In Honour Of Ian "Lemmy" Kilmister (1945-2015)

On December 28th, 2015, I lost someone akin to a father and the world lost a legend. Not to downplay the role my Uncle and Grandfather had on my life but when the chips were down and I needed to hear the truth it was Lemmy and Co. that found a home in my soul, crafting the man I was to become…

The last time I went to my actual father’s house was around Christmas when I was eight years old. Christmas was always a difficult time for me in those days. All I really wanted to do was go to my Gramma’s but I would have to go to my Dad’s instead. He had remarried and had two kids at that time and would buy me what seemed like a mountain of gifts but each of those gifts were to remain at their house, so I would have something to play with when I was there. Trouble was that the other kids would play with them while I wasn’t around and a lot of the times I would arrive for my visit only to be rewarded by broken toys that I had anticipated being able to play with.

This particular Christmas, what would be considered my half brother and I were playing in the unfinished basement of their home when he stabbed me in the eye with a screwdriver from a play set. I didn’t have to think about it, my arm on autopilot, as I reached out and punched him in the face, knocking him and his head onto the concrete. A deafening shriek erupted and my Dad and his new wife came rushing down the stairs. When they witnessed the scene they instantly took his side instead of mine. I was bigger and should know better and so on. No one seemed to give a lick that I may be hurt or that he had stabbed me. It was literally a huge eye opener for an eight year old, I can attest to that much at least.

I didn’t react well but who were the adults in the situation after all? I knew right then and there that my “father” would never fully defend me or have my back and I told him so in seven simple words; “I want to go to my Gramma’s”. He packed up the few things I had brought along, and the items from Christmas allowed to go along for the ride, and we climbed into his work truck and left for my Grandparent’s farm.

It wasn’t a long way, roughly twenty minutes to half an hour in travel time but no words were spoken at first, just the sound of the motor and the snow beneath the wheels as we drove down the gravel roads that would lead us there.

About half way there is a bump in the road that I used to love going over because it would make my guts flip like I imagined happened to the Dukes Of Hazzard when they were flying over hilltops in the General Lee. On big hills I used to drive everyone in the car crazy because I would yell “YEEEEEEE…” all the way up and “HAAAAAA!” all the way down. This day was not one of those days.

Shortly after we had gone over the bump he looked right at me and said. “if I take you to your Gramma’s you can never come back to my house again.”

I admit I was a bit floored but I was resolute in my conviction when I told him to keep driving.

My true family would never make such an ultimatum as he had, of that much I was certain and I never did go back there.

Over the years my Mum would offer up a few candidates for the position of “father-figure” but none of them worked out, for her or me, but being a member of the “dad of the week club” gave me a special set of skills that would benefit me for the rest of my life. Those same skills and values were further enforced when I stumbled across Motörhead.

I had a great friend named Wayne when I was younger. Wayne was considerably older than I was but had never really reached his social peak. He was the Postmaster at the local postal office and we often talked for long periods of time when I would frequent there to pick up the household mail. At that time I carried around a ghetto blaster with four speakers across the front. It was demonically loud and I would carry it around our little town blasting the most evil cantankerous sounds I could find. I had begun to listen to heavy metal after a friend of mine Tony had gotten a bunch of old Circus and Hit Parader magazines after cleaning out a rental unit for a friend of his mother. Tony didn’t really think the magazines were that interesting so he gave them to me and that was the beginning of a lifelong love of heavy metal.

Wayne started to get into metal after listening to some of the music I would play for him in the post office and proceeded to buy cassettes by artists we would see on Headbanger’s Ball, a weekly MTV program devoted to heavy meal. Our friendship had moved out of the confines of his work and I often went to his house to visit. I didn’t have a television, but Wayne did, so he would record the program on tape and then we would watch it together and find new favourites to look for in the record store. I didn’t have money being so young but Wayne would buy them and I would duplicate them off of him.

The first time we saw Motörhead and a video called “Eat The Rich” I was hooked.

Lemmy rides a motorcycle through walls and is generally disturbing the peace of uptight assholes who would stop him from living free, all the while urging the listener to devour them and their systems. It was a stark contrast to Poison, Ratt and the other “hair bands” of the era and Motörhead stuck out like a sore thumb. After all, most of the video bands were slick and pretty marketing teams but Motörhead was something entirely different, complete with bullet belts, they were incredibly fast and excessively loud.

My family have always been proud monarchists, having immigrated to Canada from England, which just happened to be the home of Motörhead as well. Lemmy would later move to California but at that time was still living in England and a large portion of their catalog was unavailable to the Canadian market, outside of specialty record shops that had the ability to import them. Even if you could find the rare records they were expensive however, so I would beg my Gramma to bring me anything she could find on her many trips back to the United Kingdom.

One such trip would prove to be a story that I would later share with Lemmy the first time I met him. As it were, even in England and known worldwide, Motörhead cassettes were not easily acquired at the popular record shops, and after inquiring in multiple stores, my Gramma was finally directed to a much seedier district.

Gramma isn’t timid and has no trouble calling a spade a spade, so it was no great feat for her to go into the “heart of London” as it were. There were plenty of times that I watched my grandmother put a very large fellow or two in their place while my Granddad and Uncle were not to be found. The whole family had a part in the running of a busy and rough bar in the prairies for some time when I was younger and things could get ugly. My Grampa was a take no shit, barrel chested man that had the hands of a vice. When he shook hands, you pitied the man on the receiving end, more so if he tried to give a little back; granddad never really gave it any effort the first shake. My Uncle is a large man, big and tall. I’ve heard people say they never mess with him in fear of “the hammer”. These were tough men and my Gramma told them what to do, same went for anyone who frequented the hotel. When Gramma talked, you listened, in fact, that holds true to this very day.

When Gramma was in the aforementioned seedy record store, the sales clerk kept looking at her questioningly, until he finally approached and inquired as to what she was in search of. When she replied that she was looking for Motörhead, the young fellow looked shocked and exclaimed, “you don’t look like the type of person who would listen to Motörhead!”

She then explained that she was only there to buy them for her grandson who had specifically asked for them, and in particular, ones that were not available in Canada.

That guy must have known his stuff because she brought me home 1916 before it was even released here, as well as a compilation called “Headbangers” that I have not again seen and that contained the most badass version of “Dancing On Your Grave” I have ever heard, far surpassing the album version in my opinion. Every time she went, Motörhead came home.

Motörhead was more than a loud noisy punk metal band for me. The lyrics spoke to me about grit and determination.

Don’t let them grind ya down.

They might win but we were born to lose.

For a guy without much to begin with, Lemmy was the words to live by and Motörhead the biblical horse that would carry his message of determination to the world. If you haven’t anything, then you haven’t anything to lose and the only thing worse than giving up is not giving it an everything-you-got shot in the first place. Integrity, valour, honesty and loyalty weren’t just words on paper or lyrics to a song for Lemmy; it was how he lived his life and the qualities that Lemmy looked for in those he would call his friends.

Back when I was growing up, American bands didn’t often tour near where I lived so it was hard to see your favourite bands live in concert. You had to rely on VHS tapes or live recordings and close your eyes imagining what it was like to be there, witnessing the spectacle in the flesh. Live albums were huge, made required catalog for any band by KISS, initially with their KISS Alive album. Being as Motörhead was from England and only toured Canada so often, coupled with my living in a remote area of Alberta, it was a dream killer for any young man with rock and roll dreams and hopes of laying eyes on their heroes.

Even American bands often only came as far as Vancouver or Toronto, almost as if there wasn’t a massive country in between. I often wondered why more big bands didn’t hit Winnipeg until I went there myself; up till then it seemed like a perfect spot right in the middle that would at least make it appear like a Canadian tour. Sure, Mötley Crüe came often and we saw them when we could, but when it came to extreme bands like Slayer I had to hitchhike to the states to realize my hopes, which was both crazy and dangerous as a teenager, but looking back I wouldn’t change a thing. It helped me understand that you didn’t need to be hung up with not having transportation or a means to get somewhere, if you really want something and you point your feet in that direction, you’ll get there.

Motörhead was a different story, when they did come they made it all across the country.

“Another Perfect Day” sold more copies in Canada than anywhere else, something Lemmy would often comment on when he was here. Despite that, for whatever reason, I was unable to see Motörhead until they played in Calgary; I think it was at the Max Bell Arena. The Arena still stands, fully functional, but I think the last shows there were the Crüe’s first comeback tour and the Marilyn Manson tour that got all the publicity due to the massive Christian protests. Since then it hasn’t seen much use in the hard rock or heavy metal circuit to my knowledge. Stories abound regarding that night and Lemmy’s eventually showing up at a local bar, but I was not there and did not meet the titan then, my time was later on.

Like all things in rock and roll, it seems that once a band has played the arenas of the world that something happens that brings them home, to roost amongst the beams of the places that made them great. Like the smell of American cigarettes or a ring on the bar where a drink sat too long without a coaster, in an establishment made greater by the greatness of others, the clientele and entertainers, rather than the décor or the drink menu. So too was the fate of Motörhead for a time, as they began to tour the world in the trenches, where Lemmy was actually happiest. Returning to smaller venues for some bands is a step back from which few recover, and those that do, were so great in the first place that their time in such venues, and the intimacy they provide, is to be celebrated by even them; as it was with Motörhead.

When Lemmy wasn’t on stage or in the studio, he was in a pub, likely seated at a one armed bandit or a video game. In later years this would have been found in the Rainbow Bar & Grill after Lemmy had moved to California, or in his apartment not far away. Bottom line, when he wasn’t performing, he was in a bar, so performing in one just shortened the walk for bourbon.

Motörhead would once again regain their crown and tour the world, repeatedly, in arenas and festivals everywhere, but for a time some of their greatest work happened in places like Cowboys Nightclub.

It was actually at Cowboys in Calgary that I would meet Lemmy for the first time. After an ear splitting set, the club’s DJ announced that any “girls with big tits” that wanted to meet Lemmy should line up at the “Cigar Room” entrance; a staircase leading to an upstairs area that was home to lounge chairs and pool tables. Never before had I wished to be a bubble-headed blonde with gigantic knockers, nor have I since, but I sure contemplated my ill fortune that night.

How could it be that Lemmy was in the very building in which I stood, was taking visitors and I didn’t fit the criteria? This didn’t sound right, how could they have stacked the odds against me in such a way?

I talked to the DJ who confirmed my fears; no big tits, no talking to Lemmy. From the growing line-up it didn’t look like it was going to be too hard to fill the room with enough vacuous bimbos for a hundred Lemmys. Short of a sex change, I wasn’t getting in.

That is when Motörhead spoke to me and said, “are you really going to let all these silicone sisters stand between you and Lem? We thought you better than that, mate.”

They were right too. The bastards were trying to grind me down and I couldn’t and wouldn’t let it stand. I deserved my time in court with the king, same as any other. I asked the DJ who the tour manager was and without batting an eye he told me. My memory doesn’t serve me now as to what his name was, but back then it was all I needed to start my mission to meet Lemmy.

I went directly to the side of the front of the line and began looking for important looking people with laminate passes. There were two muscle-headed guys standing in front of the doors and another guy, somewhat smaller, talking to the girls in the growing lineup and he had a laminate. I walked straight up to him and stepped between him and girl number one, facing him, and asked for the tour manager by name, explaining that he had instructed me to find him as soon as the show was over about my talking to Lemmy for a few minutes. The guy didn’t even know what hit him. He immediately radioed for the tour manager without even mentioning what it was about, simply stating, “there’s somebody here looking for you.”

When the tour manager showed up it was obvious that he had no idea who I was but I was unphased, I simply wasn’t going away until I had met Lemmy, even if I had to wait all night. I was told that I wasn’t going to have a snowballs chance in an equatorial country and bid adieu. Fortunately, the lackey at the door was back with the bandaids and he never heard a thing. The tour manager left and I remained standing there. The guy at the door looked over and asked me, “what’s up?” I told him the tour manager had instructed me to stay put. He went back to his new lady friends.

It wasn’t long before the tour manager came back and headed for the door and I fell right in step behind him. The guy at the door and the two bouncers didn’t stop me and I stayed right on his tail. As we went through the doorway and began to ascend the stairs that lead to the cigar room a voice from above shouted down, “hey, is that guy with you?” and the tour manager turned around and looked right at me. Before he could say anything I looked right at him and said, “come on man, just for a minute?”.

Imagine my surprise when he told me that I could, but not for long, Lemmy had some interviews to do and I would have to be gone before they started.

I walked into the room and to the left of the doorway were some pool tables. I could see Lemmy by the farthest one, located next to widows that overlooked the bar below. I went and stood over by a table near the pool table and basked in the glory of being so close to a real rock and roll outlaw. It was surreal watching the human equivalent of the man in the pictures of the albums and magazines interact with the roadie that was with him, racking the balls for a game of pool.

The roadie looked over at me and then back at Lemmy and said, “I got a bunch of shit to do, you want to play a game of pool with Lemmy?”

I couldn’t believe it, “absolutely I will,” was my reply. I finished racking the balls and Lemmy smashed them before walking over and shaking my hand. “Shake the hand that shook the world lad,” he said as I stammered to introduce myself as best I could.

A barmaid came over and asked if I wanted a drink, which back then I ordered an Extra Old Stock, the strongest of Canadian beers at that time. I offered to buy Lemmy a drink but she explained with a wink that the drinks were free, Lemmy was already looked after.

I had noticed that Lemmy was drinking Miller Genuine Draft and so I asked him why he was drinking such “yankee piss” when Canadian beer was some of the best in the world. Lemmy explained that when you tour the world, year after year, you begin to drink the things that can be found the world over; such was case with Genuine Draft.

I have drank MGD myself since that day. They changed the recipe for “High Test” at one point years ago anyway and Extra Old Stock hasn’t been the same since.

We traded cigarettes, two for two. I smoked John Players Special, or JPS, in those days, a black ominous package with gold letters, long before they put pictures of gore all over them. JPS were the strongest cigarettes you could buy in Canada, but I noticed that Lemmy had Marlboroughs, and we negotiated a fair trade so he could try mine.

At some point there was someone who came up and told Lemmy that there was some writers waiting to interview him but he told them to hang on till he was done the pool game. I really appreciated that. He could have sent me off right then and I would have still been ecstatic for the time and the few words that we shared but he gave me a bit more and I am still grateful for that gesture.

I really don’t know how long the pool game lasted or remember everything we talked about, but he did give me encouragement to live my life as I saw fit and to go after whatever I wanted, or blame no one. I told him about my Gramma and her bringing me Motörhead cassettes from England, including her reception at the shop she eventually found them in, and he thought it was quite funny.

In the end, Lemmy won the game and I said good bye. I thanked him for his time and the cigarettes, then it was off into the night to leave Lemmy to his bimbos or the interview, whichever it was.

I still have the ticket stub he signed before I left.

Motörhead’s star did not fade despite playing to smaller audiences, in fact, it solidified their place in the world of heavy metal further, while creating renewed interest among younger generations, and resulted in Motorhead’s return to the huge crowds they had known in the past. Bigger and better than ever, they played Wacken Open Air, resurrecting their classic B52 bomber stage show in honour of the event. They were part of Dave Mustaine’s Gigantour, arguably a highlight of the show. To mention but a couple memorable occasions.

Throughout Motörhead’s history they have proven to be the AC/DC of heavy metal. Each records sounds as the one previous yet no two records sound the same, which is no small feat in itself. Lemmy occasionally ventured into less familiar waters that would fortunately often surface as side projects, reserving Motörhead to be what they were the best at. The sound and style of Lemmy’s bass playing gave everything he was a part of a unique signature sound, especially in Motörhead.

I once worked in a car audio shop and would urge the stereo install technician to use Motörhead CDs to tune the installations for our hard rock customers. After all, if you could make Motörhead sound amazing then everything else would fall in line. The technician did not believe me, but the only people who ever said their stereo sounded great after he set it up certainly weren’t listening to metal.

Over the course of the following years I saw Motörhead a total of thirteen times as they toured through Canada, typically catching back to back shows in Calgary and Edmonton, and a few times in Vancouver. Each time was a spectacular and crushingly loud experience, never failing to impress.

If it wasn’t for Motörhead I still would never have listened to Reverend Horton Heat but after seeing them open for Lemmy and company, I was hooked. I learned about a lot of bands that way, or after having hearing that Lemmy thought a group was good. It seemed if Lemmy liked it there was a good chance I would too.

In fact, Motörhead would often give bands that were less popular an opening slot on their tours if Lemmy liked them. Often personally introducing them himself.

When I was a teenager I let a scratcher drill a tattoo of Jim Morrison on my shoulder with a Doors logo. It was awful. It looked more like an abstract Arlo Guthrie than the iconic singer from the legendary sixties rock band. Later in life I would have it covered with a Motörhead “warpig” and I decided that I was going to have it autographed by the band. The next time Motörhead was on tour through Alberta I bought tickets to both the Edmonton and Calgary shows. I vowed that when the time came I would do everything I could to get the guys to autograph my tattoo.

The first show was in Calgary. It was the year of the Global Warming Tour. I met Arnie, Motörhead roadie, prior to the show and informed him of my intentions to meet up with band and he agreed to lend a hand if it should prove possible. It was a great show but time restraints didn’t allow for a meet and greet and the band left shortly after the show ended.

The next night I went to Edmonton with a good friend of mine driving and a plan to stay as long as it would take to get the sought after autographs. The first Motörhead band member I found was Phil, who had ventured out to check out the opening act. I told him of my plan and he showed me where I could find Mikkey. Two down before the band even went on stage!

Motörhead tore through their set and after the smoke cleared I went out into the loading area in the parking lot outside in hopes of finding Lemmy to complete my autograph collecting. My friend went to the car to get some shut eye in the interim. A line began to develop by an exit door so I found a place and began waiting, and waiting, and waiting…

Both Phil and Mikkey came out and left in cabs prior but Phil had recognized me and assured me I should stay, telling me that Lemmy would be out eventually and to remain patient. It paid off when Lemmy finally came out at 4:30 in the morning. I told him that I had a tattoo that I hoped to have autographed and he said that the other guys had mentioned it to him earlier in the evening. It was bloody cold out, the kind of cold only a Canadian can truly appreciate, it chills you to the core, yet there I was standing there without a shirt on as Lemmy scrawled his autograph on my shoulder above the original tattoo. Our visit wasn’t long and I doubt he even remembered me from the cigar room in Cowboys years before, but he thanked me for being a fan and I thanked him for the great memories and the killer tunes.

The next day I went and had the autographs tattooed while the tattoo shop cranked Motörhead in honour of the occasion.

I watched an interview with Lemmy one time in which he was asked if there would ever be a Motörhead “reunion” with a tour including the original lineup but Lemmy had remarked that the guys in the band now had been in the band longer than the original members had in the first place and therefore he thought of them as Motörhead now. I agree completely and am happy that Motörhead never succumbed to that. In fact, I never saw Motörhead in any other incarnation than Lemmy, Phil and Mikkey; they are Motörhead to me.

I never missed a chance to see Motörhead whenever I was able and often traveled hundreds of miles in order to do so. The only band that I have seen more times is Slayer, followed by Megadeth and possibly Ozzy and the only reason for that is the accessibility of those bands in relation to Motörhead. It wasn’t until Lemmy officially moved to Los Angeles that Motörhead started coming more and more often, and in the later years, I was able to see them multiple times, making up for having missed them so much in my youth.

That is a testimony to their perseverance. Even though they had been reduced to playing smaller venues for a time, they were not found to fade away in their elder years but rather returned to the top of the heap of the metal mountain, heavier and hungrier than ever. Lemmy often said that once you stopped being hungry, you were done, and as long as you had a hunger to serve, you would literally be required to survive.

Recently, Motörhead had been forced to cancel dates and cut shows short after Lemmy was found to have difficulty performing. He had been hospitalized, fitted with a defibrillator and still he carried on, releasing an album of new Motörhead material called “Bad Magic” to make for a total of 22 records with the band. It is rather ironic that it wasn’t the way he lived that ended up killing him but rather cancer. Diagnosed just two days after his 70th birthday with less than six months to live, the aggressive and untreatable cancer took Lemmy Kilmister to the great gig in the sky on December 28, 2015, surrounded by family and close friends. The last song he ever played with Motörhead was “Overkill” at the close of their final world tour, merely two weeks prior. He laid down, went to sleep and never woke back up. It was as if he knew how to wrap it up when it was all done.

Can you imagine what the afterlife may hold for a man like Lemmy?

Acid heavy jams with Hendrix, speed that hits and doesn’t quit, an ever replenishing bourbon glass, a never ending Marlborough cigarette, a little gambling and a good looking woman with a great rack would be the things that Lemmy would think to be Heaven, anything short of that would be Hell. Given the way he lived there is little doubt what he loved about life, it would kill him all over again to have to live differently, even in death.

Lemmy taught me that it doesn’t matter what people think about you, respect is something you are given if you do enough to deserve it, regardless of the clothes you wear or the company you keep, and above all, maintain your integrity, your loyalties and your hunger every minute of your life until you are finally “Killed By Death”.

Live your life, your way, because even if you are born with nothing you still have nothing to lose.

I’m going to miss Lemmy, a lot, which is weird, I know, seeing as we didn’t know each other personally. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t know me outside of the couple of times that we met, it only matters that I knew him, because I do indeed know him, he is one of the few people who put his soul out there. He wasn’t pretentious and even when he was writing a song about factual events he was able to interject the bar by which he measured even himself. He was exactly as he appeared and he didn’t give a damn what a single person in the whole world thought of him, he just was, and is, and will always be, the inimitable rock and roll renegade known as the one and only Lemmy Kilmister.

Rest In Peace.

#lemmy #lemmykilmister #motörhead #motorhead #borntolose #livetowin #seasonsintheabyss