Beer Drinkers And Hell Raisers: The Rise Of Motrhead , livre ebook

Ecw Press - Martin Popoff

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163 pages

English

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Lemmy, Phil, Fast Eddie and the Rise of Motorhead is the first book to celebrate the classic-era Motorhead lineup of Lemmy Kilmister, 'Fast Eddie' Clarke, and Phil 'Philthy Animal' Taylor. Through interviews with all of the principal troublemakers, Martin Popoff celebrates the formation of the band and the records that made them legends: Motorhead, Overkill, Bomber, Ace of Spades, No Sleeptil Hammersmith, and Iron Fist. An in-depth coda brings the story up to date with the shocking recent deaths of Taylor and Kilmister.

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United Kingdom

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Publié par	Ecw Press
Date de parution	09 mai 2017
Nombre de lectures	2
EAN13	9781773050324
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers
THE RISE OF MOTÖRHEAD
by Martin Popoff

Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1 “Hang on, what drugs were we doing that day?”
Chapter 2 “A bullet belt in one hand and a leather jacket in the other.”
Chapter 3 Motörhead : “Like a fucking train going through your head.”
Chapter 4 Overkill : “He was a bit of a lad, old Jimmy.”
Chapter 5 Bomber : “They saw us as noisy, scary people.”
Chapter 6 Ace of Spades : “It wasn’t that it was the best we did; it was that it was the best they heard.”
Chapter 7 No Sleep ’til Hammersmith : “The bomber, the sweat, the noise—it was an event.”
Chapter 8 Iron Fist : “It was hard work getting Lemmy out of the pubs.”
Chapter 9 Eddie’s Last Meal: “A bottle of vodka on the table, a glass, and a little pile of white powder.”
Chapter 10 The Aftermath: “God bless him, little fella.”
Selected Discography
Credits
About the Author
Copyright

Is aging a bad topic with you? “No, I don’t care, you know? I’m all right.” No big health problems right now? “No, no small ones either.”

Introduction
First thing to get off my chest is that I’d been formulating plans for a Motörhead book months before even dear Phil Taylor had died, and I had signed the papers with the good folks at ECW Press three weeks before Phil passed on, let alone any time after the tragic demise of Mr. walkin’ talkin’ Motörhead itself, Ian “Lemmy” Kilmister. I would hate for people to think I was glorifying or capitalizing on death—when I was finishing up this book, everybody was very much still with us, and it’s only the stretched timelines and strict sales schedules of publishers that make it look otherwise.
Which, incidentally, speaks well of ECW themselves, having the sophisticated taste to order up a book on Motörhead before anybody died (and I happen to know for a fact that there are deep-track Motörhead fans on the staff of that fine institution).
Okay, that little bit of unpleasantness dispensed with, I have to say that I’m proud to avow that I was a Motörheadbanger from somewhere around the beginning. I can’t find my materials or membership card, so I’m not sure what my number was, but I’m pretty sure I would’ve been in the first handful of Canadians ever to sign up, having joined the Saxon Militia Guard or whatever it was called at the same time. It was like magic sitting in my bedroom in Trail, B.C., receiving newsletters and black-and-white glossy photos from and about Motörhead and Saxon, materials that looked very much like the stuff I got from being part of the Buffalo Sabres fan club a little earlier than that, I suspect. Not sure who my favorite power trio was, Motörhead or the French Connection, but we don’t have to fight that battle.
But yes, Motörhead came to me as a lad of 14, with the imported debut album, and I can’t say I got it right away. Sure, hearing that tangled mass of distortion, I couldn’t help but like them, clinging to anything heavy that crossed my path (and of course nothing that was not heavy). But on the strength of Motörhead , who in their right mind would call these squatters and street rats their favorite band? At 14 years old, I liked Motörhead exactly as much, and for the same reasons, as I liked Raw Power , not the least of which was I partly felt sorry for the bands that had to live with these records as the best that they could do.
It wasn’t until my purchase of Overkill that Motörhead would indeed lodge themselves forever into my list of favorite 10 or so bands. But I suppose, one should clarify and not lie: Motörhead would be one of my favorite bands two times and with a gap: one, the period covered by this book, namely the classic lineup (you will notice throughout the following chapters that for expediency I also use the term original lineup although, of course, there was an original, transitional lineup that we do indeed recognize in this book), and then very much the band as it existed for about the last 15 years.
Now, we don’t talk throughout this book about the heroic and heartbeating music that Lemmy, Mikkey Dee and Phil Campbell slammed together like a hundred clap push-ups, so I just want to say, in the here and now, it does cause me some pain not to extol and explain the great records that version of the band made, especially sort of the last half-dozen (and Bastards ) before Lemmy’s death at the very end of 2015. So yes, in summary, I love and appreciate and I am inspired by Motörhead as it existed in the 2000s, and as it existed in the late ’70s and early ’80s, and not particularly so much in between, the nadir being the band’s cover of “Cat Scratch Fever.” And yes, for the goddamn record, Another Perfect Day is my favorite Motörhead album of all time.
So to reiterate, this book celebrates what is known as the classic Motörhead lineup, and the six records—five studio and one live—that Lemmy Kilmister, Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor and Fast Eddie Clarke created between 1977 and 1982.
Joining the Motörheadbangers is a filmy memory, but the fondest memory of these three guys and what they meant to me as an angry headbanger, exclusively headbanging during their reign, was the purchase of Overkill .
My fellow encyclopedic buddy, Forrest Toop, and myself had embarked upon one of our life-highlight trips to Spokane Washington, from our homes just north of the border in Canada, in Trail, B.C. We were by this point egregiously obsessed and knowledgeable metalheads, and we lived for these purchasing excursions into the Mecca that was shelves-stocked America. Spokane was just big enough to have a few tiny, perfect record stores that could fulfill our every obsession concerning our hobby. There was Eucalyptus Records, a bright and airy place walled with windows, a welcoming headquarters that had all the new domestic releases and a few imports. It was a cheery, somewhat corporate stand-alone building on Division, and it just made you feel good to be there—like Peaches must have been, or even Tower at its peak. But more important were the paired head shop/record emporia known as Magic Mushroom and Strawberry Jams, each, as I recall, with two locations during their incense-fumed reigns as the places we could buy Sounds and the NME and Tygers of Pan Tang singles with the patch still in them.
Now, I’m positive that I bought Overkill in the original, somewhat cramped location of Strawberry Jams. But I’m not sure that this is the time that I jumped up and let out a howl in the store and almost hit my head on a crossbeam, or if that happened when I flipped through the racks and found The Damned’s Music for Pleasure a year and a half earlier. But I know for sure that the endorphin rush was the same. With Music for Pleasure , there was the added delayed reaction of making out the fact, through Barney Bubbles’s vision, that this was a copy of a new Damned album. With the Motörhead record, it was more like being whacked in the face with an exploding baseball filled with paint. The debut album’s front cover was almost miserable in its black-and-white-ness, and a little bit scary in that it looked like a biker patch, which was actually Lemmy’s intention with the design. Overkill , on the other hand, was like Motörhead —and Motörhead—coming to life with a roar and a flurry of karate moves. It was Snaggletooth suddenly rendered in dramatic and violent color, and Motörhead as a trio of malnourished moochers in leather jackets was off to the races.
Soon would come the equally awesome Bomber and Ace of Spades (both, again, on import) and a live album that I really didn’t give a shit about, and then Iron Fist , which I, as it turned out, clutched to heart more than most people did. By this point, Motörhead had insidiously become part of my sullen teenage personality, getting me through lonely high school years, serving as a body core-strengthener, knocking me out of the encouraging family home into university at 18 years old, and then onward into . . . whatever, quite a bit of life as a fan who, like the 99%, did other things for a living, and then, for a good 15 years now, a fan who gets to think about and fawn over all sorts of bands like Motörhead as his full-time job, if you can call it that.
And then Phil dies, and seven weeks later, Lemmy dies, and there’s only Fast Eddie left to provide comfort and connection back to those magical days when Motörhead were the baddest bad-asses in heavy metal.
The tale of those great years, essentially, for purposes and purloin of this intimate and happy book, 1976 to 1982, was for the most part whacked together when all three of these hot-rod rock heroes were still alive. The finishing of it, with two of them dead, was much more of a mixed feeling experience. I have no idea if the reading of this book is going to make you happy with punk pride or sad with heavy metal heaviness, but I would hope that the communion with these words serves as a great re-living of those times, or for the youngsters, an entry point to six full-stride, wide-stance classics plus “Please Don’t Touch” and assorted B-sides that inflamed our imaginations as teens.
Of note, you certainly are going to be cast right back into the making of all this great music, and through much first-hand accompaniment from the guys themselves, Eddie very much alive and telling me great stories, with Phil and Lemmy coming to life, because I’ve talked to all of them at length. The other reason why, hopefully, you will wind up feeling well inside this hurricane of great recorded music is that the recorded canon is my main concern; it’s of the utmost importance and it’s is all we have, plus our memories if we were ever there with them in the flesh. Writing the book, it was very much like sitting around the pub with these sociable, smart, funny guys perennially plunked into a surreal world lacki