From Aural Innovations #31 (June 2005)
They say that Hell hath no fury like a tempest storm. That elemental force of nature that can not be tamed, reasoned with, or controlled. The primal rage conjured up by past deeds and transgressions. Forged on the Vulcan's anvil. Held aloft by a vengeful valkyrie - a golden-haired amazon seeking her own form of justice.
They say that justice is blind. Where swirling images teeter on the brink of destruction. Teeter on the event horizon. Only to slowly slide off into oblivion. Into the eye of the storm.
They say that the past has a way of catching up with us. Lying in wait. Ready to pounce at a moments notice. Taking on whatever form best suits its purpose. It can take on the form of a man. A woman. Anything that you could possibly imagine. Even a city. A city that finds itself rocked to its very foundations by a dangerous and ruthless gathering of desperadoes. All in the thrall of - MOTORHEAD.
As I stopped for the red traffic lights at Grand Avenue, I noticed that the Burnside Bridge spans were raised. A ship must be passing underneath it. Damn!
I turned south when I got the green light and headed down to East Burnside Street. Hung a right and joined the queue of cars stuck behind the flashing red traffic barriers on the bridge. All of 'em blanketed by the chill shadow trailing from the raised span. A span that harkened back to the heady days of the Roaring Twenties. It reached up into the city skyline at a steep angle. Like a five-lane asphalt launching pad. Well, seven-lanes if you took into account the two bicycle lanes stalled on either side of the idling auto-café. We all sat sandwiched together - without a single carhop in sight. You know, a real savvy flock of hooters on rollerblades could easily make quite a haul out here waiting on all these stranded motorists. And with my luck, I'd end up with one of the Suicide Girls sprawled across my hood.
Over on my left, I noticed a pair of ornate smoke stacks drifting toward the Italian Renaissance towers on the south side of the bridge. The distinctive stacks could only be a fixture attached to one of the local sternwheelers. Maybe it was the Columbia Queen. That old classic 19th-century style riverboat that cruises up and down the Columbia River Gorge. A big white Mississippi Queen with twin black stovepipe stacks rising up from its upper level. Located on the port and starboard sides behind the pilot house. Rising like thin black drainpipes that suddenly flare like regal crowns mimicking embroidered Tiki torches-- smearing drooling wisps of sooty vapour across the crisp clear city skyscape.
I watched the riverboat's crimson paddle-wheel turn slowly. Spinning and spilling cascades of water like a dribbling fountain, as it headed north toward Swan Song Island - on its way to the Columbia River. Perhaps, it was paddling its way up to Cascade Locks where the Red Indians of the Confederate Tribes of the Warm Springs were busy building their latest casino. There was more than one way to skin a white man. And vice was just the double-edged sword to employ for this task. They'd fall faster than the 7th calvary did at Little Big Horn. Yeah, if you can't beat 'em - pay 'em off with smile money.
The bridge spans lower. The traffic barriers rise. The blinking red lights accompanied by their continuous and monotonous railroad crossing sound effects suddenly extinguish themselves and go mute. Only the maddening memory of that ding-ding-ding-dinging lingers on like a spectral bellhop haunting the vacant caverns of my mind. An inertial numbness had taken up permanent residence.
I drive over to the North Park section of town and ditch my jalopy. I walked down Couch Street to the back of the Roseland theatre and observe that a line has formed that runs all the way around the back of the theatre. I continue walking around the block to where a Mediterranean restaurant was located - Pasha. Later in the evening, they would be holding their Saturday night amateur belly dancing contest. Probably holding it in the rear of the restaurant. Away from the tables by the front window near its 5th Avenue entrance. Somewhere back behind those tall, dark, ornately carved, folding floor screens that shelter the back of the restaurant from prying pedestrian eyes.
I continued around the block and up to the Roseland's front doors. I stopped and studied the current situation. The glass doors were plastered with sheets of paper stating that the Motorhead show had sold out. The doors would open at 8:30 PM. It was now 8 PM. I had time to kill.
I continued up West Burnside to Northwest 10th Avenue and entered Powell's Book store. I headed to the Purple Room up on the second floor.
I decided to kill time in the crime section. Do a little fast research. I leafed through the books on the shelves about John Dillinger. Machine Gun Kelly. Baby Face Nelson. The gangs of Chicago. The Barbary Coast. And Lemmy.
When I returned to the Roseland Theatre, I find that the queue to get in is still wrapped around the block. It was 9:30 PM and nothing had changed except that the line was even longer now. I gazed up at the second floor of the building and wondered how it could possibly hold all these people.
I shuffled up the sidewalk as the line advanced. Listening to people begging for Motorhead tickets. And memorizing the back of the girl in front me. Her fashion sense told me a lot about her. Maybe even something about her sexual preference. She was wearing a pale-green rucksack shaped like a smiling alligator. It was smiling because it wasn't a handbag. Or a set of luggage leaving town. No, it was smiling because it was going to see Motorhead.
We entered the Roseland Theatre via the doors located at Northwest 6th and Burnside. Instead of turnstiles we are alternatively fed through one of two light-grey, plastic, doorframe shaped arches. These were connected to concealed galvanometers that regulated an alarm. These two walk-through metal detectors were very sensitive. Alarming for almost everyone that passed through them. For those of us who were too loudly dressed, we were treated to an additional coat and trouser massage by house security. Who gave us a fast frisk that wouldn't find anything smaller than an anvil.
I had left my shoulder holster and camera at home. The only tools of the trade I had on me were an aluminium penlight, a notepad, and a biro. Lethal weapons - if properly handled.
After our fast frisk, we were faced with three choices. To queue up at the far wall at the cafe counter for a bite to eat. To queue up at the line at the far wall to enter the downstairs bar in the room over to the left. Or to surrender our tickets at the stairs on the left to go up to the main hall on the second level for the Motorhead show.
I strolled over to the girl standing at the stairs. I passed her my ticket. She smiled. Tore the small perforated end off. Handed me back the remaining ticket stub. And stamped my wrist with black deco wrist art. It must have been some form of modern art. But try as I might, I just couldn't place it. It wasn't meaningful. Not in the least. It was just octopus angst. Tendrils of inky blurs snaking from the garden of fathomless nightmares. Spawned in the bleakness of noir.
I shook my head and preceded upstairs to checkout the mixing desk and the merchandise stall. The artwork on display at the stall was much more meaningful to me. I found Motorhead sweatshirts going for $40 Cascadian, T-shirts for $30, drum sticks for $10, Phil's giant-sized guitar picks for $10, Motorhead belt buckles for $25, and Motorhead key chains for $15.
The mixing desk had a sheet of paper posted on the column next to the stairs going up to the balcony. The bands listed were Zeke and Class of Zero. Corrosion of Conformity. And Motorhead. Next to Motorhead was the time 12:00 PM. Midnight. This was all I wanted to know.
The first band was already playing. They were fast and furious. But they weren't my cup Of tea. I had a yen for Motorhead and nothing less would satisfy my thirst. I drifted over to the bar located in the northwest corner. Sandwiched between the Ladies and Gents rooms. Nobody was queued up at the bar. This was the all-ages section on the theatre. A sign on the wall behind the bar advertised Soda, Coke, and diet Coke - all for $2. The booze was sold up on the balcony level. The drunks didn't. They were free to stagger wherever they liked.
I leaned up against the column next to the bar and casually eyed the crowd as they filed by. A couple suddenly appeared and lingered a dozen feet away. I fixed my eyes on them. I wondered if they could be the same couple that I ran into at Dante's after the last Motorhead show, two years go.
The guy with the gal was tall. Very tall. His hair was cut short. He was clean shaven. What you would call a real clean-cut Joe. The gal with him was about average height. Maybe about 5-foot-6. With wavy dirty-blonde hair. She was wearing a black T-shirt that had white skeletal fingers reaching around from behind cupping her breasts. It made me think of a bird cage.
They both made eye contact with me. Whispered to each other. And studied me for awhile. Watching me watching them. The blonde gal suddenly yelled. "ACTION MAN!"
They rushed over and joined me at the column. The tall guy smiled. "We're surprised to see you so soon. We thought we might run into you... but later on... after the show."
"I was keeping a lookout for you."
"I saw you staring at me and I thought... either he knows me... or he wants to fight me."
"I hadn't made up my mind yet which it was. So I stalled."
The blond gal glanced back at the stairs. "Let's go have a drink."
"Upstairs? The line is rather long."
She shook her head. "Downstairs. It's easier to get to that bar."
We headed downstairs and hung a Louie. Queued up at the line snaking around to the bar. A bar which turned out to be a hole carved into the side of the wall like a newsagent's kiosk on a British Rail platform - on a Friday night - just after work lets out for the weekend.
We kept our eyes pealed for an empty table. And as luck would have it - one suddenly became available as we approached. The blonde gal stayed in the queue at the bar while her companion made a move to claim the table. I reached into my pocket and handed her a folded fin. A crisp, green Lemmy.
"What's this?"
"A donation."
"For what?"
"My favourite charity. Something Dutch. Oh, say, Heineken."
She nodded. "They should have that."
"The Dutch wouldn't have it any other way."
A windmill was about as close to a swastika as you can get since the allies signed the Chartres Balantrodoch Treaty of '46. As close as you can get without running afoul of the Obelisk of Fondue. Trust the French and the Templars to keep us all on our toes. Everyone had their own agenda to champion. Their own private crusade. And it all boiled down to the same basic philosophy of surviva -- us or them.
My own agenda was slightly more nebulous. Close to the vest. Until all the cards have come into play. And then hold out for the highest bid. I guess that makes me out to be something of a mercenary. Or an auctioneer. But life's never all that cut and dried. It always throws you some unexpected curves. So it's best to just go with the flow. And play it all by ear.
I joined the tall guy at the table.
"It's been awhile. I can't recall your name. But think it was something Irish."
He nodded. "Lossom."
"Yes, of course."
"I almost didn't recognize you in that disguise, you sure look different."
"A little grey liberally applied works wonders."
"Molly thought it might be you."
"I'm not really that hard to pick out of a lineup. I still dress like it's the fifties."
Molly returned with three large plastic cups filled with beer. I glanced at her hand as she passed me my drink. It had a medical cloth wrapped around her thumb and the palm of her hand.
I shook my head. "You can't make it to a Motorhead show without injuring yourself. Last time you had your wing in a sling."
Lossom chimed in. "She always manages to break something."
My eyes traced the long discoloured fissure running down her left arm. "Nasty Scar, that."
"I have a plate in my arm. Wanna feel it?"
"Sure. Best offer I've had all night."
"Be gentle!"
She took my hand and guided my fingers over her arm.
"Feel it?"
"Uh-huh." Pause. "You must be a lot of fun at airports."
She tilted her head.
"Setting off metal detectors?"
"Uh-huh.
I shifted my gaze. Fixed it on Lossom. And drew my lips back away from my teeth. "I was thinking about you the other day. I was wondering if you were still alive."
He smiled.
"So tell me, how is it that you always manage to be on leave when Motorhead turns up? And not deployed overseas in some other war zone?"
He laughed. "Just dumb Irish luck."
"One might wonder if there's more involved than just luck. One might start to wonder if it's all been planned out. In advance. By say, the G-Men, perhaps-- on the QT."
He just kept right on smilin'
"Okay, since you're not squawkin' about the Feds, what's your plan for afters? What's the skinny on Motorhead? Know what they might be up to?"
They both shook their heads.
"Same here. Nada. Nothing. Not even a red herring or a brass Elvis to show for my effort. You know, if we could dig up a good lead - it'd give us an edge."
They gave me nothing but blank faces. That old deer-in-the-headlights look.
"No ideas, eh?
Molly snapped out of the trance. She perked up. "I'll go see what I can find out." She slid back her chair, stood up, and left the room.
The monitor on the back wall displayed the stage in black and white. The second band was playing their set. The sound wasn't coming from the set. It was leaking through the ceiling like a runaway freight train.
I grimaced and asked Lossom a loaded question.
"She any good at this sort of thing?"
"Molly's got that Irish gift."
I twitched as I slurred, "Balarney?"
"No, something better. The ability to get people to open up and talk."
I gazed off into space. "Swell." Our fate rested in the hands of a gabby gun moll. So much for second sight.
We continued drinking and biding our time. Molly hadn't returned by the time the second band removed themselves from the monitor. The stage was being cleared for Motorhead. And I knew that the faithful would be closing in on the stage. Hunkering down for a long seige.
"I think I better make a move. I'll be over on the left side - down front. I'll meet you after the set. Same place you found me. Leaning against the column."
"Okay. See ya later."
I dashed upstairs - two steps at a time. Made it to the main hall. Then wormed my way through the audience like a pickpocket at a carnival. Working my way down the left-hand side. And suddenly cutting into its flank. I managed to position myself about four rows back from the security barriers. I was just another face in the crowd. Waiting.
This had to be the ultimate road crew nightmare. It's late. The band's running late. You're out there standing on the stage just like a rock star. A legend. Strumming on a guitar. Playing the drums. Or speaking into a mic. A sold out audience is down at your feet with only one thought running through their collective minds - "Yer not Motorhead... get off the fuckin' stage."
I felt sorry for them. They were doing the best they could under adverse conditions. I certainly wouldn't want to find myself in their situation. Then again, they do get to hear Motorhead play every night on tour. Maybe justice wasn't blind after all. Just slightly deaf. And the road crew seemed to take it all in stride.
The audience were getting antsy. They shifted and they shuffled. They impatiently stood on that packed floor like claustrophobic sardines suffering through an intensive bout of the DTs. They started chanting "Motorhead". Louder and louder. A few screams of "Lemmy!" could be heard here and there. Crying out for mercy and a fast release from their interred boredom.
It's now a quarter past midnight. Where was the band? How long could the audience suffer like this before things got really ugly? It felt like eternity. The kind of eternity reserved especially for multitaskers and speed freaks left with nothing to do. But at least this eternity was supplied with a PA blaring a solid block of AC/DC - demolition boogie music.
I removed my notepad and biro and placed them within easy reach - inside my outer right-hand topcoat pocket. I planned to make a complete set list while Motorhead played. Right in the midst of the raging storm of torsos writhing in the waves of Motorhead's making. Only a fathom or two from the reef sheltering the shoreline of the stage.
It was 12:25 AM.
The audience erupted. Loud cheers greeted Motorhead as they came out on stage. Lemmy marched straight to his mic stand.
"Sorry it took so long!"
Lemmy glanced over at Phil Campbell. And Motorhead launched into their set with the fury of a pent up concussion grenade release in an echo chamber. The sound was loud. But it wasn't clear. I couldn't make out Lemmy's vocals over the instruments. I listened for clues to help me figure out what songs were being played. Impressions based on what I thought Lemmy was singing and the way the band's music rippled my clothes as the sound waves hit and blasted around me. It felt like - DR. ROCK.
I took notes at the beginning of each song - prior to the chorus - before the audience cut loose violently. Thrashing about like hooked steelheads. A mosh pit had already formed over to my right. I made a mental note to stay clear of the danger zone.
The mosh pit was teaming with body surfers.... rolling over the heads of the audience. On their way to the security barrier in front of the stage... before they were ritualistically pitched over it. Pitched into the waiting arms of Roseland Security.
A cheeky gun moll was brandishing The Finger with both hands. The roiling mosh pit carried her aloft. She bucked and bounced along overhead like a wild and wanton rodeo queen. Calamity Jane in a Motorhead T-shirt. The audience was going wild. A little too wild. It wasn't long before things got out of hand. Things started flying. And something whizzed by Lemmy.
When the song finished, Lemmy snarled into the mic, his voice dripping with venom.
"DON'T THROW THINGS AT ME!" He gave the heads staring up at him - The Evil Eye. "I don't deserve it."
A hush fell over the audience. The room fell silent. So silent... only the pleading chirps of crickets could be heard outside the theatre. After the silence had sunk in, Motorhead breached it. They continued to play. Everyone breath a collective sigh of relief. The audience had learned a valuable lesson - Nobody crosses Lemmy. They'd got their first and final warning. And had taken it to heart.
I concentrated on the song Motorhead had unleashed on us. It felt like... STAY CLEAN. So I added it to my list. Phil Campbell stepped up to his mic after the song had finished.
"How's the sound?" Pause. "Loud enough? Or do you want it louder?" He glanced all around the theatre. Appraising the reaction.
Lemmy glared at Phil. "Go Ahead, I'm already deaf. I don't care if they're deaf for a week."
Phil signalled to Igor at the back of the theatre - stationed at the mixing desk. He gave him the thumbs way-up-sign. Igor faithfully responded to his master's command. Pushing the levels up to into their limits - up in the red zone. He shuffled over to the wench and started cranking the wheel - playing out more line - releasing the barrage balloon tethered to the roof of the building. Sending it higher and higher into the night sky.
LOVE ME LIKE A REPTILE sent Phil Campbell into a frenzy. He rifled his guitar strings and lobbed his guitar pick out into the audience. He quickly grabbed another from his mic stand where a long line of picks were fastened. He rifled his guitar strings and launched this pick as well. He maintained his assault on the audience. Working his way through the long line of picks waiting on his mic stand for Phil to fire and reload. He did this without ever missing a stroke. I wondered if Phil would run out of steam and picks before the end of the song.
He didn't.
Lemmy growled into his mic. "Let's get outta of 1981. Here's a song from our new album - INFERNO! Does anyone have it?" He glanced around the audience looking for volunteers. "If you don't have it... Go out and get it! I don't care if you steal a copy. JUST GET IT!"
A couple of teenagers next to me exchanged astonished expressions. Wondering if they heard him correctly. Then they started snickering. In a few days it would be harder than Hell to find a copy of INFERNO still left in this town after the sticky fingers brigade made their rounds.
Lemmy introduced the next song. "This is KILLERS." I looked over at the mosh pit. A purple-haired joker with a spiked mohawk was mugging at the crowd like Stan Laurel. Yeah, this was another fine mosh he'd got himself into. Lemmy watched Stan as he spilled over the barrier into the arms of security. Lemmy waved to him as Stan walked down the narrow path between the barrier and the stage. Each of Lemmy's fingers were wiggling independently of each other as if each finger was an independent entity waving goodbye. Or were twiddling Oliver's extremely wide tie. He whispered, "BYE-BYE".
I gazed up at the balcony over to my left. A dark haired beauty was standing at the guardrail. She was wearing a T-shirt with the numbers "666" displayed on it like a route 66 highway signpost. Her flat, well toned stomach was exposed by her midriff-cut T-shirt. She was standing tall and rocking to the music. Defiantly waving a fist in the air. She was a tempting roadside attraction. Anybody driving along Route 666 would pull over and stop immediately to offer her a lift. If they didn't bother to do so... they should get their eyes checked and their head examined.
Lemmy sounded down right debonair introducing the next song.
"This one's for the discriminating connoisseurs among you... METROPOLIS!"
OVER THE TOP and SHOOT YOU IN THE BACK followed.
Lemmy changed his tact.
"This one's for Roger.... He's a famous photographer!"
I squinted and scanned the audience around Lemmy, but was unable to spot the elusive photographer. He must be bashful or keeping a very low profile.
The theatre filled with the distinctive and highly explosive melody that we all easily recognized - NO CLASS. Lemmy's on a roll.
"This one's from a very unpopular album. It didn't sell... in the thousands!"
The song he was referring to was I GOT MINE from the album titled "Another Perfect Day". An album I personally loved just for its uniqueness. An album way ahead of its time and critically panned when it came out. Ironically, it is now considered a classic. Talk about hindsight. The critics were clearly back-peddling. Blind to the fact that it always was a great album. It was something fresh and new. A bold attempt to try something different. Unfortunately, at a time when everybody else was locked in a time warp. They only wanted to hear the same old familiar songs released. They wanted new songs that sounded like the old ones. They were trying to stifle Motorhead's creativity.
Lemmy continued to plug away.
"Here's another song from our new album - INFERNO! IN THE NAME OF TRAGEDY."
IN THE NAME OF TRAGEDY was followed by... DANCING ON YOUR GRAVE. RAMONES. And SACRIFICE. Lemmy and Phil left the stage in the middle of SACRIFICE. Mikkey Dee cut loose with a brilliant and powerful drum solo. He looked like a Norseman gone berserk. Long blonde hair flying as his hands lashed out on the battlefield. If the Vikings had had Mikkey Dee to provide the drum strokes for their oarsmen - they would have plundered the seven seas in record time sailing around the world in hydrofoil longships.
As Mikkey Dee's drum solo started winding down, Lemmy and Phil returned to the stage. They finished the song. And chased it with a heavy dose of... JUST COS YOU GOT THE POWER... and GOING TO BRAZIL. The big surprise of the evening was unleashed in KILLED BY DEATH. Two angels strutted out on stage during a long extended jam session. They took up positions right in front of the drum kit. Standing between Phil and Lemmy.
One of them was blond. Her hair was tied back in a pony long tail. She danced over on Phil's side of the stage. The other was a brunette. She danced over by Lemmy. The angels danced in middle of the stage. Sometimes holding hands as they jived. Swinging each other around and around. Then separating to strut over to either side of the stage to dance next to Phil and lemmy.
The brunette slowly shimmied. Moving up and down along Lemmy's right leg. Her eyes were hooded, seductive, and sultry. Yeah, bedroom eyes. She panted as she longingly peered up at Lemmy. Her mouth forming an orgasmic pout as she slid up and down the length of his leg. But Lemmy ain't easy. He kept right on playing his bass.
The angles shrugged and gracefully strutted off the stage. The jam session winds down. And the song returned to its more familiar form as it came to an end. Lemmy warned the audience, "This is the last song of night. Unless you make a lot of noise."
IRON FIST was played. Then the lights went out. The audience started stomping their feet and yelling for more. The minutes that passed felt like eternity again. It's Motorhead withdrawal. The lights go up and the band returned to the stage. Lemmy smiled from ear to ear. "We'll play for you anytime. Even at midnight! Portland, you're the best. And I don't mean just good.... YOU'RE EXCELLENT!" He paused. "Thanks for sticking with us. I hope this doesn't cause you to miss your busses home."
Lemmy walked over to the centre of the stage, without his bass. Phil and Mikkey sat down on chairs set on either side of Lemmy. They picked up acoustic guitars. And started playing as Lemmy crooned.
I'm amazed. This is something new. Something I have never seen Motorhead do before - an acoustic encore. They were playing WHOREHOUSE BLUES from their new CD. And just when you think you've seen it all - Lemmy pulled out a harmonica and started playing that between his vocals. Crooning a few lines of verse and chasing them with harmonic accompaniment.
I couldn't believe it. Motorhead had out outdone themselves. This was the standout moment of the whole show. Everyone stood there watching in disbelief. And then they really got into the moment. Cheering when Lemmy pulled out that harmonica and gave the song a real bluesy feel.
After Whorehouse Blues ended, Motorhead returned to their usual positions on stage and took up their normal instruments of mass destruction. We're treated to the ACE OF SPADES.
A tall, reedy jasper was hopping up and down - a human pogo stick with a mop of blonde hair undulating violently - like a jelly fish caught in a rip tide. Or like Doug Buckley hopped up on amphetamines.
Motorhead finished their encore with an old personal favourite. The perpetual and relentless onslaught of - OVERKILL.
A dame in front of me was going wild. Golden dreadlocks shimmered like snakes sprouting from the head of a goddess. Coming to life in the blinding nova explosions of the stage strobe lights. They glittered from root to bead. All along their length as if metallic scales were reflecting shafts of sunbeams from the golden tresses. She suddenly arched her back. Pitching her body into the air. Throwing herself backwards.
I found her draped over my left arm - performing a vigorous and highly spirited erotic chest shimmy. She was shakin' her chest for all it was worth. Just like a Vegas showgirl riding the E-train.
I quickly stashed my notepad and biro in my right topcoat pocket. I was totally engrossed in her impromptu private performance. A live performance that was taking place right under my nose. I wondered how many randy spirits she was channelling. One thing was certain. They weren't spirits broadcasted into Cascadia from the Bushavik Christian Network. Sunshine Lily broadcasted from Salt Lake City urging Cascadian citizens to love their neighbours. But not with this intensely. Not with this much pagan fanaticism and zeal. And surely not with their fellow Cascadians. She wanted us to embrace the American ideal. To return to the fold. Become card carrying Americans once again. In short - she wanted us to sell out. Cave in to the endless Bushavik propaganda.
The woman draped over my arm - suddenly lurched forward. Standing straight up. Gyrating with wanton abandon right in front of me. Offering her movements up to Motorhead. She was on the edge of ecstasy. At the edge of time. Hot, passionate, and ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for her gods - she reared back and started bumping me repeatedly with her provocative hips. Like a belly dancer transformed into a human jackhammer. Each pelvic thrust edging me closer and closer toward the mosh pit. That boiling sea of chaos and destruction. She was about to bump me off - and cancel my ticket!
Her body shifted into high gear. Bumping and grinding with full elemental force. Motorhead driven hips sending her into wild gyrations. Her flailing golden dreadlocks lashing me mercilessly. Her assault Increasing in intensity every time Motorhead launched into their strobe burst jam session. Each false ending of the song causing her adrenaline and her intensity to skyrocket.
The mosh pit drew closer and closer as each hip thrust bounced me toward the event horizon. I reached out to anchor myself and tried desperately to ride her out. My filings rattled in my teeth and my nerves were all on edge. But somehow, I managed to survive the encore performance.
The theatre lights went up. The show was over. The audience slowly started to dissipate. Some heading toward the public loos. Some heading toward the merchandise stall. Most heading toward the stairs at the back of the room. I headed toward the prearranged rendezvous - the column by the soda bar. And waited for Lossom to catch up with me. It didn't take him very long to show up. Molly joined us a few moments later - looking visibly upset. She had left the theatre after our drinks downstairs. Security wouldn't let her back in. She managed to sneak back in when nobody was looking. Bolting up the stairs just as Motorhead started their encore.
Security dropped by and paid us a visit. They reminded us that the show was over. It's time for us to leave.
The PA started playing Hawkwind's big chart toping song - "SILVER MACHINE". Lemmy's voice filled the room. Lingering on even after he'd left the stage. His past was catching up with him.
I joined the thick column of people merging at the top of the stairs and started the slow, downward journey back to the mean streets of Portland. Two hot babes were descending the steps just below me. One was blonde. The other brunette. They were taking their sweet time. Heads and boobs bobbing with each step.
I breezed by. Then glanced back. I had a pleasant surprise - I recognized them. They were the same two fallen angels that had been dancing on the stage while Motorhead played "Killed By Death". I narrowed my eyes. There was something else I noticed about them. Something about the exposed flesh of their arms. They were identical. Both angels had writing covering their arms. Signatures and graffiti. And this was just the tip of the iceberg. Yeah, it seems that Motorhead had marked their territory. I smiled and addressed the angels above me.
"Ah, the dancers on the stage!"
The blonde angel flashed me a warm smile. She enjoyed being noticed. She enjoyed being pointed out as someone special. She enjoyed being admired and fussed over. She was eating it all up. Savouring every moment. Watching her graceful decent toward me was like gazing up the stairway to Heaven - and discovering The Holy Grail. Knowing that only the chaste achieve this goal. Or so we are led to believe.
A furry chap of medium height suddenly materialized between the angels. He could easily have been a close relative of Animal from the Muppets. He fixed his gaze on me and spoke on their behalf.
"You can rent them!"
I arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Boy, I wish I could get a percentage of their take."
I reappraised the blonde angel. Her mouth formed a mock Betty Page pout. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she drifted closer.
"I don't blame you.... She could easily rake it in. She's got it all."
She grinned.
I grinned back.
Then I turned. And continued down the stairs. Stepped through the double exit doors at the bottom. Spilled out on the sidewalk. And joined a pool of pedestrians loitering nearby. The two angels brushed slowly by on their wayward journey up the street. Swishing their tempting tails like precision Swiss clockwork. I watched the sideshow with rapt fascination until Lossom and Molly caught up with me.
He reached up. Removed the blazing torches perched in their black metal holders on either side of the club's entrance. Snuffed them out on the sidewalk. And retreated inside the building. Tables were being cleared off inside the club. Chairs upturned. And stacked on top of them. The club was clearly closing down for the night. It was late. After the official drinking hours enforced in Cascadia.
We loitered outside the club as we came up with a backup plan. There was only one thing left we could do - We headed back to the Roseland. Back to the rear of the building on Coach Street. A black wrought-iron gate barred the entrance to the theatre's private parking lot where the tour busses where parked - next to the steps leading up to the theatre's rear doors. A sentry was posted at the gate checking people as they came up to gain access to the area. He was looking for a bright yellow wristband.
Molly crossed the street and walked over to the public car park located on the north side of Couch Street. She was following a couple of guys who had just left the Roseland's gated parking lot. She approached the van they got into. And leaned up next to the driver's window. A lengthy conversation ensued.
Molly returned with a large smile and a yellow wristband dangling from her fingertips. She handed it to Lossom. He wrapped it around his wrist. Turned. And approached the sentry stationed at the gate. Mr. Sentry studied the yellow wrist band. He noticed that it was loose. So he readjusted it. Made it tighter on Lossom's wrist. Then he opened the gate and let Lossom enter.
Lossom took his time. He casually strolled by the tour busses and walked up the stairs to the theatre's back door. We watched him enter the building and vanish inside.
I gave Molly a grim look.
"This isn't going to work."
"Why not?"
"He'll meet someone inside. They'll challenge him. Nobody will know him. And that will trip him up. What he needs is a connection. Someone on the inside. Someone that knows him."
"Maybe he'll get lucky."
We wait in silence. Lossom returned. Walking with a slowness to his steps. He wasn't smiling. I gave him the once over.
"What happened?"
"You need a special pass to get anywhere in there."
"A laminated backstage pass." I spread my fingers apart. "Oh, say, about this long?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"That's normal procedure. Unless security's sloppy."
His expression was classic.
"So how did it go? Bring me up to speed on the facts."
"Well, the wristband got me through the gate okay."
"I noticed. Fast forward to when you got inside the building."
"When I got inside... I tried to go to the dressing rooms--"
"On the same level?"
"No. They are located one more level down."
"Interesting. That almost puts them in the Shanghai Tunnels. Alright, continue. What happened next."
"Security told me I couldn't go that way. So I turned around and tried to go into the main hall. Security said, no... you can't go that way either. So I turned around and tried to go to the dressing room again. And they reminded me that I couldn't go that way."
"Then what did you do?"
He shrugged. "I gave up and left."
"You're lucky this wasn't Vegas. They'd have taken you into a private back room. And work you over a bit."
Lossom just grinned. Maybe he thought it sounded like fun. It's hard to tell with these Yank Marines. They're tough cookies.
A fight broke out at the corner of Northwest 6th Avenue and Couch. Three dames gathered around one of the chaps involved and joined in on the melee. It was a real free for all. And just like the professional fights - there was a purse. It was a white patten leather purse with a single clasp. And it was laying on the sidewalk at the corner, all by itself. Forgotten in the excitement.
Four patrol cars converged on the corner. Surrounding the highly volatile and dangerous purse. Their lights flashing strobes of bright colours. Creating garish shadows that darted and looped back on themselves like obsessive-compulsive firebugs loitering at a crime scene.
Two of the dames split the scene as soon as the cops stepped out of their vehicles. One was brunette. She was short and dowdy. The other was slightly taller. And much thinner. She had sandy coloured hair. Both dames were dressed like metal mamas - all in black. They waddled passed us at a fast clip. Like they were running very late for a long overdue slash. The sandy haired metal mama was urging her companion.
"Hurry sweety, they're gaining on us!"
One of the cops broke off from the rest in hot pursuit. Walking briskly. He whispered out of the corner of his mouth as he approached me.
"Which way did they go, George?"
I scowled. "You mean, the two runnies?"
"No. French and Saunders, wiseguy."
I pointed. "Straight down the road. Then hang a fast right."
He picked up his stride.
"Oh, don't forget, officer. You left your purse back there on the pavement!"
He swiftly made it to the end of the block. And dashed around the corner with grim determination.
Later, after the dames were apprehended and frog marched back to the scene of the crime, Mikkey Dee emerged from the building. He headed toward us. Stepped out onto the sidewalk to greet the fans waiting there. He signed a few items the fans had ready for him. CDs. Ticket stubs. Motorhead memorabilia. And also posed for a picture with a fan.
He took a long hard look at the thick stack of drum skins someone was holding. Waiting in line for him to sign.
"I'll sign a couple of 'em, but not a dozen of 'em."
Mikkey Dee scrawled his signature quickly on a few drum skins and glanced at the remaining faces gathered around him. He stepped out of the crowd. Turned east. And walked down Couch Street with half a dozen personnel associated with the tour gathered closely around him. Escorting him. Guiding him. Herding him off into the night. One big happy Motorhead percussion atom ready for a chemical reaction.
They walked right by us on their way down the street. Our eyes intently follow them. Lossom whispered the very words that were running through my mind.
"If they turn right, we know they're going to Dante's."
"My thought exactly."
Mikkey Dee and his mob turned right when they reached the end of the block. Molly perked up and blurted out, "They're heading toward--"
Lossom and I hissed like snakes. "Shhhhhhh. We know!"
We tailed them and quickly started closing the gap between us. We jaywalked across Southwest 4th Avenue. Preventing a car with a green traffic light from moving. Then joined the tail end of Mikkey Dee's entourage. We all arrived at the club's closed doors as one group.
A few moments later the door was opened for us. We filed into the darkly lit club. And everyone gathered around the bar.
The club was dark. Tables were littered with upturned chairs. Flames danced from the top of a wide raised dias standing on the floor. It was standing between the front window and north end of the bar. It sent shadows darting around the room. Or quivering in the far corners. Hiding from the blinding heat.
Mikkey Dee was getting very thirsty sitting at the end of the bar near the open flames. He stood up on the rungs of his stool. Peered over the bar. Searching for a bartender. Making damn sure one wasn't hiding down in the ice trough.
"Is there a bartender around here?"
There was a frantic rustling of club personnel. They drew straws. Rushed around. And a bartender was quickly stationed - ready to serve. The drinks were all free gratis. In this town - anything Motorhead wants - Motorhead gets. Around here Lemmy is the Supreme Uberlord of The Ministry of Vice and Debauchery.
Lossom eyed the bar.
"I think I'll go get a drink. What's your poison?"
"Holy water. That normally slays me."
I rubbed my jawline with my thumb. "I don't see any priests in here. Make it a soda on ice."
"No Booze? Are you sure? It's free."
"So is the conga line of black-and-white prowl cars that'll be tailing me home when I leave." I paused. "Ya see, one of 'em caught me last week."
Lossom's eyebrows tried to meet his hairline.
"You're a law breaker?"
"Just a slight misunderstanding."
He looked like he was prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt. So I filled him in.
"I was driving at night without any lights. In stealth mode. The last thing I need is a copper tagging me - lit on giggle juice after an audience with The Maestros of Mayhem. Motorhead may rule the clubs. But it's the coppers that rule the streets. It's martial law after the Blitz."
"No lights?"
"I have very good night vision."
He frowned and slipped into silence.
"So there's no reason putting 'em through the trouble of offering me a free eye exam. Asking me to walk a fine line. And their piece de resistance - treating me to a private tour of the cop shop." I clicked my heels and popped off a spring-loaded salute. "Vive le piggery! Long live Police Chief Plonker's diligent urban gorillas in blue!
Lossom shook his head and stalked off to the bar. Molly was sitting at the bar. Talking to the people sitting around her. Getting to know them better. Smoozing. Gathering intelligence. Lossom returned from the bar with two bottles and a clear plastic cup. He walked over to Molly and handed a bottle to her. Then he continued walking my in my direction. Stopped. And handed me the plastic cup.
We stood off to the side of the bar. Watching everyone inside the club. Watching them socialize and migrated from one end of the room to the other. Or from this room into the next. And keeping a keen eye on Molly.
Molly shifted around the bar. Settling down next to Mikkey Dee and struck up a conversation with him. Lossom got my attention. A brunette was walking toward us. Lossom nodded in her direction. Leaned in toward my ear and whispered.
"I've seen her somewhere before."
I gave her the once over. She was very easy on the eyes. Young. Attractive. Short. And shapely.
"Probably at the show. They were all there earlier. Thick as Thebes."
Lossom shook his head and scowled.
"No. I know I've seen her before that. I just can't place where."
The brunette in question passed within a few feet of us. Her tail swishing as she sailed by. Lossom's eyes widen. Enlightenment filling them.
"She's a stripper. In Milwaukie."
"Milwaukie? Oregon?"
"Yeah."
I'm gobsmacked. Was the intelligence the yanks had on us this detailed? I tried to recover my composure.
"Of course, what could be more, au naturelle - at a Motorhead gathering."
Molly signalled to us. She wanted us to come over to the bar to join her and Mikkey Dee. He appeared to be in good spirits.
Lossom arrived before me. I followed but chose to linger nearby - in the background. Listening. Observing. and making mental notes.
Lossom exclaimed, "You're the world's Greatest drummer!"
Mikkey Dee squirmed a little. "I'm not the world's greatest." A lazy grin crept across his face. "Maybe, one of the better ones."
Molly produced a camera. Lossom crouched next to Mikkey Dee. Mikkey Dee did a double-take. "You're a tall one! Just a minute." He shifted around on his stool trying to make himself look a bit taller. "Okay."
The camera flashed and I moved in closer. Mikkey Dee looked directly at me. Like he had just recognized who I was.
"What'd you think of the solo?"
"I thought it was great."
He smiled.
"Especially when it slowed down... and the lights changed colour--"
"And I gave it a little of this...." his eyes were soulful as he moved his arms slowly in front of him. Striking phantom drum skins with phantom drum sticks. Reliving the moment on stage.
"What really surprised me was the acoustic set during the encore."
He tilted his head and waited for me to elaborate."
"Seeing you play a guitar was a total surprise."
He laughed. "Next time they'll have me up there playin' a violin." "He raised his left arm placing a phantom violin under his chin. Sweeping his right arm back and forth in wide, graceful strokes. Sliding a phantom bow across the invisible violin strings. An expression of bliss washing over his face. The booze was kickin' in. Thank God, he wasn't Keith Moon.
I brought him back to the here and now.
"Were you filming a video tonight?"
"No..." He cocked his head and frowned. Puzzled by my question.
"I saw a guy with a camera filming a woman in the mosh pit. A purple light slowly played over her body as the crowd gently rotated her overhead. It sorta looked staged. So I thought--"
He shook his head. "No. No, that wasn't us." He brightened several notches. "But we do have a new video coming out in July. It was filmed at our show in Dusseldorf, Germany last December. It'll have the live show and a documentary about the band. A double DVD titled: STAGE FRIGHT. It's gonna be great!"
"Excellent. Something for us to look forward to."
Molly and Lossom were both very quiet during our chin wag. Just listening intently.
"Heard from Alan Burridge recently?"
Mikkey Dee's face registered surprise. He clammed up immediately. His eyes cautious and fixed. His mouth slack. I continued. "I've seen a copy of the New Motorheadbangers World. It just came out. It has a colour cover."
He digested this. Still at a loss for words.
I smiled. "I think that's a first. Don't you?"
His head wobbled this way and that. He sipped his drink. And cleared his throat. "I dunno... maybe it is."
"A photo of you lot makin' off with the mother lode. Lots of glittering - GOLD."
We exchanged knowing expressions. Thought our private thoughts. And they all involved one man. Alan Burridge, a British criminologist whose dedicated the past few decades documenting Motorhead's life of crime. Exposing their excesses. Accomplishments. And impact on society.
Molly signalled me and pointed at the end of the bar.
"Lemmy's here. Why don't you go over and say Hi."
I turned. Then stopped dead in my tracks. Lemmy's sitting at the north end of the bar where a small Mega Touch video game rested. Just like one of those small cafe jukeboxes you find anchored to the marble countertops in front of the round, swivelling, red stools bolted to the black-and-white checkerboard floors. Or fastened to the walls in the private booths over by the wooden phone kiosks. The ones that always seems to be occupied by a talkative teenager comparing notes. Trying to line up a date. Or simply trying to get themselves out of hot water.
Lemmy dropped a few coins in the slot located on the top. Selected "Quick Chess" from its menu. And started playing solo against the machine - mano a machismo - with that distinctive Lemmy mystique. Calm, quiet, and so sure of his efforts and his abilities. A chessboard that was five squares by six squares was displayed on the video screen. There was a scaled down compliment of chess pieces for each opponent. There is a king. A bishop. A queen. A knight. A rook. And a row of five pawns for Lemmy to command.
He studied the chessboard. Selected a colour for himself. Selected the chessman he planned to move. Thin yellow borders suddenly materialized. They highlighted the outer edges of squares on the chessboard available for the selected chesspiece. He selected a destination. And played in total silence as the game unfolded and took its natural course. This was his modus operandi: Study the machine's moves. Select his moves. Exercise his extensive knowledge and skill - in reflective silence - until the word "CHECKMATE" flashes on the screen.
A cartoon keypad appeared on the screen. Lemmy pressed several letters displayed on the keypad. Adding his name to the list of winners. His name was listed at the top position - with 54,000 points.
I moved closer and peered over his shoulder.
"You got the high score?"
Lemmy mumbled. "Uh-huh."
The dame sitting next to him droned in a bored monotone.
"He's got the only score."
I noticed the lack of names under his. It made him the guy to beat. Every "Top Gun" with a couple of hot silver Sex Pistols burning holes in their pockets would be out gunning for Lemmy's position. I retreated to a vacant table. Took out my cigarette case. Planted a lucky Chesterfield between my lips. Lit it. Waved the burning match out. And quietly observed the proceedings.
Molly moved in on Lemmy. She tried to get him to talk. But he's totally absorbed. Focused on the game. Deep in thought. And yet, somehow aware of everything going on around him.
Molly asked, "Can I pay for one of your games?"
Lemmy rasped, "I already have a stack of coins."
She's trying hard. But getting nowhere fast. She turns tail. Finds herself at my table. And spills her guts.
"I can't get him to talk. How about you going over there and introducing me?"
I grimaced. "Try waiting till later. After he's finished playing the video game. Give him time to relax and unwind. He's just finished a show."
Molly shook her head. "I just can't let this opportunity slip by. I mean... that's LEMMY over there. I've tried everything to get him to open up. I even told him that Action Man was here."
I blanched. "What'd he say?"
She repeated his words in a lifeless monotone - "I KNOW!"
I mulled this over. It sounded somehow ominous. I had a hunch that he tailed us while we were tailing Mikkey Dee. He's like that mysterious vigilante - The Shadow. Both mysterious men dressed all in black. But Lemmy was armed with a Rickenbacker instead of matching .45 calibre Colt automatics. Both shattering the night's silence with explosive blasts. One with tongues of lethal flame. The other with words of wisdom and marauding melodies.
She continued in greater detail.
"The woman sitting next to him told me... that I could give him a blow job... and he'd still be playing - that video game."
I rolling my eyes from side to side. Deep in thought.
Molly waved her hands back and forth in front of her.
"Oh, no. Not me. I'm not going to do that."
I arched an eyebrow as I weighed the pros and cons.
"That would tend to make conversation rather difficult."
She slowly nodded.
"Why won't you go over to visit him?"
"He's playing a video game - and he's with a woman!"
"I'm a woman."
I took a long drag on my cigarette. Released a lazy stream of smoke. And rasped, "Lucky you, sweetheart."
She chewed on her lip. Then got up and left my table. Probably in search of Lossom's sympathetic ear.
I nursed my drink while I scanned the room. There was a dame on the stage. On her hands and knees. She was eying a John that was standing by the edge of the stage. she crawled over to him. Smiling impishly. I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Lemmy finally stood up. He'd played several different games. Now he was on the prowl. He ambled toward me on his way to the other side of the club. I pushed my chair back. Stood up. Stepped into the isle. Watching him as he approached. As he slowly passed me, I whispered, "Did ya get the nude photos I sent ya?"
He stopped.
"Yeah, a few months back." He's not looking at me. "She know about this?"
"Na." I made a swatting motion with my free hand. "What she don't know, won't hurt me."
"Sure about that? Hell hath no fury like--"
"Tempest Storm."
Lemmy's face took on a bemused expression.
"She's a stripteaser. A burlesque stripteaser. Played over at The Capitol. Back in the good old days."
"How good?"
"For the early fifties, quite good. She had two of the biggest and most spectacular props in Portland. She was a fiery red-head sporting a 44DD-25-35 figure. Sculpted over a willowy 5-foot-10 frame. She's headlined at the Dunes in Vegas - during the snazzy ring-a-ding-ding days of Sinatra's Rat Pack. Word is... she had an affair... with John F. Kennedy."
Silence.
"The Barkers referred to her as beauty and the bust. Or sometimes, as the fabulous 4D girl."
Lemmy just gave me that incredulous embalmed gaze of his.
"Yeah, back when Portland was a wide open and totally corrupt city. Before the shocking scandal hit the pages of Life Magazine - forcing her to leave Stump Town in disgrace."
"Scandal? Here?"
I nodded. "The Battle of the G-strings"
He chuckled, "When was this?"
"1953."
"Ya wanna know something?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"Ya need to get out more often."
I shrugged and shifted gears.
"Storm Large plays here on Wednesday nights." I pointed at the stage. "She sings Ace of spades. A mash-up version."
Lemmy fixed me with a steady stare. Staring deeply down into my eyes. Into my soul. Waiting patiently for me to continue as I fished for the elusive words that would properly describe her distinctive rendition of his song.
"It sounds kinda... weird. Ace of spades... sorta... Latin American style."
Lemmy busted up laughing. Maybe he was trying to visualize Storm performing a spirited homage to Carmen Miranda - complete with the distinctive cornucopia hat brimming with tropical fruit. Shaking her maracas and hips vigorously while she belted out Lemmy's powerful lyrics.
I waited for him to recover.
"You're encore surprised me."
He remained silent. Patiently waiting.
"I was expecting the usual. You know, fast. Hard 'n heavy. The typical hard-boiled metal cliche...."
Lemmy was giving me the dark cloudy are-you-sure-you-really-wanted-to-say-that look.
"And then you go and pull that acoustic number on me."
His clouds dissipated.
"It was totally unexpected. I couldn't believe it - IT WAS BRILLIANT! You should slip a few more like that into the set."
Lemmy looked stunned. It was the first time he'd ever heard me use a term higher than GOOD to describe what I thought of their shows. He started to grin. He was pleased to hear that he'd caught me by surprise.
Molly and Lossom approached us. I spotted Molly's camera.
"Lemmy. Can I borrow you for a triage photo?"
We moved in on Molly. Lemmy was standing between Molly and me when Lossom aimed the camera at us. We waited. Then there was a blinding flash. And Lemmy dissolved in the retinal blizzard that swept through the room. When the white-out conditions cleared up, he was long gone. Molly had also disappeared.
I approached Lossom. I levelled with him. "The sound at the Roseland wasn't good. It couldn't handle Motorhead."
"Yeah."
"I really couldn't hear Lemmy's vocals. I had to try to read his lips. And the guitar and bass sounded a bit muddy."
He nodded. "I thought so too!"
"The drums were okay. Mikkey Dee had the best of it."
Molly returned. Lossom leaned in toward her. "We were discussing the sound at the show. We're in total agreement. We both don't think the Roseland has a good sound system. It couldn't handle Motorhead."
Molly appeared distracted. She quickly cut to the chase.
"Let's go over to the other room."
I searched her eyes. "Why?"
"Lemmy's playing pool with someone in the other room. The guy's bragging about how many women he's had." She laughed at the thought. "Can you believe that? Of all people. He's trying to one-up Lemmy!"
"Is he responding in kind?"
"No. He's just listening politely and shooting pool."
"That's 'cos he's a gentleman. He'd never rat or spill the beans on a dame."
She just nodded and briskly headed toward the arched portal. A portal interrupting the old industrial flow of the red brick-and-motor wall standing over on the west side of the main room .
The bricks separating the two rooms had a strange cavernlike appearance. There was a faint garish green tint and a flickering reddish glow. The bar on the other side of the wall could be partially seen through several gaps. Gaps that had been knocked out of it with the aid of duelling sledgehammers. A recent attempt to expand the main room - by demolishing and relocating the Ladies and Gents rooms.
As I entered the room, I noticed a brunette lingering by the bar. She was wearing a black T-shirt. There was something familiar about her. So I gave her the once over to refresh my memory. And when I got to her chest I knew why. She was a marked deck. The numbers "666" were boldly displayed. Splashed across her chest and reasonably distorted by her prominent curves. She was the defiant dame standing up in the balcony waving her fist during Motorhead's set.
Lemmy was over at the pool table. Aiming. Shooting. And working his way around the table. I paused by the pinball machine. I wondered if he was going to clean the table. Molly interrupted my thoughts to introduce me to a chap from one of the support bands. We talked about his band and some of the local theatres and clubs he'd played in Portland.
Lemmy continued trading shots with his opponent until the table was devoid of balls. Totally neutered. I watched Lemmy leave the pool table and gravitate toward the pinball machine behind me. A Bally machine called "Elvira and the Party Monsters." The Elvira in question was - Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. A busty, campy vamp dressed like a goth goddess with long raven hair and a jet-black Morticia Addams style dress. But showing considerably more leg and cleavage than prime time television would allow back in the sixties.
I decided to make a move. I walked slowly past Lemmy. And tipped the brim of my cap.
"I'm headin' out. Have a good, rest of the tour."
Lemmy grunted. The pinball machine clicked, thumped, chimed, and updated his score. Apparently he was awarded bonus points for my departure.
I adjusted my cap and continued walking. Walking past the video poker machines. Past the coin operated gumball machine filled with earplugs - inside their small clear plastic globes. And past the coatcheck stall just to the right of the exit.
Molly and Lossom followed me out to the street. I pointed west. They pointed east. We went our separate ways. It was 4:30 AM.
I think, perhaps, in some small way, meeting Motorhead privately made up for Molly missing their Portland Show. How many people can say that they have seen Motorhead. And walked away with their hearing still intact. Of course, there was still the next show looming on the horizon. She would always have Seattle.
Motorhead fan club information:
Motorheadbangers World
c/o Alan Burridge, 634 Blandford Road, Upton,
Poole, Dorset BH16 5EQ. United Kingdom
Please send SAE (in the UK) or IRC (elsewhere) with all communication.
To visit all the major Motorhead web-sites, please visit and follow the links on: www.alanburridge.freeuk.com
CLICK HERE to read reviews in this issue of the recent Motörhead "Inferno" CD and Ace of Spaces DVD.