The first time I heard of Motörhead was in the late 1980s. I was a DJ at WCBN-FM, the college radio station in Ann Arbor, Michigan. During my late night shift, someone called in a request for “Ace of Spades” off the band’s self-titled 1980 album, their fourth.
I shuffled through the stacks and found the record. The cover featured three guys in the desert wearing black leather and cowboy hats. One of them had a bandalero. Another wore a serape.
Maybe they’ve got a ZZ Top kinda thing going on, I thought to myself as I slapped the album on the platter.
No. They did’t sound like ZZ Top.
Motörhead was more like the rockinist rockety-rock any rockers ever rocked. As in, rock-n-roll, extra rock please.
I had a chance to work a Motörhead concert in Detroit a couple of years later. They were being brought in by a promotions company I occasionally did gigs for. Load-in, load-out, a 14 hour day for 50 bucks, lunch, and see the show for free. But something happened. I can’t remember what. Maybe the crew filled up, maybe I couldn’t make it. But I didn’t get to work the show.
Despite the initial setback, I would eventually see Motörhead four times in concert. The first three times I caught them in New York City during the early 1990s.
The first time you see Motörhead, I suppose there are two possible reactions you can have. One would be, Holy shit, get me the fuck out of here. The other would be, Holy shit, this is fucking amazing, am I really hearing/seeing/experiencing this?
I was in the latter camp.
It was loud. Louder than you can imagine if you’ve never seen them, or never worked the tarmac of a commercial airport. They eventually made the Guiness Book of World Records for loudest band.
Band-founder and front man Lemmy Kilmister (Lemmy wasn’t his real name; Kilmister was) just oozed badassness. First off, he played the bass like it was a guitar. He actually strummed chords. Who the fuck strums chords on a bass?
Lemmy. That’s who.
And when he sang, it was standing in front of a microphone that was intentionally raised too high above him, then pointed back down, so that Lemmy would turn his head upward and shout into it. As he strummed chords on his bass. Fuckin’ A.
And then there was the crowd. Manhattan still had an edge in early 1990s. You could see it in the crowd at a Motörhead show, an odd intersection of metal heads, bikers, and punks. You know. People who were up for this shit. I had no doubt that 9/10 of the women could kick my ass.
The second time I saw Motörhead, I managed to lift a friend up so he could ride the crowd. The guy weighed at least twice what I did. It was a moment of personal triumph made possible by the insane adrenaline rush. Anytime you left a Motörhead show, you were drenched in sweat and beer, and it felt right.
The third time I saw them, and the last time in New York, I got to go backstage at the end of the show because a friend’s band was opening for them.
A guy I grew up with in the Bronx was in a band called The Cycle Sluts. Actually, his sister was one of the four women who fronted the band, and my friend was one of the guys backing them. The Cycle Sluts had toured with Motörhead in Europe, and when the raunchy Brits played NYC, they had their favorite girl band open for them, which in turn got me on the guest list and then backstage after the show.
We made it to the after party just before Lemmy did. I was drinking a free beer when he walked in, draped in women and passing out aces of spades as his calling cards.
Later on, outside on the street, Lemmy and the band got onto their tour bus. My friend’s sister ended up joining them. My friend, who stood on the sidewalk with me, opined as the door closed: “Dude, I gotta do this.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“This life, man. This fuckin’ rock n roll life.”
He did. Formed his own band with one of the Cycle Sluts after they broke up. Still going strong all these years later. I mean, he’s not fuckin’ Lemmy, but who is?
The last time I saw Motörhead was at a strip club in Lincoln, Nebraska in 2000. I guess it was a strip club at night. The band played a late afternoon show and there were no dancers. By that point Lemmy looked old and tired. He had a gut. His voice was off. It’s understandable. He was 55 years old.
The opening band, Nashville Pussy, stole the show. They played well and had gimmicks beyond their feline name. The lead guitarist and the bassist, both women, made out with each other during one song. The bassist breathed whiskey fire during another. Hard to top. Motörhead was a bit of a letdown afterwards. Que sera sera.
Lemmy died yesterday at the age of 70. Who the hell ever thought he’d make it this long?
Motörhead never achieved the kind of fame that would allow them into popular, mainstream culture. But their followers were devoted, and Lemmy seemed universally respected by punks and metal heads alike, an unheard of crossover.
About ten years ago, when a friend made his ring tone a cheap phone version of the opening riff of “Ace of Spades,” you knew there was no point in trying to come up with a better one.
Lemmy resonated deeply with a lot of people not simply because he was balls to the wall. There are a lot of meatheads and scenesters out there if that’s what turns you on. Lemmy’s shit was always 
fierce, but in a way that was more honest and more intelligent than most people who take that path. Nothing about him seemed phony.
In 2003, at age 58, he was asked how he’d like to be remembered. Lemmy replied: “As an honest man. As an honorable man. But that’s out of the question.”
Back in the 1980s, Penelope Spheeris interviewed the mutton chopped bassist for her documentary Decline of Western Civilization, Part II: The Metal Years, which chronicles the L.A. hairband scene of that era. Why he’s even in the movie to begin with is beyond me. Lemmy arguably invented speed metal, but Motörhead is not easily confused with the glam metal that dominated 1980s Los Angles.
Maybe Spheeris wanted to interview just one cool person after composing reel after reel with poser dipshits. In his memoir, Lemmy speculated that Spheeris filmed outdoors in the Hollywood hills as a way of making him seem small and stupid. Either way, he comes off as the only straight shooter in the whole film, and certainly the only one you’d wanna have a beer with. No bullshit. No hairspray. No makeup. No pre-faded denim. Just truth and cigarettes.
He stands there, framed by the lights of L.A., the coolest cat around, answering the director’s queries. Along the way, he cops to being an alcoholic. He doesn’t glamorize it. She asked him a question, he answered it. Done.
But why do you think that, she follows up, perhaps trying to pierce another overly stylized self-image, the kind she’s used to after interviewing all these preening peacocks in a metal scene that Lemmy actually has nothing to do with.
Because I fuckin’ drink too much, he says.
Fair enough. Now turn it up.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcf7DnHi54g