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lemmy sixx

Motörhead

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Kirk Hammet speaks, licno i personalno:

 

Lemmy was the finest of gentlemen.

Back in 1979 when I was 16 years old, I heard Overkill for the first time. I thought it was the fastest thing I'd ever heard, and I declared to all my friends that Motörhead were the fastest band in the land.

When I had first seen pictures of what these guys looked like, I noticed a certain authenticity about them. I imagined they lived the way they looked and looked the way they lived.

And I remember very distinctly having a realization that moment — I realized that it was OK to be an outsider and that it was OK to not feel like I had to conform to anything that I objected to in my teenage life because clearly the Motörhead guys in this picture looked like they didn't conform to anything at all and boy it sure looked and sounded like they were enjoying themselves as a result.

So I got a lot from that pic and that massive sound and that attitude.

And I have to thank Lemmy, Fast Eddie and also the recently departed Philthy Animal for the inspiration, spark and fire that I felt so strongly from that night in 1979.

That inspiration will always be there with me and may the music of Motörhead live on!

 

http://www.rollingst...9#ixzz3vpqb5Qh4

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RIP LEMMY Here’s my Lemmy story.

 

The party was I think for either PJ O Rourke or Tama Janowitz, and I

think it was PJ O'Rourke -- every Pan publishing party of that vintage

took place in the same room upstairs in the Groucho Club, anyway -- and

when the party ended I wandered downstairs with the publicists and Roz

Kaveney and a lady named Maria who was then the books editor of Time

Out. We carried on talking and drinking, and when the Groucho closed we

moved, shedding a few people as we did so, to another club, and then

to another, and finally it was just me and Maria wandering the streets

of Soho, still talking, and Maria (who in five years would lose her

job, and twenty years later, her life, both mostly from booze)

desperate for that last final drink.

 

We were in the unpromising area at the top of Wardour Street, and I

blinked, and realised that I was standing next to a door I recognised.

My friend Dave Dickson had taken me there, years before. A downstairs

bar, semi-secret. Lemmy from Motorhead had been down there, playing the

fruit machines.

 

I knocked on the door. A suspicious face looked out. "Can we have a

drink?" I asked. "I don't know what you're talking about," said the

man, impassively. "Er..." I thought about mentioning Dave Dickson, but

didn't think it would work. "We're friends of Lemmy's," I said.

 

"You should of said," he told me. "He's downstairs waiting for you."

 

And we went downstairs. Lemmy was still on the fruit machines, as he

had been two years before. I sidled over to him. "Er, just used your

name to get in," I said. "Good on yer," said Lemmy. And Maria got her

drink.

 

I never found it again -- never looked for it -- although I am certain

that if I was ever drunk enough and in Soho late at night, it would be

there waiting. And Lemmy, wherever he really was in the world or out

of it, would be down there playing the fruit machines.

 

And late night talk does burn brightly in the mind. Neverwhere came

out of a late night talk with the late Richard Evans, in Glasgow at

Eastercon in 1986, where I started rambling on about "Magic City"

books, like Winter's Tale or Free, Live Free, in which the city was as

much a character as any person in the book, and saying that someone

should do it for London. (Richard said "Why don't you" and I fumfed and

told him he should find a real writer and commission one, or

something.)

From http://www.well.com/conf/inkwell.vue/topics/292/Neil-Gaiman-Fragile-Things-page01.html#post22

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Da li Lemmy Gori u Paklu (Burning in Hell)

ili je Truli leš u Grobu (Rotting Corpse in Grave)?

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