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If anyone was wondering why metal demigod Lemmy Kilmister decided to take a break from his usual gig—leader of legendary British thundergods Motorhead—to collaborate with Stray Cats drummer Slim Jim Phantom and journeyman guitarist Danny B. Harvey, the reason was made plain at Dante's on Jan. 16: to put together the most bad-ass bar band ever. Charging through an hour-long set of expert '50s covers, the Head Cat basically snuffed the aspirations of every fiftysomething dude blues-riffing on a Stratocraster in a neighborhood dive, clinging desperately to that adolescent fantasy of a ponytailed record exec wandering by serendipitously and being so impressed with his interpretation of "Smoke on the Water" he offers up a record contract on the spot. Tell Uncle Johnny to dissolve the Road Doggs and give up the dream, because Lemmy owns his fucking soul.
Of course, that was obvious the moment the Warted One walked out wearing his signature outfit of black jeans, black shirt (unbuttoned just enough to prove the audience—clearly made up primarily of Motorhead disciples—were but a gaggle of prepubescent boys next to him; that includes the girls in the crowd, by the way) and a pair of back-and-white boots so wickedly awesome they must have been designed specifically for him by Satan's personal cobbler.
But it was when he plugged in that the pwnage truly began. Admittedly, this is kind of a weird trio on paper. There's Phantom, who 20 years ago helped introduce neo-popabilly into a decade defined by Aquanet and synthesizer soullessness. There's Harvey, a skilled session man who's done everything from backing up soon-to-be Rock'n'Roll Hall of Famer Wanda Jackson to scoring The Rage: Carrie 2. And then there's Lemmy, author of, as Phantom introduced at the end of the show, VH1's tenth greatest hard rock song of all-time (that'd be "Ace of Spades," for the uninitiated puss-bags out there). It probably shouldn't work, or at least come across as some sort of bizarro novelty act, but it makes far more sense in execution. After all, Lemmy isn't just about pure, immolating Sturn und drang—one of the many reasons Motorhead rules so hard is that it swings as much as it bludgeons, and a lot of that swing can be traced back to the current of early rock'n'roll that runs through its sound (plus, Lemmy used to play guitar in an R&B group called the Rockin' Vicars).
It should be noted, however, that the brute strength Lemmy brings to the table is exactly what makes the Head Cat a worthwhile excursion for everyone involved. He maintains his grimy, distorted bass tone and steel-wool bark, and in doing so brings out the balls in Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly more straightforward retro-revivalists neuter for the sake of remaining "faithful." Oh, the three-piece is plenty reverential—at Dante's, these dudes were obviously having a blast running through classics like "Reelin' & Rockin'," "Susie Q" and "Not Fade Away," giving the whole show a riotously fun kick—and its versions wouldn't exactly count as reinventions, but there is a guttural, almost bestial quality to them that a lot of other tribute artists just can't muster. Robert Johnson's "Crossroads," performed in the style of Cream's surging repo job, is a staple of middle-aged cover bands everywhere—who, more often than not, mistake it as a foundation for cheesy blues-rock wankery—but it roared here, as it was intended to. The trio's take on Johnny Kidd & the Pirates' great "Shakin' All Over" locked into the original's hard groove and made it even rougher. And Brian Setzer probably shouldn't bother touching his own "Rock This Town" ever again. In that instance, Lemmy passed the mic to Phantom, but c'mon: If something awesome happens on a stage he's standing on, he probably had something to do with it, even if he wasn't really doing anything at the time.
WWeek 2015