DISGRACELAND - Motörhead: Speed, Sex, and Revenge

Episode Date: July 25, 2024

Motörhead influenced some of the most important acts in heavy metal and punk rock history. Led by the inimitable Lemmy Kilmister, they invented a sound and a style that didn’t exist before the original trio went into the recording studio for the first time. The story of Motörhead is also a story about speed, revenge, good and evil, a brutal murder, and some of the greatest – and meanest – rock ‘n roll ever committed to tape. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including graphic depictions of violence. This episode was originally published on July 25, 2024. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about Motorhead. A band that influenced some of the most important acts in heavy metal and punk rock history. A band who invented a sound and a style that didn't exist before their three founding

members went into the recording studio for the first time. But this is also a story about speed and revenge, about good and evil, about a brutal murder, and about some of the greatest and meanest rock and roll music ever committed to tape. Great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called bangin orgasmatron, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to He Don't Love You Like I Love You by Tony Orlando in Dawn. And why would I play you that specific slice of mustache and mullet cheese could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on May 18, 1975. And that was the day that Lemmy Kielmeister was fired from the band, A fateful turn of events that directly led to the creation of one of the most uncompromising and influential bands of all time. On this episode, Speed, Revenge, Good and Evil, a brutal murder, mustache and mullet cheese, and murderhead. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Music's so loud, it's like your brains are being forced down your nose. Music to perform lobotomies to. The best, worst band in the world.

These are the kinds of things the UK press said about Motorhead when their self-titled debut album was released on Chiswick Records in 1977. The so-called Three Amigos, who made up the band at the time, Lemmykilmeister on bass and vocals, Fast Eddie Clark on guitar, and Phil Taylor, a.k.a. filthy animal on drums, could give a shit what anyone said about them. Least of all, some pencil-pushing egghead at a London rack.

Sticks and stones and all that. In fact, the band wore bad press like a tight leather jacket. Just like Lemmy wore that tattoo of the Ace of Spades on his forearm. The one was born to lose and lived to win written on either side. It was the year of the Sex Pistols, and of the clash, a year of which raw, visceral rock music took aim at disco and the Osmans and fired away. But unlike their punk rock contemporaries, Motorhead had no social message. Their only message, as Fast Eddie put it,

was to quote, get pissed, get stoned, fuck a chick, unquote. Lemmy in particular wanted his new band to be fast, brutal, and mean. As mean as the umlaad above the second O in Motor. Two dots put there for no other reason that it made the band's name appear more vicious than it really was. And when that name was written out on the cover art of their debut album, the Germanic bold font hovering above the image of something called the War Pig, aka Snagletooth, part bear, part dog, part wolf, shining metal board tus, a metal chain, snarling teeth,

the obvious question on your mind was, What the hell is a motorhead? Let me kill Meister was a motorhead. Part Speed Freak, part sex freak, 100% rock and roll animal. Mutton chops, facial moles, bullet belt, black jeans, custom embroidered boots, no wedding ring, not ever. All badass, all mean. Related to the rest of us, humans by biology and evolution and all that,

but nonetheless a species unto himself. So much so that by 19. The year the motorhead finally broke into the top 10 in the UK, Lemmy's blood was no longer human blood. At least, that's what the doctor told him. When Lemmy found out, he was not eligible for a blood transfusion. So many drugs, so many pills, dexedrine, mandrex, black beauties, and of course cocaine, LSD, mescaline, Jack Daniels, a steady diet of hard living and turned Lemmy's blood, toxic. So toxic.

that pure blood would literally kill him if introduced into his body, or so the story goes. Whether or not that story is actually true doesn't matter. It fits the image of Lemmy and of Motorhead to a T. And maintaining that image is largely what motivated Motorhead to never change their sound. Not really anyway. Long after Fast Eddie and Filty Animal left the band, Lemmy was still soldiering on with other players. all of them motivated by that trademarked meanness. But Lemmy himself was also motivated by something else.

Revenge. 1975. Motorhead was not yet the name of a band, but instead the name of a song. A B-side Lemmy had just written for Hawkwind, the psychedelic Prague Rock group that he'd joined on bass four years prior. And he's ink given that Lemmy wrote the song, Motorhead, about speed,

And also, given that the song's A-side was called Kings of Speed, that Hawkwind, as a whole, were into the drug known as Speed. But you'd be wrong. Lemmy was the odd man out. LSD was what Hawkwind were into. Not that Lemmy didn't partake. After all, one of his earliest gigs was as a roadie for the Jimmy Hendrix experience, which meant he was responsible not only for hauling around Jimmy's guitars,

but for scoring Jimmy's drugs. And Jimmy Hendricks being the generous guy that he was, generous with his time, generous with his music, and even generous with the lowliest employees on his payroll, Jimmy Hendricks would gladly take the 10 hits of LSD that Lemmy procured for him and then hand three hits back to Lemmy as a thank you. That was then. But right now, the guys in Hawkwind were driving from Detroit into Canada for a gig in Toronto. and Lemmy was wired on speed. Now, there are two ways to enter Canada from Detroit, the Ambassador Bridge over the Detroit River where the Detroit Windsor Tunnel under the river.

The easier play, at least in 1975, was over the bridge. Border Patrol in the tunnel was notoriously difficult, not that Hawquin knew this, or maybe they just didn't care. At first, however, it was smooth sailing through that tunnel. But as their cars approached the border, the custom agents fixated on Lemmy, leaning back in his seat, head bobbing, mouth wide open, his eyes too, long hair, dirty denim, devilish mustache. Just as quickly as the cars were being waved through, they were ordered to stop, and everyone was told to get out. And then they were searched. And Lemmy was found hiding a bag of

white powder stuffed down his pants. The simple drug testing equipment on site said that that white powder was cocaine. By the time it was determined that the substance was not cocaine, but in fact, amphetamine sulfate, Lemmy was already in jail. And the band posted his bail and flew him out to Toronto for that night's show. Little did Lemmy know it would be the last time he'd appear with Hawkwind.

The only reason he'd been allowed to play that night is because his replacement hadn't shown up yet. Lemmy had been kicked out of the band, sacked for good. And all because he was a motorhead and a band full of acid heads. God forbid that Hawkins be associated with a drug as low brow as speed. Lemmy kept insisting that that was the reason that he was fired. Some weird, classist attitude against the type of drug that he did compared to the type of drug that his bandmates did.

Let me insist that this is true. Even years later, long after other members of Hawkwin, and said it was actually because of his difficult personality and that the arrest was just the last straw. But Lemmy wasn't going to stop being Lemmy. He'd been here before, kicked out of a band, kicked out of a gig, eating nothing but a slice of bread soaked to whatever congealed fat was left in the skillet for lunch.

A bottle of Jack Daniels, a pack of Marlborough squatting in someone's apartment, having a go with just about any able and willing female because truth was, that's why Lemmy did what he did. The music, the image, all of it, just to get laid. And not just here or there. When the opportunity presented itself, but the opportunity was constant with as many different women as possible, upwards of a thousand, at least during his lifetime by his own count.

Which is exactly what he was doing now. But the women Lemmy was sleeping with were now carefully selected. Lemmy rang up the girlfriends of three of the guys in Hawkwind, seduce them. and then slept with them while Hawkwind finished their tour. Then he got to work forming a new band, his band, with power to spare, a power trio that laid waste to psychedelia and Prague and anything else that had the misfortune to get in his way.

Motorhead took its name from the Hawkwind song because fuck Hawkwind, which Lemmy gladly did. Well, their girlfriends anyway. And then he put that screw-you feeling into the music of Motorhead as well. Loud, fast, brutal, and mean. Motorhead was the sound of a revenge fuck. 1962, Manchester, England. 17-year-old Lemmy Kilmeister was obsessed,

with music, it's getting laid, and with doing a lot of speed, which he had recently been introduced to. His friend Robbie showed him how to work the needle under the skin and shoot it right. But the only needle Lemmy wanted touching his arm was the needle on a tattoo gun. So instead of shooting that first dose of speed,

he dissolved it into a cup of hot cocoa. The rush was immediate. Suddenly, Lemmy's whole world was in hyperdrive, as fast and propulsive as the music that he would later make with motorhead. Speed. The very word, a perfectly succinct description for how you now felt, Running, gunning, one minute sitting next to Junkie Robbie in Man City,

and the next scurrying out west to Liverpool, falling down a flight of stairs into a dank underworld, where on the tiny stage of the cavern club, four lads were twisting and shouting. But you weren't watching this band. You were watching the girls, and they were losing their fucking minds, all because of this music.

But one of those girls said she lost her virginity to Beatle John. You couldn't be sure, but you never let a good story get in the way of a good time. And a good time is what you had. More methylopetamine, hydrochloride, down the hatch. Nine shots of liquid speed and a single glass of orange juice. And that shit rotted out your teeth, the speed, not the OJ. But you didn't care. It made you feel superhuman.

Unlike the atropine sulfate that someone gave you by accident that one time. Bella Donna, nightshade, poison. That stuff sent you to the hospital. And the doc said if you'd shown up an hour later, you would have been dead. But you didn't care. You were practically born dead. Or so your mom always told you. A baby with a perforated eardrum and whooping cough.

Christened on day one out of fear that there would be no day two. But look at you now. Day 13,000 or something. Not just alive, but thriving. Anyone who ever said speed kills never saw a heroin addict OD in the bathtub, but you did. She may have been the love of your life, too. Now you'd never know. You didn't have time to wonder about it anyway.

You were too busy making that first Motorhead album. It did all right. The next one, Overkill, did even better. And then your third, Bomber, hit number 12 on the UK charts. That's in spitting distance of the top ten. You wanted it. the big time, just as bad as you wanted some speed in your bloodstream and a bird going down between your legs. And you got there. Ace of Spades, the album, Fall of 1980, number four on the UK

chart. Ace of Spades, the song, soon to be your calling card, that went to number 15. For loud, vicious, mean band, that was no small feat. Let me kill Meister, drank up all his success, just like he drank up all those bottles of Jack Daniels. Wide awake for days at a time. No sleep, no rest, not for the wicked. Not for a guy who mixed business with pleasure. A guy who once received a blowjob while performing on stage. Coaxing, that signature snarling Wickenbocker bass guitar tone, came easy.

Just like Lemmy himself came easy when the woman treated him to swell. On stage, offstage, didn't matter. let me get his rocks off while he was rocking out, and he would sleep when he was dead, which that vampire blood of his might not ever happen. That is, until he collapsed. Up for three straight days, no more motor and way too much head.

Now splayed out on the floor backstage after passing out halfway through motorhead's performance. The Hammersmith Odian, London, Fast Eddie and filthy animal were pissed. 12,000 fans waiting for him in the venue, a crucial venue no less. Four straight shows. Always the cap of their UK tours. Eddie, for one, had turned down numerous offers of cocaine.

In fact, he only allowed himself one singular Heineken in the days leading up to this so that he could perform a show that the people deserved. And here was their fearless leader, not technically dead, but dead enough, dead to the world anyway. And what was the difference, anyhow? Let me let them all down. Fast Eddie, Filthy Animal, the fans, passing out in the middle of a fucking show? To say that his bandmates were pissed is an understatement. Not that Filthy, for one, hadn't been right where Lemmy was before, seemingly incapacitated

at the very moment that duty was going to call on him. It was Filthy, after all, who went after some noisy asshole mucking it up outside of a squat and nodding hill, and on the eve of a motorhead tour, no less. Filthy entered that confrontation fist-first, slamming his... knuckles into the guy's face. It was like lightning struck his hand. He felt the bones and his fingers go gooey, and then his entire hand swelled up like a melon. Filthy knew better than most that the show must go on, as it was scheduled to the very next day. But since he couldn't actually hold the drumstick in his broken hand, he instead played the entire tour with the stick literally attached to

his fingers using nothing but Gaffert tape. And no sooner was his hand healed than he found himself going head over heels down a flight of stairs, fucked up out of his mind, of course, maybe pushed by someone who was equally fucked up, but honestly, it was a fool's errand trying to tell the difference sometimes. Filthy started at the top and ate shit all the way down, a different part of his body hitting each subsequent step

until he reached the bottom floor, where he landed on his head and snapped his neck. Just like the last tour, where he played with a drumstick taped to his hand, for this one, Filthy wore a neck brace. But the point was, he showed up, he sucked it up, he did what he had to do, he got on stage, and he played. Unlike our guy Lemmy here, unable to get to the band's show at the Hammersmith.

And thanks to that very public display, Word got around. Soon the drug squad was knocking down their front doors. All of them, Lemmy, Filthy, Eddie, their manager, their crew. And what did Filthy get for being good? for keeping it to one measly Heineken, he got arrested and subsequently fined for a little over two grams of cannabis. Lemmy and Eddie were lucky.

They weren't home when the police showed up. Lemmy for one was out on the town, upright this time, resurrected just like he'd been as a newborn, looking punk as fuck in his standard rock and roll uniform, a uniform which included that big iron cross dangling from his neck, the same iron cross that was an old military decoration

in the kingdom of Prussia. later co-opted by the Nazis. And why did Lemmy wear this? Well, in Lemmy's own words, it was a joke who was meant to shock and provoke, just like those London punks were sporting swastikas alongside their safety pins in Union Jacks. And speaking of swastikas,

Lemmy had those too. Not so much in the early 80s, but gradually over time. That joke became a fascination, an obsession with military history and war memorabilia, specifically Nazi gear, an obsession,

which inspired him to curate an oversized collection. Later in his life, his apartment was full of keepsakes from the Third Reich. Yes, all of this is more than a little fucked up. Then and now.

To wear the iron cross, to hang up a swastika, or to put one on the cover of your album, which if you look closely at the first pressing of Motorhead's debut, you will find one. To decorate your house with Nazi flags and penance and medals

to wear a Gestapo uniform while spanking a naked chick's ass with a riding crop. If that story told by Ministries Al Jorgensen is to be believed, but that's a little off topic, but even if you make a point to routinely reject the ideology of all of these symbols, still, to have them, to display them,

to collect them, it is all super fucked up. But that was Lemmy. He didn't care about being super fucked up. He didn't care what you thought about the things that he found to be aesthetically pleasing. And even better if you disapproved because that meant he could use it to fuck with you. But wearing that iron cross around your neck day in and day out, well, you can take a toll. Because when you fuck with something like that, with evil, evil in turn, fucks with you right back. We'll be right back after this word, word, word.

Fall, 1981, England. Moore returned home to his flat, and immediately an unsettled feeling came over him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. His roommate, Lemmy, wasn't at home, which wasn't unusual. Lemmy was often on the road with Motorhead, or down at the pub, or who the hell knows where. It didn't bother Andy in the least. The two men barely knew each other. They weren't friends, strictly roommates. And despite his commercial success as of late, including Motorhead's new live album, No Sleep Till Hammersmith, which finally sent them to number one, Lemmy needed a roommate, too much money going out and not enough coming back in. This arrangement with Andy was good

for Lemmy's bottom line. But tonight, Andy was having trouble finding the good in anything, or anyone. There was someone inside their shared flat. He could feel it. More specifically, he could feel that someone's presence. It was ominous, foreboding. And then it materialized evil incarnate. First, it was shadows, something scratching the floor in the next room over. The sound of feet scampering across the ceiling. Nothing made sense. Not to Andy, not in this moment.

Alone, afraid. His own senses playing tricks on him. Suddenly, there was a man or multiple men. It was hard to tell. They were jumping from the walls, tackling Andy's his own. the floor. A knife came screaming from the darkness, slashing, spilling his blood. He felt razor-sharp steel slice open his face, his neck, his chest over and over. No part of his body was spared, and the pain like the blood was everywhere. It was excruciating. He felt a burning sensation,

first from his ass and then in his groin. And now there was a different kind of heat emanating from the walls. His and Lemmy's flat was on fire. The flames licked his bleak, his bleak. The flames licked his bleeding body, searing his battered flesh. His attackers were long gone, and he knew he would be soon. But he had a little life left in him, enough to get to a phone, perhaps, to call for help. He crawled on his hands and knees, making his way slowly down the corridor to the TV room. His arms buckled, trying to hold his body upright. The blood was everywhere. Andy didn't make it to the TV room. Andy didn't make it to the phone either. He took one last labored breath before falling to the floor and succumbing to his injuries.

According to Lemmy Kielmeister's autobiography, his one-time flatmate was stabbed 52 times in the face, neck, and chest before the knife was shoved up his rectum. But it gets worse, if that's possible. His murderers also cut off his penis and stuffed it up into the same place that moments before had been penetrated by a blade. and then they lit the flat on fire to try and cover their tracks, leaving Andy to die. Why Andy was killed is a mystery. He ran a porn theater in the back of a bookstore.

A motorhead's manager called him a scuzz bag, and Lemmy was convinced it was a hate crime due to Andy's sexual orientation and the manner of which he was murdered. But the paper said it was a drug slang, and they insinuated that Motorhead was somehow involved. given that the victim was roommates with the band's notorious frontman, whose very lifestyle of sex, drugs, and rock and roll courted evil of all stripes. Evil that some would say hung from a talisman around Lemmy's neck.

Good, evil. Lemmy didn't pretend to sort one from the other. That was someone else's job. His job was to seek and find pleasure, which, in his mind, was divorced from any sense of good or bad. As long as one's pleasure wasn't hurting anyone else. Pleasure was amphetamines. It was full-tilt, rock and roll.

It was a snort. It was a fuck, a low-estring vibrating through a fuzzed-out speaker cone. The chase, always being better than the catch, to paraphrase a Motorhead song. But in the wake of Andy's murder, Motorhead's manager put an emphasis on the band's safety. He moved Lemmy, Eddie, and Filthy into a shared house together.

That was not pleasurable. If you've ever been in a band, you know that the old cliche is true, that it's like a marriage, but you're married to more than one person. And as we've already established, Lemmy was not the marrying type. Being that close all the time began to grate on everybody. Filthy started smoking heroin with the rogue crew. Fast Eddie was annoyed by Lemmy's creative direction, perhaps not unlike Hawkwind had been all those years ago. He thought that Lemmy was off as not recording Tammy Wynette's standby or man,

as a duet with plasmatic shock rocker Wendy O. Williams. Eddie refused to play on it. Even Motorhead's next album, 1982's Iron Fist felt a bit rope, if not to the public, then definitely to the group. It was the last record to feature Motorhead's classic lineup. Fast Eddie bounced first. He was quickly replaced by Brian Robo Robertson,

formerly of Thin Lizzie. Robo brought a new energy to the group, and not just in terms of his guitar style, I'm talking to tequila and cocaine vibe. He also liked to wear shorts on stage, like the shortest Adidas running shorts you could possibly find. Do you know how short shorts were in in the 1980s, those real plum smugglers?

Not that Lemmy didn't wear shorts because he did, and there are many accounts of Lemmy's proclivity for cut-off jeans, including one from Scott Ian of Anthrax, in which he remembers getting more than he bargained for when Lemmy bent over in front of him wearing a pair of the shortest Daisy Duke's known to man, but I'm digressing here. On stage was a whole other thing. Shorts did not belong on stage, not when you're representing

motorhead. Shorts weren't mean, shorts weren't vicious. There was an image to maintain. Toxic blood, iron crosses, snagletooth the war pig. Jim shorts did not fit in with that at all. Robo barely made it 18 months before he and his plum smugglers hit the bricks. Let me told the next guy, I trust you musically 100%. Play what you feel is right. Just don't wear fucking shorts on stage. Even if rock and roll by design didn't play by the rules, there was still a dress code. And for Lemmy's motorhead, there was a code code as well.

Not that one for all, all for one horse shit. Lemmy may have been a collector of military history, but he was no sentimentalist. If Fast Eddie or Rabbo or Filthy Animal or whoever wanted to leave, let them leave. If they wanted to come back like Filthy did for a bit, they could do that too. Lemmy's code was the code of the odd man out.

The one who would still be there no matter who hung on or who fell off. Who quit and who was fired. Time itself was irrelevant. Could be 1985, 1995, or 2005, could even be 2015, the last year of Lemmy's life. Lemmy Kielmeister and thus Motorhead were resistant to time and to compromise. unfazed, unchanged, stand your ground and have faith in your credo. That one in the song and the same one tattooed there on your arm. Born to lose. Live to win.

January, 2016, West Hollywood. The VIP reception at the Rainbow Bar and Grill was at capacity. Reel of Cypress Hill was passing around a joint. The smoke wafted past Dave Grohl, past Glenn Danzig, past porn star Ron Jeremy, whose ghoul's night out t-shirt seemed to be a little too on the nose. Some kid from Pennsylvania, known back in a small town as the guy who spray painted Lemmy as god on the side of a mountain, tried to gain access and rub elbows with fellow superfans, making sure everyone saw the ink on his chest, a gnarly tattoo of Lemmy riding a tank. and everyone in attendance did see it,

but not the man of the hour himself. Because Lemmy Kilmeister have been to quote a Motorhead song, killed by death about a week prior. And not by pills or other drugs or alcohol, but by cancer. Just days after he turned the Big Seven O, although Lemmy and thus Motorhead were no longer among the living, his spirit was. As the celebratory collective at the Rainbow could attest,

And I don't mean that in some cheesy way either, like, oh, we can all feel the spirit. What I mean is the unteachable spirit of Lemmy the man, and Lemmy the concept, both of which was what people were celebrating on this particular night. A man who, for the last 25 years, had made his home in Los Angeles, just a quick walk up the street from the rainbow bar and grill. If Lemmy wasn't touring or making another motorhead record, which he did right up until the end, you could find him here. playing video trivia on a small TV screen at the end of the bar,

nursing a stiff Jack and Coke, and gladly talking to anyone who approached him. The modesty of this scene is a large part of why the next generation worship Lemmy. From Dave Navarro, Jane's Addiction in the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Dave Grohl and Nirvana and foo fighters to slash from Guns and Roses, and Nikki Six from all the crew, and don't forget Metallica, who have said on numerous occasions that they wouldn't even exist if it wasn't from Motorhead,

But the other reason both the punks and the metalheads claimed Lemmy for their own was his authenticity. He didn't just talk the talk. He walked it. At 20 years old, at 50 years old, at 65, and even at 70. He was the same guy he'd always been. The odd man out. He still played loud, vicious, and mean. And that meant no ballads, no frills, no bullshit.

And look, rock and roll is all bullshit. The Standells, you know, dirty water, Boston, you're my home. Those guys weren't even from New England. See? Bullshit. And that's just one of a gazillion examples I can give you. But with Lemmy, what you saw was what you got. Even the shocking bits, and especially the problematic stuff. The antithesis of a rock star like Keith Richards,

a so-called rebel who'd long since embraced the lap of millionaire luxury. Millions of dollars wouldn't have suited Lemmy. He wouldn't have known what to do with it. So, if you lived in or visited Los Angeles in the 1990s or in the 2000, specifically in a small footprint along the Sunset Strip, you had a really good chance of running into Lemmy. And just about everybody did. Hell, even I did.

For real. Indulge me for a second, because this is good. This is around 1997, I believe. My band, Castan Heike, was flown out to Los Angeles for this thing called Foundations. It was kind of like the heavy metal CMJ. This was my first time in Los Angeles, by the way. And we weren't at the rainbow, not yet anyway, where Lemmy was often found, like I said, nursing a jack and coke. But we were at this hotel where the conference was.

And I'm standing at the bar, and I'm waiting to order a drink. And I turn and look next to me, and damn, it's Lemmy. He's right there and he orders a jack and coke. So naturally, I just lean over to the bartender. And I say, hey, I got that. And I look at him and I say, hey, it's on me. I'll pay for it, man. And he thanks me.

And he says, I swear to God, this is true. He goes, you know why I like you? Because you look like a young JFK. And whether or not I actually looked like JFK in my younger years is up for debate. But I'm just telling you what Lemmy said to me. So I said to him, well, hey man, thanks a lot. JFK fucked Merrill Monroe. And Lemmy looks at me and he goes, yeah, well, I fucked Raquel Welch.

And then he walks away. You can't make this up. Like if you were going to have an authentic moment with Lemmy from Motorhead, it would be that. Okay? So when we were researching this episode, we found an interview with Lemmy from Maxim Magazine in which he said that Raquel Welch was his idea of the perfect woman, but that he'd never slept with her. It doesn't matter.

He said it, okay, I'm not making it up. Just like that thing with the toxic blood, though. It doesn't have to be the truth. It just has to have the spirit. And Lemmy was into building his own myth, clearly. I think every rock and roll band, every heavy metal band, they all want to be motorhead, at least in spirit, or they should anyways. And back to the rainbow bar and grill with Lemmy at his memorial or tribute party, whatever we're calling it.

After Lemmy's funeral, his body was cremated. Some of the ashes were packed inside bullet casings and sent to his closest friends. Some were enshrined at the rainbow. And some were mixed with ink and then tattooed onto the skin of Metallica's James Hetfield, specifically onto his middle finger. So, for as long as James Headfield lives, he can flip. the bird and give you not only a glimpse of a small ace of spades inside the outline of an iron cross, but a taste of Motorhead's spirit. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. All right,

thank you for listening to another episode of Disgraceland. Appreciate you guys. Listen to Apple Podcast listeners, if you do not already, make sure that you have auto downloads turned on. This week's question of the week, guys, what was the first concert you went to that had a massive impact on you? Motorhead was one of mine for sure. Doesn't have to be your first concert ever, which is the first concert that really impacted you. Let me know, 617-906-66-6638. Give me a call, let me a voicemail, send me a text.

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