Reading About Lemmy on a Sunny Afternoon
My introduction to college life was the long-haired dude in the dorm room next door blasting Motorhead. It took me a year to trade Eddie Money ("Shakin', whooooaaaaaa, Snappin' her fingers"), for Lemmy, but I finally did, and I've had a soft spot for the wart-faced Brit ever since. Now, "Gimme Some Water" sounds just fine after "Jailbait," and we don't have to make such arbitrary lines in the aural sand. In fact, I'd like to party with both of 'em. Maybe at McNally's. Or The Roundup. Anyway, White Line Fever, Lemmy's autobiography, is a tad disappointing. The Lemster's alleged razor intelligence metalheads headshakingly mention is nowhere in evidence, and he trashtalks just about everybody he discusses. Many of 'em seem like unnecessary cheap shots on folks who can't defend themselves, which leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth, like stumbling in on your parents' friends when they're confessing adulterous crimes. But he is Lemmy after all, so the stories come fast and furious, and you get the standard behind-the-scenes gossip. Even the controversial paragraph about 9/11 that comes at the end just ain't that controversial, though. Overall, this will get ya to pull Ace of Spades out of the cobwebs and it was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, but it ain't no Lords of Chaos.