Nearly six years ago, my brother in metal Butch (aka B.Menace)
had his worst fears come true when Ronnie James Dio died of stomach
cancer. Butch once very sincerely proclaimed
that he didn’t want to exist in a world without Dio. Amazingly, Butch lives on in good spirits and
health.
But what my buddy felt on that dreadful day is what I’ve
been feeling for around three weeks now.
On December 28th, cancer struck again as we lost Lemmy only
days after turning 70. He was once
referred to in the film Airheads as
God. And when your god dies, how are you
supposed to deal with that? For a while
there I thought that, unlike Butch, I wouldn’t make it. This is the world I never wanted to live in.
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| originally posted on UUUM |
Lemmy, born Ian Fraser Kilmister on Christmas Eve 1945 in
a small British town, grew up in Wales after his father abandoned him at three
months. His mother remarried and he
disliked his step-relatives. From an
early age, he didn’t trust authority. By
the time he’d reached his teens, he’d fallen pretty hard for Little Richard and
the Beatles. He also wanted a way to
impress ladies. This formula would
create an inevitable result: a die-hard rock and roller with a powerful mind, a
love for substances (sans heroin), and a fuck count that reached into
four-digit territory.
It wasn’t long before Lemmy was playing guitar in small
bands around northern Wales which continued after relocating to England. His first big taste for the life came when he
got a roadie gig with the Jimi Hendrix Experience in ‘67. Soon after that stint, he roadied for the
Nice, a much underrated outfit known for being Keith Emerson’s first big break.
I'ma just put this here...
Lemmy’s supremely legit rocker status came once he began
playing bass in the psych rock group Hawkwind.
His time with this band is absolutely stunning, including three solid
LPs and the mind-crushing single “Silver Machine”, which made it as far as #3
on the UK charts in ’72. Also, Space Ritual from this period is one of
the greatest live records ever made.
On one hand, it’s a shame Lemmy got the boot from
Hawkwind in ’75. The Canadian border
patrol busted him with amphetamines while on tour, some shows got cancelled,
and the granola acid-heads who made up the rest of the band were feeling hypocritically
uncomfortable with all of that. And with
the booting, Hawkwind’s peak was unfortunately over. What a stupid fucking thing to do you guys.
But, the world balanced itself out and you can likely
guess what happens next: Motörhead happens next, dur! Named after Lemmy’s last song contributed to
Hawkwind, the band shuffled lineups a bit before finally sticking with the
“classic lineup” of guitarist “Fast” Eddie Clarke and drummer Phil “Philthy
Animal” Taylor just in time to be voted “Best Worst Band in the World” in an
NME magazine poll.
With this lineup came the LPs Motörhead, Overkill, Bomber, Ace Of Spades, and Iron Fist
in a span of around four and a half years.
These records changed rock n roll forever. Lemmy had the command, putting his often whimsical
lyrics through that trademark gruff voice out in front to accompany his
distorted, high-end bass guitar tone.
Clarke’s guitar work brought commanding riffs and also frequently indulged
in high-flying, wah-saturated, harsh solo licks to further push the wild styles. And then there’s Taylor, whose incredible
ability to drive a song on a drumset while kicking its ass into oblivion is
something I’ve not heard anyone perfect in his manner no matter how many punk,
metal, hardcore, etc bands try to bite the technique.
And that brings up another VERY important point: no other
band has ever been able to bridge the gap between punk, metal, and rock n roll even
remotely to the same degree Motörhead did.
It was tough as nails yet catchy while employing most of the tricks used
by rock n rollers since the beginning.
The execution was far more unique than any other band playing at that
volume around the turn of the 70s/80s, which made them difficult to define but
easy to love across the spectrum. They
were also way talented, but those who appreciated rock prowess seemed to enjoy
them just as much as someone who simply wanted to bang their head…like, really,
really fucking hard.
While this lineup definitely set the tone for how the
group would forever be known, future lineups were equally impressive. To take a brief sidestep, one lineup that,
while in the past decade or so seems to have gained a bit of traction with Motörhead
fans, has been grossly overlooked: a brief one following Clarke’s departure resulting
in 1983’s Another Perfect Day. This record is notable for being the sole LP
featuring Thin Lizzy’s Brian Robertson.
If you’ve never heard it and that’s not enough reason for you to check
it out, then I don’t see how the hell there’s any reason you should even take
one more breath. Seriously, just stop.
Outside of Motörhead, Lemmy had several other musical contributions
that, to say the least, are worth noting.
He briefly played in the Damned in the 70s. The collaboration between Motörhead and rippers
Girlschool is one of the greatest collabs of
two rock groups ever. Lemmy also worked
with Wendy O’Williams, another intense yet massively inspiring personality. A long-time fan, he wrote “R.A.M.O.N.E.S.”, which
the four long-haired denim-clad oddballs outta NYC later rocked themselves. One of his more interesting offerings was
penning the 1991 Ozzy Osbourne hit “Mama I’m Coming Home” which happened to
earn him way more money than anything else he’d ever done.
Until his dying day, Lemmy never faltered, never letting
go of a band that is beyond legend while simultaneously keeping his own superhuman
legend well intact. This is quite impressive
considering, if nothing else, that someone with the consistent substance intake
of Kilmister probably should’ve never lived to see 35, much less double that
number. In his autobiography, White Line Fever, there is a tale where
he went to undergo hemodialysis much like Keith Richards infamously did in the
mid-70s. When the doctors analyzed him,
however, they informed him this couldn’t be done. Apparently, if Lemmy took in clean blood it
would kill him. On the flipside, if
anyone were to receive his blood, it would kill them. The “man” lived off poison, literally.
Rolling Stone: "Do you have a favorite hangover cure?"
Lemmy: "Well, to get a hangover you got to stop drinking [laughs]. I've never been much of a fan of that."
Lemmy is the ultimate embodiment of “sex, drugs, and rock
& roll”. He’ll be remembered by many
for partying nearly anybody who tried to keep up under the table. His image is instantly identifiable: the
mutton chops, the hat, the moles on his face Beavis once referred to as “cocoa puffs”, etc. He was the only
person who didn’t seem like at least somewhat of a dumbass in Decline Of the Western Civilization pt 2. His presence in Troma films, among many other
things, helped to prove he didn’t take his iconic status too seriously. Lemmy was adored as a personality just as
much as a performer.
And let me just tell you if you’ve never read White Line Fever, my favorite
autobiography ever, or at least seen the documentary aptly titled Lemmy
that you are sorely missing out.
He’s not your average piece of shit rockstar. Maybe at worst you could perhaps try to classify him as a
womanizer, but that’s unfair. There
may’ve been some objectification and sleaze, sure, but he had the utmost
respect for women. Or anyone deserving,
really.
Truth is, Lemmy was the greatest bad role model any of us
miscreants could ever hope for. He had
no need for religion. He claimed his
band was apolitical, but he had no lack of opinions on world events and various
wrongs. I adored his perspective on
9/11, essentially saying the one-time tragedy couldn’t compare to other
atrocities that have happened throughout history. FINALLY, I was reading the thoughts of a real
ass motherfucker (or, as the popular Lemmy tagline goes, “49% motherfucker, 51%
son of a bitch”) and not just another stupid rock n roll asshole. Conventional thought didn’t interest him and,
to boot, he was a great guy with a massive heart. There’s no doubt in my mind he was the most
solid-minded celebrity that has existed…at least in correlation with my fucked
up way of thinking.
He also scoffed at the concept of speaking fondly of the
dead if you harbored ill-will towards them while they were living. Let this be your cue to talk shit about Lemmy
if you didn’t like him. And let this be
my cue for slitting your throat for speaking ill of my god. The holy war begins…
"Fuck this "don't speak ill of the dead" shit! People don't become better when they are dead; you just talk about them as if they are. But it's not true! People are still assholes, they're just dead assholes."
On September 12, 2009, Motörhead headlined a bike rally
in Cherokee, NC. My dad, a seedy biker
type who used to sell drugs to wrestlers and run guns for biker gangs, told me
that he had a Harley that won some races there back in the day. There was no way I was going to miss out on
seeing them play in the most fitting setting imaginable, and I planned to bring
as many substances as I could find.
Tons of leather, guys chilling on Harleys revving up
their engines between songs far trumping any clapping or hollering from the
rest of the crowd, most of the Asheville crew I came with getting as fucked up
as humanly possible while enjoying one of the greatest bands to ever grace this
undeserving planet. My mind was beyond
blown. I somehow remember it fairly
clearly, yet I’m not sure it ever sunk in that what was occurring was in fact reality.
After the show, wondering around like an amped-up zombie,
I get a call from Kristin (aka Wifey) telling me where she is. “Uhhh, hey guys, they’re
backstage with Lemmy…I’m fucking getting back there somehow.” It didn’t take long to find the area they
were in. Security walks up to stop us but, once we waved to our friends cooling it with God himself, we were allowed
to walk in.
Lemmy didn’t want any of my weed. He didn’t want any of Josh’s moonshine. I guess he was perfectly content with his
Jack and Coke that he’d likely been drinking since he woke up. I slurred out some words that were intended
to indicate how stoked I was that they played multiple songs from Another Perfect Day along with other
various praises. He was very nice about
the experience but seemed a bit too tired to properly deal with our
overwhelming vibes.
I got a picture taken with him. Kristin was too drunk; she took a photo of only our shoes. Josh (aka Claude Budget) got
a really nice one though. I don’t care
about pics with celebs so much, but I’ll always be slightly bitter about this one. But how bitter can I be really? I mean, she did provide what’s likely the
greatest heads-up of my entire life.
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| Lemmy and Josh. Not pictured: me |
To put it into perspective, this was the end of the
MySpace era. On my profile, in the “who
I’d like to meet” section, which was typically used for people to describe what
sort of dickbags they’d be down to hang with, my answer was simple:
“Lemmy”. I got my wish, and I got in a
solid hi-five.
Then, we went to the casino and I lost about $30 in an
hour. When in the holy land, do as the
lord would do.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
And now the man, the legend, the god…the guy that
actually did kinda feel like an old grandpa when I had my arm around him for that
fateful photo shoot, is gone. A month
and a half prior, we lost Philthy – obviously another case of two lovers passing
in a close proximity of time. Here’s
hoping to a bitchin’ reunion in whatever sort of afterlife people of their kind
would be allowed. Maybe Philo and Jimi
are hanging at the bar enjoying the sounds.
