So the news hits me yesterday.
Poor old Lemmy Kilmister, colonel and warty lead singer– and bassist– of Motorhead has sadly passed on to the great “Hammersmith/Odeon” up in the sky. Maybe in an angel outfit– even if he was a philosophical pessimist of great decline and fall– but Motorhead was once described as the kind of animal pack who’d move next door to you AND YOUR LAWN WOULD DIE.
He was the sort of grizzled sot who kept things gruff and honest, a straight-up Englishman as a snakebite godfather to punk and heavy metal music. A mutton-chopped road-dog of stern, no-nonsense portent– off-set by his stage-appearance usually on freaky amounts of speed, marijuana, and Jack Daniels.
Just to see him screw his eyes around crazily and take the stage, craning his neck up to the microphone and singing like motor-grease and frying eggs as he tore his way through rubbery, low-throttle licks like a sonic blitzkrieg.
He found himself in several movie cameos– usually as a gloomy bystander of circumstance– as I’m sure Beetlejuice 2 will reference him somewhere.
Sing his praises– “or be a vagrant on the sidewalk of life”.