I've been thinking a lot about Lemmy lately. I don’t mean just his death, but just in general, even a week before his death. While flipping through the pages of the "Random Notes" section in the Bernie Sanders issue of Rolling Stone, I found a picture of Lemmy himself, staring confusedly at the camera while leaning his old bones against a London airport slot machine. When asked about his upcoming work, Lemmy just replied, “You don’t have to wait long for a Motörhead album. I’ll keep making records until I drop.”
That’s rock ‘n roll, man. The real deal.
It’s no bluff either. Throughout the English heavy metal band’s 40 year career, they released 22 studio albums, five of which came out in the past decade. Their final record, "Bad Magic," came out just this August, only four months before the trio were forced to break up on account of their founder’s demise.
And how could they not? Lemmy was Motörhead. Sure, they could always get a new frontman, just as a chicken can run around minus its head, but really, what is even the point? The Doors and Queen have tried it before, and while what these projects were by no means bad, they were never on par with their original work. Trust me, Lemmy was not a talented singer – in fact, he is one of the worst ever – but he was the right singer for a group like Motörhead: gritty, guttural, and just plain great.
Despite being anything but a handsome man with his mutton chops, rotting teeth, and signature moles on his face, Lemmy still somehow managed to live, breathe, and bleed the epitome of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll with a lifestyle that could probably put Keith Richards’s and Ozzy Osbourne’s to shame, yet without all of the immediate consequences – until now. Since reports thus far have cited the cause of his demise as being an “extremely aggressive cancer,” the possibility of this disease stemming from his reckless lifestyle is highly probable.
However, since this uncertain, it doesn’t do well to dwell on it. I’m bleeding on my keyboard today in memorium to him, not in spite of him. He was a legend, and make no doubt about it: music is facing tragedy, and we are in mourning. Not only now, but for the past five years. Amy Winehouse, Ronnie James Dio, Tommy Ramone, Lou Reed, Whitney Houston, Scott Weiland, Ben E. King, B.B. King… and so on, all accumulating to one berserk extinction in music.
In all honesty, I haven’t been this choked up over a musician’s death since Reed. Just as Reed was a poet for the proud ugly artists, Lemmy was a poet for the dirty rebels. It was who he was, after all: an outlaw, a samurai, a vagabond, a hellion, and the truest rock ‘n roller who ever lived.
As Alice Cooper put it, “He’s Captain Hook.” Indeed.
With that said, should we be even surprised by his death? As can be drawn from several, several examples, those who do not conform to sociological expectations and stereotypes typically never live their lives to their full capacity. I’m not crying conspiracy here; I’m simply making an educated observation. Don’t believe me? Research the 27 Club. It’s just as outlaw Gonzo journalist, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, said; “Too weird to live, too rare to die.”
This band of guerrillas haven’t been yet vanquished either, and God only knows when their time will come. Keith Richards, Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, Willie Nelson, David Bowie and all the rest are still blasting away, fighting the threatening prospect of conformist normalcy. Lemmy’s death – among all the others – is not a tale of caution, but a rally cry. Change your hair. Write an angry song. Spur controversy. Blast your favorite music. Protest inhumanity. Study what you love. Show your emotions, but stay healthy. Be the person you aspired to be as a child. Chances are, you will be happy with the results, and ultimately yourself.
Rest in peace, Lemmy.
