I grew up with Motörhead--or maybe with a sort
of Motörhead of the Spirit, if you will. To a Pabst-soaked
post-adolescent in Montana, iron-hard rock was a beacon in
a world of soaring mountains, vast skies, trailer parks, environmental
rapine and wintry pall.
Now I'm a Portlander, and have been for going on two weeks.
I spent my first days in Rose City wondering how to connect
the dots between years spent lusting after the wide, distant
world of big-time, bad-ass music and a new life dedicated
to reporting on it all.
Enduring a security frisk to catch Salman Rushdie
reading from his new novel, The Ground Beneath Her Feet
was enlightening (it's all about rock 'n' roll), but I'd
rather listen to rock than hear someone read about it. Portland
Latin 12-piece Conjunto Alegre's show Thursday at
La Rumba was an exotic blast of flavor, but it couldn't
quite conjure the whiskey/beer pile-up of my last night
back home. And the less said about the thin Chieftains
show at the Schnitz, loaded down with Riverdance sap
as it was, the better.
And then, what d'ya know, right on cue...
"We're Motörhead, and we're gonna kick your ass."
Lemmy Kilmister greeted Saturday's Roseland crowd
with his razor-scored rasp, but his wry grin and--dare it
be said--twinkling eyes betrayed him. The dark high priest
of heavy metal was having a very good time.
Not that the assembled fury-rock aficionados were going
to let Lemmy's jollity get in the way. Hatebreed
and the Dropkick Murphys had whipped the crowd's
younger contingent into a froth. But now, as Motörhead
opened its blitzkrieg, the generational zeitgeist shifted.
Up in the balcony, a middle-aged brigade swaddled in leather
let crops of bleach-ravaged hair fly.
While each of the evening's bands thrive on notions of
their own hardness, Motörhead left no doubt: This was
the real deal.
Earlier in the evening, Jarney Jasta, Hatebreed's
mud-voiced singer, worked the crush of hardcore boys up
front. "Are y'all ready for Dropkick Murphys?" he grunted.
"No, we're here for fuckin' Motörhead, faggot!" a
guy sprouting black, greased-down locks answered.
Most of the man's compatriots seemed to find something
fey and unwholesome in Hatebreed. The band hails from the
tough-guy school of East Coast hardcore, a scene which gravitates
toward crisp graphic design, athletic gear and pristine
baseball caps.
Jasta went on, unhindered: "And there are a lot of great
bands out there, but there's only one fuckin' Motörhead,
right?"
This sentiment found a good deal more purchase, particularly
with a massive-jawed man seated to my right. I'd sought
him out because his hands-off vibe matched the Roseland's
Beyond Thunderdome gladiatorial layout. Now the mere
mention of Motörhead elicited a shriek straight from
his id.
"So you're a pretty big Motörhead fan, eh?" I asked
later.
"Motörhead's the greatest fucking band in the world,"
he answered. "Lemmy is God."
While Hatebreed will tell you how tough its crew is, Dropkick
Murphys envision a broader alliance. The Boston band is
way into its Irish heritage and worships at the altars of
the Clash and British Oi. Their anthemic punk demands loyalty
to (ethnic) roots and "the working class," a group to which
they attribute old-fashioned Marxist uniformity.
As the sound man rocked a Sham 69 song, skinheads and mods
echoed the chorus--"If the kids are united/They will never
be divided!" The soccer-crowd atmosphere made that specious
sentiment briefly attractive, and Dropkick Murphys pulled
off much the same trick with their visceral charge. Fists
were raised and "oi!"s rang out during the Murphys' stampeding
"Skinhead on the MBTA."
Then Motörhead emerged, like a fanged beast waking
from hibernal sleep, to obliterate all that. In the balcony,
Lantern Jaw slammed his fist into his thigh.
Motörhead delivered with amoral menace. In Hatebreed's
world you can fall back on your clique; Dropkick Murphys
put faith in work, clan and comrades; but there's no safety
net in Motörhead's universe. It's me vs. you, locked
in a room for the rest of time with one switchblade and
one scrap of raw meat.
Who knows why this makes so much sense to aging metal heads.
Certainly, a glance around the Roseland revealed a lot of
people for whom Bill Gates and electronic dance trax aren't
doing a hell of a lot. As Motörhead ripped into "Ace
of Spades," Lantern Jaw blared its supremely bleak lyrics--"You
know you're going to lose/And gambling's for fools/But that's
the way I like it, baby/I don't wanna live forever"--with
something close to total joy.
And there I was, feeling right at home.
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Willamette Week | originally
published May 12, 1999
|
