The whole
night felt like we were seventeen. We got dressed in the
toilets at work. Applying black kohl and mascara over
the coats of earlier that day. Esther in a black cashmere
halter-neck, tight dark blue jeans (Diesel) and brothel
creepers. Me in a Motörhead England T with slashed neck
& cut off sleeves, dark blue Levi's and stacked heel
biker boots.
Walking
down New North Road we had a nervous spliff, and then
leapt on a bus into town. My heart was racing so fast
from anticipation of what was to come.
Late, there
were no queues to get into The Astoria or for the coat
check. Walking into the auditorium, it was black, sticky
and smaller than I'd expected. First to the bar for vodka
red bulls, then to the ladies for an apparel and make-up
check. We'd missed the support act and the crowd grasping
plastic pints was growing. We had to stake our position
fast. Standing to the rear of a wall of black denim and
leather arses, the crowd seemed 80/20 male to female.
The atmosphere was tense with excitement and anticipation.
Many long-time fans were there, who'd looked like they'd
been following the band since the late seventies. A few
first timers brought along by mates were looking around,
not knowing what to expect.
At the
rear of the stage hung a massive banner, the eponymous
white on black snaggletooth - the sole decoration. The
lighting rig was standard rock 'n' roll, no sign of the
bomber rig which appeared later at the 25th anniversary
gig in Brixton. The first round of cheering and surging
forward was prompted by a stage technician bringing on
Lemmy's mike stand. High, with the mike angled down to
accommodate his performing stance - neck craning upwards
which clears the way for his characteristic gravely whiskey-sodden
growl. We knew his arrival was just minutes away. The
chants built steadily, reaching a sustained thunder; MO-TOR-HEAD,
MO-TOR-HEAD, MO-TOR-HEAD...
When Lemmy,
Phil and Mikkey come on stage the crowd goes wild. Lemmy
announces 'We are Motörhead and we're here to fuck you
up', which they duly do. I can't remember the set list.
I think they started with We Are Motörhead, then went
on to Iron Fist, Orgasmatron, Going to Brazil, and of
course, Ace of Spades. The intimate acoustics of the place,
the volume and clarity ensure that your entire being is
penetrated by sound felt rather than heard. Gut churning
bass, loins afire with the unrelenting speed of (guitar)
licks.
I used
to have a severe distrust of Metal when I was a teenager
on the North Shore of Auckland where it reigned supreme
among boguns and surfies alike. It stood for atestosterone
-fuelled mindlessness that I couldn't stomach. I was listening
to similarly noisy but more 'cerebral' art rock. Now I
look back at this gig with such relish. It was the first
of a string of nights spent relinquishing ourselves to
the driving power of Motörhead, without self-consciousness,
without irony. Some reliving a past infatuation, where
the speed of the music corresponded with hormonal change
and others (like me) discovering what we had missed. Embracing
it hard, fast and heavy.
Article reproduced from CIRCA
103, Spring 2003, p.64.
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