Motorhead, Fu Manchu & Nashville Pussy

The line stretched around the block, filled with every itinerant lunk-chunker and their chicks to come into the heavy metal ring of fire and bust some teeth. Already before the show began, heads of all kinds were ready to pummel the first wussy man and poser who defied the kings of quick rock, Motörhead.

"I saw these guys in Georgia once," some shaggy mustachioed balding drunkard proclaimed, "and they fuckin’ jammed man! Fuckin’ heads were rolling."

As Daesha, my fearless photographer, and myself waited patiently to get our passes, we couldn’t get over the crowd that surrounded us. Every biker, fighter, idiot, Marine, gutter punk, and their following were here for the sold-out event, which could prove to be a mini-Monsters of Rock show. Indeed, with the likes of Speedealer (once known cleverly as REO Speedealer, pre-lawsuit), Fu Manchu and Nashville Pussy opening up for Lemmy and the gang, all those with a penchant for punches and pints should be here and let it all out. They came. Dear God in heaven…they came!

The sweatbox of the Maritime Hall with equally long lines just for a drink made the natives even more restless. Waiting in a long line, getting frisked, getting thrown out, doesn’t make for a happy headbanger, especially when something fragile as seeing Motörhead is at stake. Walked passed the beer line, passed the already passed out and made our way to the backstage. It was too full, no entry, and Lemmy doesn’t want to be disturbed.

I had to ask. "Why?"

The door guard dressed in uniform red had a look of mild disgust. "He’s down there in the dressin’ room watching pornos. The man’s a freak, man."

That’s all the convincing I needed. First up, Speedealer!

Speedealer live up to their name. Not so much as a fury of speed metal, but fast enough and heavy enough to bust the chops of anybody coming up or going down. They weave a deadly tapestry of anger and power, which fuels the fire in the belly of most. Just then, a problem arose, something to do with the guitar amp and some drum microphones. The boys on stage scurry about trying to fix the impediment alone; no sound guy is available. Soon enough, the problem is fixed and the guys wail away in seemingly hellfire girth. But then, they’re off. Four songs, that’s it. Goodnight and good-bye.

With a lineup such as this, plus the doors opening at 7 instead of the usual 8, the veneration of the headlining band may be a factor. To fit the grooves and egos of all, everyone gets a quick shot then, zip, off you go. The crowd doesn’t seem to really care; who is this band, anyway? Beer! We need BEER!

The ominously cool band Fu Manchu was up next. The crowd mildly rushed the stage to get a better view. Most of the older and upset rockers just sort of leaned back and sipped their long awaited pint of Miller served in a plastic cup. Once again, the fun and fuzzy Fu Manchu met with nothing but bad audio. Scott Hill (lead singer and guitar) kept futzing with his chords, his amp and looking offstage to get someone to help him out. Some loner roadie comes sauntering out and looks around kind of confused then heads back to stage left. Scott apologized for the sound. I, personally, have been a fan for quite a spell and have seen them play on many a good stage. But here at the Maritime Hall, they sounded like a pretty good rock band performing in their High School gymnasium. Nothing was mixed right and their five songs (yes, count them FIVE songs, one more than Speedealer) came across as a desperate attempt at reaching a larger audience, which they more than deserve. Here, though, they won’t find it.

During their song "Weird Beard," off of the newest album King of the Road, one mega-muscled trailer park Viking demanded, "What the fuck is this? GET OFF! MOTÖRHEAD!" Soon enough, the boys from the L.A. valley headed off and looked happy to be done.

Now, I personally have had little exposure to the next band on the roster, Nashville Pussy. I’ve heard them, I’ve heard of them, but I really don’t know too much. Their image appears now and then in magazines with the two blonde and hot guitar players marred by the two homely and trucker style guys in the band. The sound, I gathered, is a blend of southern stadium rock/punk/metal/circus sideshow, which could be a hoot and a holler, so I was ready. When they strolled onto the stage, the 6-foot tall bass player, dressed in a tight leather bra and pants, ignited the men’s loins to such a white hot degree that the whole venue was a blaze of guys who spend too much time gazing at the scrambled naughty channels or the bra ads in the newspapers. Again, the band was met with sound problems.

"Can we get someone who works here up here? Now?" complained the lead singer in genuine anger. Obviously, the backstage was a buzz about the foul setup and lack of sound checks. After tuning up their gear and getting the perfect pitch, Nashville Pussy laid into us.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The party…starts…NOW!" And off we went. Nashville Pussy delivered the goods in true dope rock fantasy, not skipping a shtick or oldest trick in the book. Their quick step, grinding groin-core of pit stop rockage became dull as fast as a green-lighted dragster. Maybe if I was from the South, drank acres of Schlitz and judged bands by the size of their boobs, I might appreciate them, but even as "party" as they claim to be, Nashville Pussy left me yawning on the couch and falling face down in the birthday cake. The guitarist kept jumping on one of the bouncer’s shoulders and exchanging tongue licks. The bassist at one point was handed a stick of fire and she breathed hot flames over the audience’s head. Ho hum. It was every young guy’s dream band: Licks, Tits, Hits and Fire! Get me outta here!

After Nashville Pussy dismounted, the electricity in the crowd was dangerous. Everyone rushed the bar for one last cup o’ suds before Motörhead came on, and the push towards the stage was crushing. I stepped back, spoke with a buddy and waited. And waited. And kept right on waiting. It seemed for a while that Motörhead wouldn’t come on. Was it the sound? The time? The best part in Lemmy’s skin flick? I’m not sure, but the herd was growing restless and you could smell the foam spitting from the sides of the hardcore fans and those ready to beat the living tar out of anyone that got in their way. Eventually, the house lights dimmed, the pre-show music went out, and on came Motörhead.

"My God. They’re old," mused Daesha. It was true. As she hustled her way back into the photo pit, I got a good gander at the Brit Boys of Biker Bash-a-roo Bombastics, and lo and behold, Lemmy now has many wrinkles to compete with those two landing pods on the left side of his face. Yikes!

"Hey! Do you know what time it is?" Lemmy asked the crowd. "It’s ass kicking time!" Oh boy, here we go.

Motörhead did not disappoint. The years and years of touring, putting out like-minded records and being the gurus of speed metal make them a very tight outfit. But, and this is funny, it was brought to my attention that Motörhead was the least talented band on the bill. I’ll go with that. Every tune did sound much alike and there was no real room for improvisation and diversity. Try telling that to the flailing mass of eager beavers who spent more time on top of the audience than in it. Heads were shagging all around and the place was hotter‘n Hades with the sardine can elbow room we got. Whew! Maybe someday, these Motörhead fans will discover deodorant after contemplating sobriety.

The guys did their thing: played the hits, glared menacingly at the audience, if a bit appreciatively, and inspired all that pent-up hops, yeast and barley to come out in one great sweep of blasting rock. Then, a surprise for everyone was announced.

"Ladies and gentlemen, mister James Hetfield!"

Yup, it was true. On strolled uncle Jim with a beer in one hand and his guitar strapped around his black-clad body. The Maritime Hall went berserk! Much like Barbarians in battle, they went into a trance and dove around as the now four horsemen began a blistering rendition of "Overkill." Yipes! It was then that two men engaged in battle right in front of me. It was so brutal that several guards, several fans and a girlfriend got involved in the bloodbath. This just typified everything. When James split, so did we.

On our way home, Daesha and I said very little. Finally, she spoke through the ear ringing to say a simple, "Wow." That was all that needed to be said. Maybe I’m just getting old, but maybe Motörhead is too and the antics that surround their shows. In any case, it was a grand night out and made we wonder if Darwin was wrong all this time.

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