Full Moon

While swearing to myself that I'd be in bed tonight before 5 AM, then immediately drowning my hot Irish tea in a blanket of powdery, contradictory sugar, I decided to revert to the Ole' Standby of late-night insomniacs: YouTube.  

Interests in YouTube can change from videos of men fighting in an alley to sports bloopers to song covers to live performances and back to fighting in less than the time it takes to finish a cigarette.  Tonight, my video of choice, or chance perhaps, was a drum solo by Keith Moon.

I'd always been fascinated by Moon "The Loon," his sheer ferocity and passion for music, for life.  He was a man that lived fast, a man that lived by his own rules.  Of course, money was no issue for the drummer of The Who, and he ultimately did enough painkillers to kill a small horse, but that's not the point.  

The point is, that while watching him through the glow of my computer screen, wondering off handedly when sleep would come, I felt envy toward his sheer musical talent, a rush of pride in watching a young musician in the prime of his life succeed, but 

mainly, a sense of deeply rooted shame.  

While watching him shake the core of the stage with the power of his rhythm or the stunning complexity of his drum fills, I realized that Moon, even then, was more than a budding musical legend.  He was a dedicated craftsman, enjoying and practicing the craft that he'd devoted himself to for the rest of his life.

He wasn't paralyzed with fear while on that stage, as I usually am when in front of the typewriter.  He didn't fear making a mistake.  When he dropped a beat, (as Moon sometimes did when considering the ridiculous amount of alcohol that was in his blood while he was playing), he didn't care--The Loon had no fear of faults.  He was exploring, experimenting, finding himself in his craft, and at the same time finding his way to a certain kind of truth.  No matter how foolish or drunk or inexperienced he looked while playing a show, the next performance, though it may not have been better, was always steadfast, confidant, and relaxed, despite it all.

Call me sappy, but I'll always believe this is the reason why bands or writers or craftsmen of any type ultimately succeed.  It's not who you know or where you're at or how talented you are--it's the fact that even though you work hard, you never really stop playing.  

Cheers, Moon.