings- and sax-laden tour through rock history (rather trendy for those American Graffiti-esque times) which seemed to be lacking only two things: confident lead vocals... and Moon's drums!
In fact, Moon only played cursory percussion on three of the album's ten tracks, somehow rationalizing that he was there mainly as the lead singer. That's like inviting Emeril Lagasse into your kitchen and asking him to open the wine! The drummers who took up the slack—mainly Starr, Jim Keltner and (believe it or not) Miguel Ferrer—certainly knew their business, but none of them was Moon. Less forgivable are Keith's often flat vocals, probably the fault of the booze more than anything. But several elements on this deluxe edition (including deleted tracks, alternate mixes, and an entire extra disc of studio outtakes) reveal that there were more guilty parties here than the man on the marquee.
For example, after MCA released a single version of "Don't Worry Baby" (the Beach Boys b-side which was Moon's favorite song) with Keith singing in sour falsetto (something he certainly could've handled as a younger man), they decided to recut the vocal in a lower range. Moon's second (LP) version was almost as bad—but as it turns out, it was no worse than the guide vocal which John Sebastian provided. Moon made the inspired impulse decision to bring in guitar legend Dick Dale. Only the surf-lick king ended up plucking his way through the poppy "Teenage Idol," absolutely wasting his time (can you imagine what a smoking version of "Miserlou" they could've done together?). Evans himself was fired off the project after MCA heard his mixes. But 30 years later, many of Evans' more no-nonsense versions sound better than the syrupy, slick masters "produced and directed" by Skip Taylor and John Stronach.
In any event, Moon is at his best on the rocking tunes "Crazy Like A Fox," "One Night Stand," "Back Door Sally" and "Move Over Ms. L" (Lennon's kiss-off to the wife, which he donated to Moon before recording himself). The more attention-grabbing covers of the Beatles' "In My Life," and the Who's own "The Kids Are Alright," like "Don't Worry Baby," are unremarkable at best, while the set-closing Harry Nilsson number "Together" is pleasant but flaccid. Intriguingly, two songs left off the final album, covers of the Knickerbockers' "Lies" and the Everly Brothers' "I'm Not Angry" (both which feature Moon's drums) hint the record could've gone in a far more aggressive direction.
After Two Sides tanked, MCA nevertheless initially approved a second solo effort (perhaps they needed more tax credits), which yielded three tracks produced by Stax vet Steve Cropper. Those cuts (including a version of Randy Newman's "Naked Man" which may include a "secret" sax solo by David Bowie) show a noted improvement on Moon's part, but apparently not enough to convince MCA to continue. Nevertheless, they are the cherry on the top of this exhaustive two-disc set, which is flawed only in lacking the original album's track-by-track player credits.
Granted, a documentary of Moon's life while making this record would have been far more captivating than the thing itself (there actually are small bits of something like that in The Kids Are Alright film). But in the end, Keith Moon's legendary/notorious record, both as originally released and in this expanded edition, is at the very least more entertaining than several Roger Daltrey and John Entwhistle solo albums combined.
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