Bandwidth

I woke up on Monday with a strange kind of feeling in my stomach.  Not nerves, exactly.  More a sense that something was coming that I wasn’t quite prepared for.  Something I couldn’t prepare myself for in fact.  When I went to the loo and the feeling still didn’t subside I realised the feeling was simply something I hadn‘t experienced in a long time.  I was excited.  I was excited because I was going to see Motorhead that very night.  There was only one person in the world who could fuck this day up for me; Johnny.  I hadn’t even asked who my date would be, these days I just assume the whole thing will be a disaster.  Almost as if that was their plan from the start…

The plan was to meet my date at Katy’s, then proceed to the Ulster Hall for a night of balls-out rocking.  And as anyone who has been rocking professionally for as long as I have knows, the best fuel for this sort of night is Jack and Coke.  I’m normally a straight up kind of guy, but without the mixer there is a danger of dehydration brought on by three hours of continuous boogie.  Besides, it’s Lemmy’s drink of choice and you don’t fucking argue with Lemmy alright?  After my first drink I decided it would be prudent to start drinking doubles (fewer trips to the bar and all that).  It was on double number four that she arrived with her boyfriend.  That’s right, she brought her boyfriend.  There were only two explanations.  Either these people wanted a three-way, or they just wanted to read about themselves online.  Either way I was not happy.  I shook the guy’s hand and grumbled a drunken hello to the chick, remembering the wise words an old sage once told me: ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense.’  Here was this cute rock chick, decked out in a Motorhead tank top and with enough tattoo on show to make you wonder where those things ended up, and she was with this… guy.  This totally unremarkable guy.  Even more unremarkable than me, if only because my height lends me a somewhat comedic appearance.

[Editor’s Note: It should be pointed out that Ian is hilariously short, not hilariously tall.]
[Ian’s Note: Thank you.]

That same wise man also once told me, ‘Ian, there is nothing as hot as a hot chick in a tank top.  Nothing.’  I contemplated this as I stared at her rack and it depressed me so much I had to go to the bar.  I fixed myself a boilermaker and returned to the table.  I have to hatch a plan, I thought as I sat down.
‘I love your This Is Not A Review thing,’ said the girl, ‘it’s really funny.’
‘Yeah she keeps telling me to read it,’ said the guy.
‘That’s ok, I haven’t heard of you either,’ I told him and took a gulp.  I’m not quite sure what I was driving at, but it seemed like the right thing to say.  Drunk and jealous is not a good combination.

On the way round to the concert hall I decided to look to the aforementioned wise man for advice.  I texted him explaining the situation and asked what I should do.  His reply: ‘Windmill in.’  Despite my respect for him, I decided against the use of violence.  Damn.

When we got to the gig I cornered the guy and told him he better get me a good spot near the front or I’d beat him to death his girlfriend’s awesome cans.  It strikes me now that despite their near infinite potential, tits really wouldn’t be very useful as a weapon.  The threat seemed to work anyway.  I went to the bar and sunk two over-priced beers in quick succession, knowing that from here on in I would need to achieve military precision with my drinking, lest I end up too drunk or worse, lose my buzz.  I got myself four more and ventured into the concert hall to the sounds of Sweet Savage warming up the crowd.  They were doing a good job.  I found the pair near the stage and handed each of them one of my beers.  ‘Hold these!’ I yelled, but they didn’t hear and just started drinking them.  I would have been furious but this accidental act of kindness seemed to win over the broad and she gave me the sort of smile that made me wonder if goddamnit I might have a chance.  I just smiled back and put my plan into action.  During the remainder of the support act I strategically bumped into the guy, stepped on his toes and spilt beer on him, apologising each and every time.  Nothing worked on this guy though – he was as patient and friendly as ever – and I realised then that’s what she saw in him.  He was a good guy and he deserved this chick.  I abandoned my plans and went back to the bar, dejected.  I drank a lonesome whiskey, got four more beers and headed back in as the roadies were setting up for Motorhead.  I gave the happy couple a beer each and they apologised for losing my spot, which was now occupied by this ridiculous looking emo dude who appeared to be welded to his really hot girlfriend.  I was in no mood for that shit, but I bided my time.  When Motorhead went on the crowd became a heaving tide of rockers, loaded up on beer and quite possibly several illegal substances, and I made my move.  I gave the emo a high five and then hoisted the fucker up onto my shoulder.  Then I just passed him back onto the up-stretched hands of several hundred half-cut Motorhead fans who mistook him for a crowd surfer and passed him around until the bastard was gone from sight.  I smiled at his girl, threw my arm around her neck and gave her a beer.  We commenced our rocking.

Watching Lemmy play rock n roll is like watching one of John Wayne’s later westerns.  He’s been doing it so well for so long it has become like an instinct to him.  It is so natural it appears almost effortless, and to the uninitiated this can be mistaken for complacency.  Simply going through to motions.  Formulaic.  When in actual fact, it’s anything but.  When you see a young rock n roll band play live you can see them pour their heart and soul into it.  You can see their energy and their passion because they do a lot of jumping around and posturing.  With Motorhead it’s different.  These guys, Lemmy especially, have got rock n roll in their blood.  They need do nothing but stand there and it pours out of them like they just opened a fucking vein.  No fancy stage theatrics.  No gimmicks.  Just balls out rock n roll played louder than everyone else, better than everyone else.  That’s Motorhead, and if you don’t get it, don’t bother trying.  I left the place with a sore neck and a shirt soaked with beer, but most of all I left with the knowledge that I had just seen something special.  Like seeing Hendrix on guitar.  Olivier on stage.  Brando on screen.  Lemmy is rock n roll royalty and nothing I can write here can do him justice, because I’m just not that good at writing.  I went home in a state of Zen-like contentedness that mere alcohol can never instil, with Lemmy’s own words rolling around my head: I’m in love with rock n roll, it satisfies my soul, if that’s all there is, it ain’t so bad, rock n roll!  Fucking A, Lemmy.  Fucking A.

Related Posts

• Giving It Hell Artwork by Will McConnell Little known fact: my adventures are...
• I Have Found The Answer I’m not going to lie to you folks, I quit...
• A Hidden Agenda Artwork by Will McConnell. Johnny called me at work to...
• Guns N Roses N Boners OPEN IN: Annie’s. So in their infinite wisdom, the Bandwidth...
• Rednecks, Rhinos and Ruined Days Some people will tell you alcohol is no good.  They’ll...