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Great American Music Hall September 30th, 2001 Review by Ajax Green I was sweating in the car on the way over. Yet traffic was light, and parking was easy. The loin was littered with the faithful, sporting the unflappable, time-honored logo: a sneering, drooling, Tolkien-esque, bridled orc, with umlauts looming overhead - a menacing image, despite it's age, and as brutally talismanic as any coat of arms born of norse warlords. An army of speed-freaking, biker louts crowded the entrance to the Great American, forcing a weak kneed metal nerd (such as myself) to run the gauntlet of cold stares, as a self-sacrificial witness to an impromptu bad-ass/body odor competition (where everyone wins). The room is ten degrees hotter, and sparsely populated during the two opening bands, who would not be worth describing if not for their sharp contrast to what was to come, and to conjecture "how does a band like this end up opening on a night like this". Band number one introduced their set with an apology: "we are a brand new band. We want everyone to open their minds and their ears, and be open to something new." Startlingly, they weren't very "new" at all, rehashing a 70's era boogie-metal, with none of the power, attitude, or charisma to pull it off. The stage was strewn with stacks, and this band had little room to rock (another apology), and when they broke into "Saturday Night Special" by Lynrd Skynrd, I had to get some air. "What's next?", I thought, "Free Bird?" I returned to the venue to watch the last few "songs" by band number two, whose only distinction from the latest crop of sludgy metal droners was a gleaming, old-time rockabilly microphone, which I must have had a bad connection, since all I heard come out of it was "eeeeerrrrgggggaaaaaaahhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuooooooh". On second thought, I do remember a catchy tune in there, and I can still hum the chorus: "you fuck me!", to the tune of "errraaahhhgoooowaaaaH'. In a bizarre twist of "look how good we could be", the band launches into a Slayer-esque speed metal onslaught, and the crowd suddenly becomes enlivened and alert, expecting the set to be elevated to a true metal fever pitch, only to be brought back into the disappointment of mid-tempo hook-free sludge. Again, a sheepish apology, "thanks for listening. We're just so happy to be opening for ... tonight. They are amazing!". Which indeed they were: duly amazing. The soundchecking of the bass guitar excited the crowd to shouts and cheers; three full-stacks of fuzzed out thunder was but a delicate morsel of the impending sonic virulence of what was to come! Grizzled roadies tested the rest as the minions whooped and hollered, waiting rapturously to be blessed by the benediction of a metal god, whose name is legend, evocative, spoken with hushed reverence and jubilant adoration. Finally, as the stage grew dark and the smell of marijuana finally overtook the fetid human stench, he appeared in bare-chested resplendent glory; he is Ian "Lemmy" Kilmister, announcing "WE ARE MOTORHEAD! AND WE ARE GOING TO FUCK YOU UP!". The Great American Music Hall erupted volcanic; the golden bordello sheen struggled to glisten as the victorian moldings started to peel from the amplitude. A desperate, periphytic mass lunged about the floor in a attempt at homoerotic release, while behind a thick wall of muscled bumper boards I watched the stage in blissful amazement. The sound was ferocious, soaring into my brain like sweet barbituate haze, a holy blasphemy, tearing off our ears as maliciously as a child removes the wings of a choking dragonfly. I removed my earplugs - I needed to hear every frequency. What words to decribe man called Lemmy? In this rare case the metal cliche of divine hyperbole is warranted. Spurned from the raggle of Olympian space-rock gods Hawkwind, Lemmy is fallen, then rises again! His magic gainly stored in a pair of thick moles on his face, and an iron cross around his neck! He is a leader; large and looming, a valhallan wind blowing through his straggly, spotty mane as he growls anthems like an angry jabberwock. And he can entertain. Smiling, jovial, he could do little wrong. However, to my disappointment, he proved himself at least half-human, tempering his unearthly wallop with sympathy and odd patriotism, declaring "this set is dedicated to New York City" and later, "in times like these, we're all Americans". His tribute to Joey Ramone was more becoming, though, as their seats are near adjacent in the pantheon of rock. They played a career spanning set; no one could be disappointed. Even the expected encore was met with glee. His band was his band, not gods, but fierce journeymen all the same. The guitar player tried to overcome his mortality, but weak attempts such as "hows everybody doing tonight" and "make some noise" do not compensate well, and only spoke to his insignificance. The drummer was a cartoon bear, a Yogi, but closer to Hair Bear, was smiling, monstrous, loud and lovable. But both musicians were there but for the greater good of Lemmy. We saw Lemmy, the original biker badass, whose reputation cannot be sullied, even by the fangs of hollywood. I walked out stunned, obliterated, happy and wrecked, and kept thinking I had met with the other side, the victim of a divine intervention, a student of the master. -Ajax |