Motorhead: 100 things to do before you die

Last weekend I survived another Motörhead concert. I’ve been a fan of the band for more than 30 years, which amounts to a great deal of sonic abuse over the decades.

A Motörhead concert is a unique experience, perhaps worthy of inclusion in those lists of 101 things to do before you die. The volume is pulverising, and the crowd is a seething, heaving sea of people seemingly plugged into another wavelength. It is like no other concert, it is like no other place on earth, it is Motörhead live.

Formed in 1975 just before the birth of the UK punk movement, Motörhead were outsiders from the get-go and, in truth, nothing has changed after all the years. Band founder  Ian “Lemmy” Kilmister has passed during that period, from being a rock and roll joker through to a counter culture icon. Motörhead are called after a song of the same name penned by Lemmy. The song epitomised the band at the time, which epitomised a lifestyle and outlook that seemed almost impossibly excessive and over-the-top in every respect:

 

“Sunrise wrong side of another day
 Sky-high and six thousand miles away
 Don't know how long I've been awake”


Motörhead's music however is much misunderstood; casual observers (if that’s the right word to use when referring to those confronted with the band’s sonic blizzard) experience only a loud, if not shocking aural assault. But Lemmy traces his roots back to the music of the 1950s and 60s and the band’s music is based upon, an admittedly very heavy very fast form of, pure rock ‘n roll, infused with a dose of blues that might even have had Robert Johnson smiling:

 I seen 'em come, & I seen 'em go,
 I seen things & been people, that nobody knows
 I'm talking in pictures and I'm painting them black,
 I seen Satan coming honey in a big black Cadillac

The magic, or perhaps even the genius, of the band is something that is hard to define. The uncompromising, jagged sonic tsunami that is Motörhead combines a surprisingly accomplished range of lyrics that go careering across the exploding landscape of the music. Lemmy writes about those issues which preoccupy him most, from that trio of sacred cows: war, politics (he doesn’t like them) and religion, to his personal demons, and, of course, his memories. He writes as the outsider, as someone who has never been part of the normal world that you and I inhabit and when he rasps out the poetry of his philosophies, it is often a thing of dark tortured beauty, even sadness. It is all this which adds the unique, often hidden dimensions to the band’s music that simply cannot be appreciated by those who only hear a loud noise, from a strange looking man.

Death in the stars, rain on the wind,
 Came to the mission, couldn't get in,
 Came out of nowhere, guess I'll go back,
 All down to bad luck,

Fire in the sky, nowhere to run,
 Came to the desert, burned by the sun,
 Came out of somewhere, I ain't never been back,
 All down to bad luck

With Johnny Cash’s death nearly 10 years ago it is Lemmy who has now ascended to that strangley popular pedestal Cash occupied. Like Cash, it is Lemmy who has now become the iconic rebel, but somehow with an image softened by a public affection that transcends boundaries and generations. Lemmy is 67 (next month), now only four years behind Cash. For all that Lemmy seems near indestructible he seems to recognises the limits of time and age in his profession in his typically uncompromising way:

 

“Stay on the right track, you can't live a lie
Make sure you don't come back, look me in the eye
Know I ain't no angel, broken wings don't fly
I know the law, I know how to die”

 

Yet, towards the end of his career, it is now that he has gained the recognition, whether sought out on not, for what he has done, and not “sold his soul” to become. Motörhead and Lemmy have escaped the cloying gravity of fickle, transient media opinions, chart fashion and record label pressure. He is his own man; there is no need for shallow posturing, no one left to impress, no corporate schmoozing. His music remains brutal, un-tempered and honest, yet it is sometimes strangely fragile, sad and bittersweet, the reminiscing of a hard life on the road, of times, faces and places long gone.

This is music written to rupture the sweet dream we have been sold, where the only reward is obsolescence and a fading promise of an eternal life somewhere else when the shutters come down ….

…I have nothing but the world
 I have nothing to take its place
 I don't believe a word, I don't believe a word...

At nearly 67, Lemmy has joined a small unique group of musicians who have  escaped the straight-jacket categorization of their generation. It’s inevitable now that he looks back, not just on times good, but with the haunted memories of dark times too,

…..Out of the night comes a song that I know
 Twisted and ruined and black….

And the tragedy of the wasted lives of those now long passed on. The dark pain and poignancy uncurls itself in band’s the harsh guttural anthems:

….I can remember the people they were
 Nobody knows if they ever come back
 Lost in the ashes of time they still sing
 Echoes of romance gone bad
 I can remember them better than you
 I shared the darkness they had
 Dead and gone, dead and gone”

But the real thrill is of course seeing Motörhead live. Standing there, the very clothes you wear vibrating against the crushing volume, the giant reverb like a second heart beat beneath your skin, physically feeling that you can lean forward at 45 degrees into the sonic wall coming at you; shouting out the words to songs that vanish wordlessly into the hurricane of sound. And all the while, carried irresistibly along on the giant pulsing, overwhelming surge of the music, the heavy fast moving waves of primordial, crashing musical thunder rolling across the crowds, washed in strobe and blinding neon, and for a few precious moments, nothing matters any more.....