Preview
MOTORHEAD
Sunday, April 17
The Whiskey
My mind was first corrupted by dirty, evil rock ’n’ roll when I was in Grade 4. Back then, I was interested mostly in hockey, The Dukes of Hazzard and my dad’s Crystal Gayle and Tom T. Hall records. I had yet to buy my first rock album. To me, hard rock was the music of my babysitters – young women who smelled like Bubblicious and hairspray, and guys who carried big plastic combs in the back pockets of tight GWG jeans.
That year, 1982, my town had its first air guitar contest at one of the schools. There wasn’t much to do at night in my town, except maybe curl or drink, so the gym was packed with kids and adults alike. I don’t remember many details, but I recall that my official introduction to the darker side of music took place in that crowded, sweaty school gymnasium – junior high boys with long blond hair, jean vests worn over black leather jackets, a fake Marshall stack with the Union Jack draped over it and the sounds of Judas Priest’s "You’ve Got Another Thing Coming." The song was both terrifying and fascinating. I’d never heard guitars that loud or aggressive before. Surely this was the kind of thing that could get a kid in trouble with her parents. And... I liked it.
Perhaps it was not so much an introduction as a seduction.
My deal with the devil was sealed when I saw my first heavy metal video: Motorhead’s classic "Ace of Spades." You know, that low-budget piece of crap featuring Lemmy Kilmister’s ugly mug, his bullet belt and his Rickenbacker bass, with some shots of "Fast" Eddie Clarke and Phil "Philthy Animal" Taylor abusing the guitar and drums. What a bunch of dirtbags. They made me laugh, they made me sick, they made me want more.
They were the kinds of guys I’d later make friends with in high school and play music for on the radio in university. Burners, stoners, rockers, heads, metal dudes, thrashers, bangers and a few punks, prisoners and skaters thrown in for good measure. Motorhead’s music is mean, fast and ugly, and that can be a very beautiful thing to a young lass going through the frustrating motions of self-discovery.
These are the people Lemmy is still playing for today, some 30 years after starting Motorhead. The highly influential (though never a big seller) British band has a sound that is one-half punk, one-half heavy metal and one-half rock ’n’ roll music. (Yes, I know it adds up to more than 100 per cent, but if you’ve heard Motorhead, you know the equation fits.) In those three decades (and for most of his life), Lemmy’s seen it all and done it all, and did it harder, better and crazier than most. Then he went back for seconds and thirds – he once passed out after receiving three consecutive blow jobs.
So it’s Saturday night and I’m a few minutes away from talking to heavy metal’s Man in Black. Lemmy is the godfather of the music that sustained me in my youth. Motorhead basically invented speed metal. It’s like being asked to interview John Lennon or Chuck Berry. The guy’s 59 years old (he turns 60 this Christmas Eve). He’s probably been asked every possible question there is over the years. He has a razor-sharp wit, and when I last saw him in concert, he ended every song by growling at the crowd to "fuck off."
Once again, I am terrified and fascinated.
I’ve read White Line Fever, his 2003 autobiography. I’ve watched The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years at least 30 times. I know Motorhead’s lineup changes and discography, I know they won their first Grammy for covering Metallica’s "Whiplash" and that Lemmy earned more money writing songs for Ozzy Osbourne’s No More Tears album (including the hit ballad "Mama I’m Coming Home") than he has with his own music. He started out as a roadie with Jimi Hendrix, hung out with Joey Ramone and recorded a version of Tammy Wynette’s "Stand By Your Man" with the Plasmatics’ Wendy O. Williams. I know he doesn’t care if you ask him about the warts and that he’s in great spirits about being on Motorhead’s 30th anniversary tour. I have two pages of questions and the cellphone number for Eddy, Motorhead’s tour manager, in my hand. I am ready.
"Hullo?"
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Hi, am I speaking with Lemmy?"
"Yeah."
"Hi Lemmy, my name is Tara."
"I know."
"I’m so excited to be talking to you today," I confess. "I think my heart’s going to stop. You’re partly responsible for getting me involved in dirty, evil rock ’n’ roll, so thank you very much for that."
He laughs, then says something that sounds like "it’s been all sloppy running the chapel all year." It goes downhill from there. Oh, sure, officially Lemmy and I talk at one another for six more minutes before the cellphone connection dies. It doesn’t matter. I can’t understand a sweet Jesus word he says the entire time. Lemmy’s British, his throat’s seen enough booze and smoke to kill a man many times over, and he’s on a cellphone with a lousy connection on the other side of the continent. Frig.
As Lemmy would say, you win some, lose some, it’s all the same to me. |
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