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Motörhead Launches Line of Wine and Vodka

English heavy metal band Motörhead has launched a line of bottled alcoholic beverages. Premiered in Sweden in 2010, their Motörhead Shiraz red wine is made in Australia and is available to purchase overseas. Motörhead Vodka and Motörhead Rosé wine will be made available soon. Etched drinking glasses can be purchased now.

via Motörhead Launches Line of Wine and Vodka.

Lend. So Ye May Lend, Too

I had a new ally come over on Halloween. Not a night in our neck of the woods for the faint; it’s overwhelming on many levels. Anyway, this fine gentleman dropped by to take a peek at the horrors and probably to see how worried he should be living so close to me. And he didn’t show empty handed.

I was handed a nice vinyl platter of Gong’s “Camembert Electrique.” We had talked briefly about Gong, and my unfamiliarity with them. But it always sounded like something right up my alley. But it’s an old alley, full of cracks, and I’m ashamed to say Gong slipped through one of them. I’ve only spun it once and it’s a mind-bender. Ripe for a full digression.

Now, I’m guilty of much in the modern age. One thing being that when I meet someone who says they haven’t heard of a band, or a particular album, etc … I quickly retaliate with getting them some. It’s the obvious “out.” But to lend a record? That doesn’t happen much any more {but then, I exist in a vacuum most of the time …} it seems, feels, like. What a great, human, gesture. Obviously it’s an important relic to this gentleman, and for stunningly good reasons that I’m only now getting my head around.

The scenario usually plays out with getting a burned copy of something, the future cassette. Lending a personal memento is not only a massive compliment to me, and a show of trust, but a real gritty way of putting yourself out there. If the recipient gets it: here, here’s part of me, an ingredient. Of course, you may not like it, but the fact that it was offered is telling. And if you don’t like it, there’s more to hear than just the music. You’re getting a small window to peek into. Gratis. No strings attached other than a possible long-winded discourse of why that record is so important. Or why you think it’s absolute crap.

When the night wound down and I was carefully finding refuge for Gong to remain safe and warm, something crawled out of the fog. Way back in the day, I had moved to another country and was feeling my way around, testing the waters. I met this guy, Scott. We talked briefly and got to know each other.

He turned me onto Motörhead. The ship changed course.

We hadn’t know each other very long when the rumors of “Ace of Spades” started started flying around. I was salivating for it. Scott tells me he knows this guy who goes by the name of “C.”

C has “Ace of Spades.”

I got on my Redline Squareback, got directions, and set out to find C. I rode to his house, not knowing him, knocked on the door and informed the bewildered C thatIknewScottandScottsaidyouhadAceofSpadesandmaybeIcouldlistentoitifyouweren’tbusyetc … I remember C laughing, inviting me in and handing me “Ace of Spades:” “Give it back to Scott if I don’t see you in a bit.”

I was floored. He didn’t know me, didn’t know if I was a freak. I could have been sent by Lemmy to yank his teeth out. Just for fun.

But he entrusted me with it and I cared for it for a few weeks like it was a newborn infant. Like I am with Gong right now.

I love getting new music as much as the next flag-waver. It’s so monumentally convenient now that it’s still staggering if you remember the days of having to hunt for something. Or simply waiting. Or being tortured by rumors of something being out there you had to have. But the act of lending it … well, it threw me back. Sure, you can lend a disc. But most people I know have it backed-up one way or the other. If you did lose the original, it hurts. But not as much as when you lent out your import of __________ live in Japan and it never made it home. The scope of the task of replacing it was epic.

Of course this all can relate to the ritual of pulling out a disc, or a vinyl platter, going over the liner notes, prepping your listeners for what’s to come in that brief moment it takes to pull the disk, get it out and get it on. All that is crucial. At least for me. That tiny built-in lag time you have when you can’t just hit a button and access whatever you want isn’t just some geeked out fan-boy opportunity for waxing poetic, though it can be. That tiny wait does something very important, and satisfying: it focuses me back onto the music. Everything else is super-tasty; don’t get me wrong. But that little bit of laser-light focus really opens the pores to soak it up. And the simple acting of lending a platter does the same thing; a little anticipation, some trust, a little discourse, a little wait, some tension building … you’re fully receptive, or more so than you might be.

And being somewhat adrift and uncomfortable in the modern world, actually receiving a physical “original” rather than an endless replicating copy carries real heft.  Hell yes this record can be replaced if the dog eats it or I fall on it. That’s not the point. But there is still a small aspect of it being finite {not the music though, Silly Rabbit … I even know that}, precious. If not only to me, then to the person who deemed me worthy enough to engage in the act of transference. That’s file sharing. From the rusty cabinet marked “personal.”

Render Unto Tull …

Tull is in the air. Weird. A couple of run-ins with Tull have got me to cooking the noggin over them lately. To what end (probably won’t find it here) I’m not sure … yet.

Just this past Friday I helped to wo/man the WRIR table at the First Fridays Artwalk here in Richmond. First off, it was a blast. Lots going on. I was chatting with another WRIR bloke about music, etc … We quickly realized we had quite a bit in common and, of course, the conversation turned to Hawkwind. Which turned to Robert Calvert. Which turned to Gong. You get the picture I’m sure. Eventually, the ship touched down at Jethro Tull. Another fine gentleman walking by was introduced and we quickly found out about his love of Tull.

And off we went. Lots of good talk over Tull, which is kind of rare. At least for me.

One digression led us fogies to what is cool vs. uncool. Needless to say, we were lost in the woods. Or at least I was and I wasn’t going to let on so easily, though my transparency is pretty evident. In a half-assed attempt to show pithy insight I offered what I thought most people out and about on this gorgeous night would think is uncool:

“Three old spaceheads standing around talking about Tull. That’s uncool.”

Then I was chit-chatting with another friend about all this Beatles hoopla that’s sending out static everywhere. In one of our pledges of fealty to the Beatles it came up that lyrics were used in the program or invite or something printed (remember that trade, kids?) for their big day. So, I coughed up:

“Well, my bride walked in to a Jethro Tull song (note: “Wond’ring Aloud” if you are wont to wond’ring) …”

Wow. Tull again on the horizon in such a brief time.

Then I ended up re-reading Lester Bang’s piece about, you got it, “Jethro Tull in Vietnam.”

All this going on while I’ve been revisiting Tull’s unfairly maligned “Under Wraps.”

Huh, soundtrack by Jethro Tull.

Wow squared. That’s a lot of Tull in my ether.

But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Jethro Tull has a long running thread in my little continuum. I love Tull. Even when they have stumbled (not much really. REALLY). I’m not sure what it was about them that got me stop my then banging head and prick up my ears. I’m sure much of it started with their intrinsic theatricality. That’s a big lure for a puppy. Though that aspect kind of waned for me, and them, it was big foot in the door. For some reason I bought it from them. And not many others really … Hand in hand, I was born on the wrong side of Tull. All the older kids I grew up with were into them. And since those kids occupied some sort of pantheon for  me (OK, they still do …), Tull was put up there on a pedestal with them. There I go again: inordinate time devoted to cultivating some warped little personal mythology over a band that just draws them in closer and closer to my heart. And Tull were so oddball compared to so much other stuff filtering in I just HAD to get into them. I’ll show them, dammit … hand it here, pal, I’ll wave that flag …

As I got older and the astral planes got wider and wider and wider, I grew to relish their craftsmanship over the showmanship. Those guys could really play! And, still today, I don’t have a problem with folks who know their instruments inside and out. There’s nothing wrong with being good. That’s no obstacle to firing it up nor does it preclude a band from having credibility, or chops … or, unlike Tull, being simple and economical and still pumping out an ass-kicking song or 20.

Tull is around. You can’t get away from them, nor can you (my apologies to some of you ) erase them from the history books anymore than you can erase their name scrawled in black Sharpie on one of my blue canvas covered 3-ring binders.

I remember very recently when the Decemberists new disc dropped (I’ll be upfront: I don’t care much for the Decemberists. I had some passed to me. And I tried numerous times, but … no hook on that line for me. No disrespect to the band at all) hearing Tull’s name bandied about in reviews and blips on the radar. One specifically referenced some strong similarities to “Thick as a Brick.” Wow. What did I miss? I went back in to find out. Nothing there for me again. Anyway, back on point (there probably isn’t one) … I thought it was very cool that a relatively “new” band was eliciting comparisons to Tull, a band dismissed by many as merely ostentatious and vacuous underneath all that glockenspiel. Good for the Decemberists. Good for Tull. Everybody wins. I may not care for the Decemberists but they seem like literate, savvy, knowledgeable guys. Guys who might appreciate Tull beyond acting like crows who just like to pick up shiny things and bury them in their music, then coat it with a fattening helping of irony and serve it to you with an infuriating hipster in-the-know wink of their jaundiced eye. It’s all coming down the same pipeline, no need to deny it. If you like it, wave your freak flag. That’s what it’s all about. That’s being a good citizen is in my book.

OK, under wraps. I think it’s a testament to the band, any band, that’s been relegated to dinosaur status (whatever that really is) that their name is invoked to draw similarities to, and give accolades to, a band that came much later and is in the sun right now, having their 15 minutes of eclipsing some of their peers. That not only gives the young turks a greater definition to us listeners, but puts it all right back into one big slipstream for us to ride on. And more importantly, to get out there and explore … whether your headed one-way back to Tull, or going the other to the Decemberists.

I think that’s cool.

{ … Motörhead was pretty cool last night, too … }

Gonna Run My Mouth Until I Run Out of Luck …

I’m not sure if has any meaning, but Postal Rates are changing on Sept 8, the day we see Motörhead. So, that date is gaining importance. Uh, yeah …

I’ve  been rapidly trying to fill in a few holes in the Motörhead canon as D-Day looms. To be perfectly honest, I was expecting to be somewhat disappointed as I revisited some of Motörhead’s later platters. I mean, I still follow Lemmy and the band, but my heart has, and still, lies with the classic tour de force (Fast Eddie, we’re still here …). But as some of those holes are being plugged I’m finding a great new appreciation for the “later” stuff. Sure, there ARE misfires (“March or Die?”), but who doesn’t have them? With a history as illustrious as theirs, a few steps back is a small thing. To paraphrase Bob Dylan they can’t be expected to knock it out of the park every time. They still stand head and shoulders above most. In fact, the fact that they are standing at all is a living testament. To almost everything.

I think in the past I’ve always had a hard time partitioning out their legacy. And most of the time, it’s separating that out from Lemmy himself. Their output and mythology is so overwhelming that making those clear divisions was tough. But it all seems to gel now as I revisit and re-hammer. Down underneath all that grit and oil and grease, the same heart still beats. Pretty damn hard, too. Maybe it’s because I hold them  up so high on a pedestal (that coming from a dork who had  framed picture of Lemmy in his bathroom for years … and a honey that put up with it … and wears her own Motörhead shirt as well …that’s love, kemosabe…) that the big picture is so …BIG. But, like any other band, they got highs and lows, and phases. The classic all-pistons-firing stage, the break-out, the stilted follow up (“Iron Fist”), the transition (“Another Perfect Day”—much maligned and much misunderstood, but an odd masterpiece in their run. Hell, Yes had “Drama,” Lemmy can have one, too …), a few days wandering in the desert, a hot reminder who they are and what it’s all about (“1916″), the stumble, (“March or Die”) and then a long stage of workmanlike craftsmanship (and I mean that in the most glowing, loving of  terms).

Like my old decrepit dog, just for lasting this long, they … Lemmy, deserves respect. While most machines peter out, ‘head just keeps going. Going like an iron Energizer Bunny, banging the war drum. It’s a constant campaign on the most visceral gut level.

Is this all going somewhere? Probably not. But then you knew that. I’m just getting fired up for the band and want to add my voice to the chorus that praises the Man. Forget Keith Richards, forget Elvis; Lemmy is the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. If he’s not, in the end, he will undoubtedly be crowned King. He just has to be. There has to be some natural order. And what happens when Lemmy has run his course? To be honest, I can’t see it happening. He’s not going down easy, nor should he. Rock ‘n’ roll a young man’s game? Bull. He’s proof. After this mortal coil I can only imagine Lemmy taking the battle beyond the stars.

Think about it: Lemmy hammering it out beyond the stratosphere. I can see it. I want to see it. I want to hear it. I want to watch the planets get realigned forcibly. And he’s the one to do it.

Do Not Panic

In a perfect world, this would get the same buzz as the Woodstock 40th … Ok, maybe their world isn’t in our dimension, but that’s hardly an issue.

And please, be vigilant: keep your Orgone Accumulator in working order at all times.

And I know this can only be some kind of sign for the upcoming Motörhead show …