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.