It's been two years since their last album release, and a quarter of that since they last graced the South with their presence. I know what you're thinking. "Graced" seems... maybe the wrong choice of word for Ian Fraser Kilmister's noisy baby. Alright then, have it your way: since Motorhead, the mid-England Fagin's gang originally to be called Bastard, took the world by storm with their Motorizer tour in 2008/9, and pounded their way through Download 2010, heavily pregnant with their 20th studio beast on disc. (Or 21st, if you count 1979's On Parole). But I'm not all wrong. Because there is a certain twisted grace to these veteran pioneers of primitive speed and thrash metal: they're one of the last upstanding totems of what it once truly meant, maybe even still truly means, to be rock 'n' roll. And they reek of the stuff. Well, it's London's turn for the newborn 10-track effort and tour, The World is Yours, and the capital's 2010 opportunity to witness the Midlands' legendary hardest nuts. Let's see if they come up to scratch.
Support comes first from German hard-rockers SKEW SISKIN (8/10). Female-fronted, with a classic, gritty sound, they're a mix of Motley Crue, the Sex Pistols and Joan Jett, if she swallowed a cheese grater. Simple, slick and stylish, Siskin deliver a mosh-able, power-chord-strong and acceptable set. And Lemmy himself thinks so, too – after all, he originally wrote Motorhead's own belter, 'Born to Raise Hell', for them. Not a bad little rung to have on the ladder of your CV. In second place, Finnish multi-instrumentalist, and all-round exhibitionist MICHAEL MONROE (8), takes the spotlight. Like a whirling Dervish who's been told he's got to find Narnia in Steel Panther's wardrobe. His five-piece act delivers a tight, feel-good spectacle, tipped with the same trashy and thrashy web of Skid Row, Guns 'n' Roses, and Sweden's favourite sleazy punks, CrashDiet. Musically dexterous, Monroe recreates his 80s glory all around him, and takes us back to an era of glitz, ostentation, and generally not giving a damn, which passed in the blink of an eye. Even Tim Curry in that infamous Rocky Horror scene would be proud tonight.
Support comes first from German hard-rockers SKEW SISKIN (8/10). Female-fronted, with a classic, gritty sound, they're a mix of Motley Crue, the Sex Pistols and Joan Jett, if she swallowed a cheese grater. Simple, slick and stylish, Siskin deliver a mosh-able, power-chord-strong and acceptable set. And Lemmy himself thinks so, too – after all, he originally wrote Motorhead's own belter, 'Born to Raise Hell', for them. Not a bad little rung to have on the ladder of your CV. In second place, Finnish multi-instrumentalist, and all-round exhibitionist MICHAEL MONROE (8), takes the spotlight. Like a whirling Dervish who's been told he's got to find Narnia in Steel Panther's wardrobe. His five-piece act delivers a tight, feel-good spectacle, tipped with the same trashy and thrashy web of Skid Row, Guns 'n' Roses, and Sweden's favourite sleazy punks, CrashDiet. Musically dexterous, Monroe recreates his 80s glory all around him, and takes us back to an era of glitz, ostentation, and generally not giving a damn, which passed in the blink of an eye. Even Tim Curry in that infamous Rocky Horror scene would be proud tonight.
The World is Yours. Really? Well, so Lemmy would have us believe, anyway. Literal, or ironic? Perhaps a bit of both. But more of the title later, because it's hard to hear yourself think when MOTORHEAD (9) stroll their leather-booted way onto the platform. Everyone's delirious. It's Lemmy, for Christ's sake: the man described a month ago by Jeremy Allen of The Stool Pigeon as "an agent provocateur existing in a parallel dimension; a relic of a bygone age who nonetheless manages to exhilarate modern audiences". And what a perfect depiction, as they explode into 2000-offering's title-track, 'We Are Motorhead', to begin their night of drink and musical debauchery.
Battering into trademark chunky grooves with power and precision, the black-clad triangle unleashes its assault on the pretence of glam sensationalism – ironically, the kind embodied by Monroe. It's not in a malicious way, though, or maybe even a conscious one; it's just that the masculinity of a band like Motorhead is as raw as their music, and makes the primping and preening of the likes of Poison and Whitesnake look, well, mildly ridiculous in comparison. It's also not that Motorhead are unpresentable, either: they're dressed like smart, modern gentlemen at a funeral, but paradoxically bring a cutthroat, sordid glamour of their own to the table – which is decidedly un-gentlemanly, but blazes with primal majesty.
Steaming into 1979 classic 'Stay Clean', before serving the first dish of 2010 – new album slice, 'Get Back In Line' –, it isn't long before all can test whether the current Motorhead stands up to the old. The formula stays pretty much the same from album to album; some might scorn lack of adventurousness, or experimentation with material. But Motorhead's philosophy seems to be that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. And those infectious, blues-edged riffs, furious rhythms and Lemmy's infamous gravelled tones, which have 60-a-day-since-I-was-14 written all over them, are well-established as Motorhead's signature. With the only other excerpt from 2010's effort being 'I Know How to Die', Motorhead aren't silly enough to replace their worn successes on stage with a fresh harvest just yet. And with short, punchy tunes, tattooed with balls of steel, they show how the old can be made congruous with the new, and embed a repertoire of staple golden-oldies with a re-fertilised twist.
As for highlights... who's to count? There's the stunning guitar solo from Mr. Phil Campbell, before 'The Thousand Names of God': wah-saturated; treble-high; slides and bends enough to give you goose bumps. Or there's Lemmy's "greatest drummer in the world['s]" dazzling ad-lib, injected into 2004 scorcher Inferno's 'In the Name of Tragedy'. Mikkey Dee's lightening, double-kick jungle of beats is nothing short of mesmerising. Of course, you could always choose '1916' blinder, 'Going to Brazil', with Hendrix's Voodoo Chile interlude, as your favourite. Failing that, first-half closure with electric devil-child 'Ace of Spades'. But through it all, Lemmy remains the star of the show. A hybrid of James Bond and the Artful Dodger, with a pinch of Satan, his nuclear charisma pervades the room, and his notoriety only enhances his enigma. And as he's joined by Skew Siskin's Nina C. Alice for 'Killed By Death', and Michael Monroe for the encore, in 'Born to Raise Hell', before closing the night with '79's title-track 'Overkill', it's not hard to see why the Midlands' favourite rogue has endured the test of time. His swagger, bragger, and not-giving-a-monkey's damn-dagger attitude have been strengthened and assured by the wisdom of age; viewing 2010-Lemmy has the curious effect of looking at a cougar through Venetian glass. Polished surface, wild-as-hell core.
Tonight, Motorhead have caused a sensation, no doubt about that. But they've captured more than just the hearts of a new generation of thrashers. Sure, they've stormed a tremendous set with tremendous style, they're of studio-quality live, and are true enough to being the alleged 'loudest band in the world'. But their familiarity with the stage, like a comfy pair of shoes, and the continued success of their classic sound, even as we enter 2011, place a glossy stem atop their humble Stoke-on-Trent roots, and are testament to how the seed of musicality, a passion for the metal horns, and refusal to compromise, can flower into true rock 'n' roll artistry. This is made yet more potent in light of modern appreciation of their old rivals of similar origins: Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, to name but three, who again began as humble boys, with big ideas, and titanium characters. The World is Yours? Lemmy, "one of the last torchbearers of rock's ignoble tradition", as Jeremy Allen continues, proves that with a spine, a drink, and glint in your eye, it can be. "We are Motorhead", he screams to Brixton, "and don't you ever forget it." No fear of that, sir. Because times are a-changing, but, as Mikkey tells The Stool Pigeon, "Motorhead never fucking dies."
Review by Rhiannon Maiden. Copyright © Rhiannon Marley. All rights reserved.
Battering into trademark chunky grooves with power and precision, the black-clad triangle unleashes its assault on the pretence of glam sensationalism – ironically, the kind embodied by Monroe. It's not in a malicious way, though, or maybe even a conscious one; it's just that the masculinity of a band like Motorhead is as raw as their music, and makes the primping and preening of the likes of Poison and Whitesnake look, well, mildly ridiculous in comparison. It's also not that Motorhead are unpresentable, either: they're dressed like smart, modern gentlemen at a funeral, but paradoxically bring a cutthroat, sordid glamour of their own to the table – which is decidedly un-gentlemanly, but blazes with primal majesty.
Steaming into 1979 classic 'Stay Clean', before serving the first dish of 2010 – new album slice, 'Get Back In Line' –, it isn't long before all can test whether the current Motorhead stands up to the old. The formula stays pretty much the same from album to album; some might scorn lack of adventurousness, or experimentation with material. But Motorhead's philosophy seems to be that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. And those infectious, blues-edged riffs, furious rhythms and Lemmy's infamous gravelled tones, which have 60-a-day-since-I-was-14 written all over them, are well-established as Motorhead's signature. With the only other excerpt from 2010's effort being 'I Know How to Die', Motorhead aren't silly enough to replace their worn successes on stage with a fresh harvest just yet. And with short, punchy tunes, tattooed with balls of steel, they show how the old can be made congruous with the new, and embed a repertoire of staple golden-oldies with a re-fertilised twist.
As for highlights... who's to count? There's the stunning guitar solo from Mr. Phil Campbell, before 'The Thousand Names of God': wah-saturated; treble-high; slides and bends enough to give you goose bumps. Or there's Lemmy's "greatest drummer in the world['s]" dazzling ad-lib, injected into 2004 scorcher Inferno's 'In the Name of Tragedy'. Mikkey Dee's lightening, double-kick jungle of beats is nothing short of mesmerising. Of course, you could always choose '1916' blinder, 'Going to Brazil', with Hendrix's Voodoo Chile interlude, as your favourite. Failing that, first-half closure with electric devil-child 'Ace of Spades'. But through it all, Lemmy remains the star of the show. A hybrid of James Bond and the Artful Dodger, with a pinch of Satan, his nuclear charisma pervades the room, and his notoriety only enhances his enigma. And as he's joined by Skew Siskin's Nina C. Alice for 'Killed By Death', and Michael Monroe for the encore, in 'Born to Raise Hell', before closing the night with '79's title-track 'Overkill', it's not hard to see why the Midlands' favourite rogue has endured the test of time. His swagger, bragger, and not-giving-a-monkey's damn-dagger attitude have been strengthened and assured by the wisdom of age; viewing 2010-Lemmy has the curious effect of looking at a cougar through Venetian glass. Polished surface, wild-as-hell core.
Tonight, Motorhead have caused a sensation, no doubt about that. But they've captured more than just the hearts of a new generation of thrashers. Sure, they've stormed a tremendous set with tremendous style, they're of studio-quality live, and are true enough to being the alleged 'loudest band in the world'. But their familiarity with the stage, like a comfy pair of shoes, and the continued success of their classic sound, even as we enter 2011, place a glossy stem atop their humble Stoke-on-Trent roots, and are testament to how the seed of musicality, a passion for the metal horns, and refusal to compromise, can flower into true rock 'n' roll artistry. This is made yet more potent in light of modern appreciation of their old rivals of similar origins: Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, to name but three, who again began as humble boys, with big ideas, and titanium characters. The World is Yours? Lemmy, "one of the last torchbearers of rock's ignoble tradition", as Jeremy Allen continues, proves that with a spine, a drink, and glint in your eye, it can be. "We are Motorhead", he screams to Brixton, "and don't you ever forget it." No fear of that, sir. Because times are a-changing, but, as Mikkey tells The Stool Pigeon, "Motorhead never fucking dies."
Review by Rhiannon Maiden. Copyright © Rhiannon Marley. All rights reserved.
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