Before they were philosophers, movie stars, opening-night habitués or recognized artists, the Who were exemplars of a style so personal and perfect, so fully realized and worthy of emulation, it went beyond mere stardom to become heroic. Though Roger Daltrey and Peter Townshend—the beautiful rock god and the ugly genius—were always in the forefront, the truly obsessed Keith Moon and John Entwistle were equally captivating.

Moon took histrionic drumming to its limit. In the Who's first great record, "I Can't Explain," his drum solos fall just where the guitar breaks ought to. And more than anything, it was his flair for the lighthearted, his passion for the Beach Boys and surf music which kept the serious natures of the others from becoming overbearing.

Entwistle was rock steady. Moon ranged further and further from the traditional drummer's role, leaving Entwistle as the throb at the core of the sound. The only other composer in the group, but forever subordinated to Townshend's writing, Entwistle grew more and more insular. As he delved ever deeper into his own manic vision, he acquired a reputation as a master of the macabre. Few noticed that his religious statement, "Heaven and Hell," was more mature than Tommy, if also more ironic, or that his song about marital strife, "My Wife," was the best rock statement about marriage. For most, despite one solid solo LP (Smash Your Head against the Wall) and two dull ones, he has remained that weird bassist who stands still amidst the bedlam.

Mad Dog is the first album for which Entwistle has assembled his own band. (They recently toured the States.) The first album with Ox promised to be both different and better than Whistle Rymes, a failed album of scary children's songs, or Rigor Mortis Sets In, an album featuring several oldies. Ox is a big group, with keyboards, a female singing trio, plus horns and the usual rhythm section. But it isn't nearly as polished as it ought to be. (Ironically, onstage the abbreviated rhythm section Entwistle toured with was much better, though too obviously derivative of the Who.)

Most of the music on Mad Dog is either sloppy, flat or ill-conceived. A passable soul instrumental is ruined by its title, "Jungle Bunny," which goes beyond the usual standards of tastelessness into vulgarity and racism. The attempts at doo-wop and rockabilly don't jell. Neither does the overproduced country & western sendup which ends the record.

The one song which comes close to being listenable is "Mad Dog." Sung by the female trio, it is closest in concept to the girl group records of Phil Spector. But even this sounds more like the Mamas and the Papas singing the Shirelles than the originals. There is simply nothing here which will move as many as "My Wife" or the alcoholic lament "Whiskey Man."

Moon's album takes the other solo LP tack. It is a mélange of oldies ("In My Life," "Teenage Idol" and, inevitably, the classic Beach Boys ballad "Don't Worry Baby"), songs by the singer's friends (John Lennon contributed "Move Over Ms. L," Harry Nilsson, "Together") and the predictable (epitomized by "Gold Record").

Moon's fatal flaws are several. He overrates the competence of his producer, Skip Taylor. Those who were offended by Bryan Ferry's weird arrangement and rewriting of "Don't Worry Baby" ought to hear this tuneless, unmelodi, ous, clumsy version. Moon also can't sing a lick. Only Rick Nelson, in their duet on "One Night Stand," makes any vocal listenable. Worst of all, Moon doesn't drum much here. He's on only three cuts, and though Ringo Starr plays on one of the others, none of the competent sessionmen he uses on the rest bring the excitement to the songs Moon might have.

But the biggest problem with Two Sides of the Moon is that there isn't any legitimate reason for its existence. There are obviously more interesting, less embarrassing ways for Moon to make money or play with his friends. The greatest shame of all is that, with a third of the studio time that it took to make this album, or Entwistle's—or with a hundredth of the time it took to make the Tommy film—the Who might have made a 45 as great as "Substitute."

(Dave Marsh is the music critic of 'Newsday.') (RS 187)

DAVE MARSH