I’m not a joiner. I don’t particularly like clubs. Country clubs. Book clubs. Fan clubs. Drinking clubs. I’m not on Facebook or Twitter. I love baseball but I don’t even have a favorite team. If friends ask me who my favorite band is, I demure and say something like, “Gosh, there are so many and they’re all so different.” Some part of my aversion is obviously ego or strident individualism or whatever. Some part is probably just introversion. But, honestly, most of it is cynicism. I don’t want to deal with the rules and the dress code and the secret handshakes. I don’t want to be marketed to. I’m more curious about what makes us different than what makes us the same. Membership feels anti-growth and anti-progress to me. I’ll be a fan. Sure. Customer. Absolutely. Club member. No thank you. 

Rock bands always run the risk of becoming club-like. From their very inception, they are insular organisms. In order to be great, they must spend inordinate amounts of time together, away from others, in small, enclosed spaces. And, even when they get out and play, it’s generally among true believers. All of this is well and good — a necessary part of art and consumption. Bands have to find out what unites them creatively and what connects them to the market. But once that band designs and prints a logo, look out. That’s when the problems start.

A logo is meant to define an institution. To contain it. Logos are not to be altered. In a sense, their goal is to arrest development. Logos are like anchors. They keep you secure, but they weigh you down. They can work for an album. Maybe a couple of albums -- max. But it seems impossible that a single mark could effectively serve a band over multiple decades. And this has nothing to do with great design. I admire a great logo. Paul Rand, Saul Bass and Milton Glaser are heroes of mine. But I don’t want their pens near my bands.

The Stones first printed their “Tongue and Lips” around 1971. And I like the way it looks on a t-shirt. But I also associate it with their long and not awesome turn from the band that made “Exile on Main Street” to the corporation that made “Steel Wheels.” Weezer’s “Van Weezer” logo makes me feel like Rivers Cuomo is laughing at me. Radiohead’s “Geometric Bear” makes me feel old, unwanted and not cool enough. I accept that bands need to choose a font and stick with it. But how can you evolve when the mark that defines you never does?

Of course there are some notable exceptions. AC/DC’s lightning bolt logo works forever because the band was born perfect and designed specifically to not change. Even after Bon died and Brian took over lead vocals, the logo served as both an homage to their fallen singer and as confirmation that death would not alter them. I’ll give the Grateful Dead and Kiss passes because they were merchandising companies as much as they were makers of music. And, honestly, I kind of admire the utilitarian simplicity of NIN and Black Flag’s logos. In my mind, NIN was always more a man than a band. And the logo is somehow equally banal and obtuse. It says nothing. Black Flag’s was a triumphant anti-logo for an anti-band.

Unlike most of the other bands, The Ramones had both a singular mark and dress code. The schtick worked for nearly twenty five years, in part, because those first albums and images were so perfect. But, also, because their brand signified cartoonish regression. Their music was early Rock and Roll caricatured. Every member was given the same last name. They were designed as comic book villains. They were like Archie or The Simpsons. They were not supposed to age. Except, they did. They got old and sick and died. The story had a beautiful, giddy beginning and a terribly sad ending. And, their music ran on fumes for the better part of ten years. I don’t blame the logo and uniforms. But, kind of, I do. 

It’s through The Ramones that I inevitably ended up near their British, mustached, denim-clad cousins — Motörhead. Like The Ramones, Motörhead was religious about their logo — a fanged, horned, bellicose something or other that is sometimes called “Snaggletooth” and other times “War-Pig.” And, as with the punks from Queens, Lemmy and the boys dressed one way in 1975 and the same way on their death beds. Cowboy hats and boots. Dungarees and denim jackets or vests. T-shirts or tank tops. Belts with militaristic buckles. Part English mason, part Hell’s Angel and part cowboy monster. 

It’s a short step through Motörhead’s massive, addled shadow into the realm of Heavy Metal logos and uniforms. Metal has always been a cultural blindspot for me. Towards the end of the 1980s, when I was coming of age, it had become almost a parody of itself. What had once been ferocious and countercultural, had become the biggest, dullest club in Rock music. The English Metal bands watered themselves down with cartoon horror and umlauts while the American bands sprayed and teased their hair. Meanwhile, each successive spawn got bigger and bigger and dumber and dumber. It eventually had nothing to do with music. It was exclusively logos and uniforms. When Poison topped the charts, we thought the club could not get any less desirable. But then came Slaughter, Nelson and Mr. Big. 

Originally, I avoided Metal because I thought the club was too different and too intimidating. I didn’t smoke cigarettes. I couldn’t pull off the denim. I couldn’t draw realistic demons in my notebook. My hair was too cowlicked and wouldn’t grow out. Even still, and in spite of the logos and uniforms, I was a curious teen. But, as I grew up and became a young man, somewhere between Great White and Winger, I lost interest. I know my avoidance was driven mostly from youthful fear and adolescent arrogance. I missed out on anything that was exciting in England’s New Wave in the late 70s and American Thrash in the early 80s. I missed out on a lot of things. But the one thing that I most regret skipping was Motörhead. 

My fear was not completely unjustified. To a kid, Motörhead could be scary. The War-Pig. Lemmy's fu-manchu. The desperation of his rasp. Plus, Wizzö, Würzel and Philthy Animal sounded like actual World War II villains. Lemmy’s interest in Nazi memorabilia did not help matters. But, even then, I knew that their music was different. It wasn’t horror for horror’s sake or speed for the sake or speed. Lemmy loved The Ramones. I loved Ramones. Lemmy liked loud music. And Punk Rock. I loved loud music and Punk Rock. We both loved AC/DC. For years, many of my un-metal, “non-union” friends extolled the virtues of Motörhead. They’d valiantly explain that Lemmy predated the Metal that I knew. That Motörhead was more genuinely Punk than most Punk bands. That there was a through line from them to American Hardcore, Indie Rock and Garage Rock. I half listened. But I was a snotty college kid. And I’d already written my thesis on logos and uniforms. I wasn’t going to turn back then.  

But then, a couple of years ago, an English friend came over while I was in the midst of an early Replacements’ bender — “Sorry Ma,” “Stink,” “Hootenanny” and “Let it Be.” I was playing “Stink” when he commented that it sounded like a shittier, but catchier Motörhead. “Wait, what?” I half asked, feeling half accused. And he just casually, almost politely said something like, “Yeah, this sounds like Motörhead but played poorly, though perhaps with a little more melody.” “Fuck,” I thought. I knew he was onto something. Worse, I trusted him. He wasn’t a member of any clubs. He didn’t even support his local soccer team. He was just a guy who objectively understood that The Replacements were born, in part, from Motörhead’s seed.

I was forty-six at the time. Had lived half a life. Had listened to a lifetime of music. And was, for the first time in a long time, pretty certain that I knew absolutely nothing. The problem wasn’t the logo or the dress code. The problem was me. As it related to Motörhead, I was not being a “non-joiner.” I was being a sanctimonious asshole. And, to me, the only thing worse than being a member of a shitty club is being shitty about not-shitty music. So, I needed to figure this thing out. Make some apologies. Pay my dues. I had to go back.

To do that, I needed to confront Snaggletooth and the head-banging cowboys. I’d have to free my mind and sit with Lemmy. I’d have to swim in the Jack and Coke. And I’d have to consider all of the man. Speed freak. Alcoholic. Sex addict. World class screamer. Icon. Survivor. Working class hero. World War aficionado. Nazi swag collector. Generous friend. Vindictive and petty motherfucker. Look -- at a certain point in life you admit to yourself that you're not gonna read “Ulysses” or “War and Peace.” In conversation, you pretend you know a thing or two about them. You know the two sentence overview. But you commit fully to the ignorance until it feels almost like enlightenment. Motörhead was my unread classic. Until, in middle age, I recognized that ignorance is the exact opposite of enlightenment. 

As I waded into Motörhead, I was quickly overwhelmed. There are a lot of Motörhead records. Twenty three studio albums in forty years. That's more than AC/DC and The Ramones. It’s more than I could reasonably digest. Plus, I never like starting at the beginning. It feels lazy. So, after flirting with the greatest hits and some Spotify playlists, I looked towards 1991. Lemmy turned forty six that year — the same age I was. It was also the year after he’d moved to LA and into the Rainbow Bar and Grill. It was the end of Hair Metal and the earliest days of Grunge. It was something of a crossroads for Motörhead. They were a beloved cult artist, but not an internationally popular band. Nearing halftime in their career, it was reasonable to wonder about their legacy — were they Mötley Crüe’s parents or Nirvana’s grandparents?

“1916” is Motörhead’s tenth studio album and one that both fans and critics point to as a mid-career tour du force. Label angst and lawsuits had kept the band out of the studio for several years prior. The gap between 1987’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll” and “1916,” is, in fact, the longest dry spell in their discography. To further complicate matters, Lemmy fired original producer, Ed Stasium, for allegedly adding claves and tambourines to the mix without consulting the band. And drummer Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor had begun to resemble a drunk, feral cast member from the musical “Cats.” He’d become so unreliable, in fact, that he barely survived the recording sessions. Though Lemmy would pledge undying loyalty to Taylor, this was the last album they worked together on.

At the time, this was, of course, news to me. All I knew, coming into the album, was that it featured a Ramones tribute song and it closed with a slow dirge from the perspective of a World War I soldier. Something about Lemmy moving to Los Angeles, and permanently parking himself at the Rainbow, seemed symbolic to me — though I’m not sure exactly why. On one level, it sounded like the sad, final resting spot of a professional drunk — a place where he could have his mail sent and play video poker every hour of every day that he was not playing music. On another level, though, the move sounded sensible and well earned. Lemmy left behind the weight of old England and its Metal for a younger, sunnier, prettier, and more debauched, American variety. 

Amazingly, none of the changes that surrounded “1916” are evident in the music. The album is, by Motörhead’s standards, a varied selection. There’s some speed Metal. There’s some Punk. There are some heat seeking Rock numbers. There are some raucous R&B numbers. There are songs about war. However, like all Motörhead albums, the playing is fast, loud and reckless. And, as always, Lemmy howls like a man who desperately believes that, aside from Rock and Roll, everything is worthless and meaningless. Upon first listen, I was astounded at how much the genuine article resembled the little I’d heard and read. They were precisely as advertised. Unflinching and immovable.

And, yes, those first few Replacements albums, including Paul Westerberg’s voice, owed a lot to this band. Upon further listens, though, I was amazed at how much Motörhead I detected in Hüsker Dü and Sonic Youth and early Blues Explosion and The Gories and The Oblivians. In their blunt, almost primitive version of Rock music, Motörhead actually contained multitudes. “1916” travels back to Little Richard and The Rolling Stones and then predicts Ty Segall or John Dwyer decades later. It’s all there in almost every Motörhead song.

“The One to Sing the Blues” opens “1916” fiercely. The riff screams like white lightning in the verses, and the bridge and chorus are so fast that if you exhale, you might miss them. As I’d come to expect, Lemmy sings like it’s a matter of life or death, even though you know he could give a shit either way. The cumulative effect is bluesier than Hardcore, more punk than Metal and harder than anything Grunge or Indie could muster in 1991. It’s far from my favorite track on the album. It’s closer to Thrash than my ears like. But it’s an impressive thesis.

Before you can catch your breath, the band then launches into "I'm So Bad (Baby I Don't Care)," pinched straight from the AC/DC playbook. With twice the Blues and half the complexity, Lemmy and his band sound like the fastest, coal powered train ever invented. The singer fills the verses with absurd boasts that you half believe:

I make love to mountain lions

Sleep on red-hot branding irons

When I walk the roadway shakes

Bed's a mess of rattlesnakes

Meanwhile, the rest of the band caterwauls through the verses, stopping only briefly for dramatic effect or guitar solos. Unlike most Heavy Metal, there is nothing virtuosic or over-produced about Motörhead. It’s all a beautiful mess. If AC/DC are a radioactive erection, Motörhead are titanic wrecking balls. Some of it is Lemmy’s bass. Some of it is the bile. Zero of it is style. They sound this way because it’s literally all they can do.

“Make My Day” and “Shut You Down” stay in that faster, shrieking AC/DC mode. The former finds Lemmy begging for pleasure. He’s brazenly, appallingly direct. He doesn’t want her forever. He won’t want her tomorrow. But he needs her right now. As it spirals to a finish, it sounds like Axl and Slash’s ids -- like GNR if they could could just say what they felt. Amazingly, on the latter, just two songs later, the band mines the same vein but with more speed and venom. By this point, Lemmy is done with her and wants her gone. Narratively, it’s the inverse of “Make My Day.” It’s just moments after the moment before. It’s primal and ugly and likely very true. 

Although there are no complete whiffs on “1916,” the album suffers when the band slows down. On “Nightmare / Dreamtime” and “Love Me Forever,” they creep a bit like Ozzy and plod a bit like The Stooges. Neither song is bad, but the gothic Metal unnaturally strains Lemmy’s already strained voice. There is some intrigue in these experimental turns, but they are ultimately not Motörhead’s superpower.  

“1916” is probably at its best when Lemmy goes back to “Exile on Main Street” and replaces the wine and heroin with whiskey and speed. There may be no Mick Taylor on guitar. There’s no Charlie Watts to jazz up the beat. But on “Going to Brazil” and “Angel City,” I hear Chuck Berry fucked up and distilled into something fast, fun and dangerous. I always loved The Stones’ ragged throwaways — like “Starfucker” and “Let It Loose.” In their own ways, these two Motörhead tracks have that same brilliant but sloppy appeal. They’re loud and tuneful. Kind of dumb but unerringly true. On “Angel City,” Lemmy sings: 

I wanna get the crabs

In my elegant rags

Make my mom and daddy uptight

I wanna be an intellectual

Heterosexual

Angel City tonight

I'm gonna live in L.A., drinking all day

Lay by the pool

And let the record company pay

Towards the end of the album, Lemmy offers up one for them and then takes one back for himself. “R.A.M.O.N.E.S.” is an earnest and fitting tribute that motors by in less than ninety seconds, features an extra chord instead of a guitar solo and shouts the band’s name as a chorus. I don’t need to hear it again, but I’m also really glad it exists. Meanwhile, the title track is a drunken, two chord letter from the trenches of the first World War. Accompanied by a little army drum and some synth in place of bagpipes, he sounds like he’s singing from the mud, with gas approaching. Although this is the album’s lone song written from another man’s perspective, it also sounds the most personal. Lemmy was a child of the second World War. He famously and constantly read about the atrocities of war. So, for four minutes, you’d swear all his medication was to forget traumas he never saw, but was born into.

Weeks after I left “1916” and took off my denim vest and cowboy boots, I could see clearly that I was wrong. Motörhead was never a club. They didn’t want members. They were libertarian drug addicts. They didn’t really care what anyone else did so long as it didn’t get in the way of what they wanted to do. And they just wanted to play music, fuck and hold on for dear life. The logo and the uniforms were guys going about their work. It wasn’t pretense. I mean, they needed to look like something. But it was never serious, even when they sounded serious as a heart attack. 

That being said, like a great logo or uniform, Motörhead never really evolved. And that was barely O.K. I’ve always admired the consistency of AC/DC (and The Velvet Underground and The Feelies and Black Heart Procession). Unlike AC/DC, though, Motörhead’s formula was not bulletproof. And unlike AC/DC, the drugs were stronger. And, unlike Bon Scott and Malcolm and Angus, I sense that Lemmy was a secret romantic. Perhaps he could have written songs like Paul Westerberg, if not for the medication. Spiritually, Lemmy was arrested in 1945. Musically, he never got past the 1970s. It wasn’t the logo or the clothes. It was the drugs and booze that kept Lemmy anchored at port when he and his band could have set sail. Motörhead were beloved. And they were savage. But they never made their “Let It Be.”

Motörhead was also a band perpetually out of step. English Metal before English Metal. Hardcore Punk before Punk and Hardcore. Garage before its revival. Independent before Indie. If you listen closely, you hear more Little Richard and early Beatles than Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden. They were Rock music torn down to the studs and unadorned by virtuosity or harmony or politics or art. They were barely a compound. But, in their elements, we got most of what was great about independent Rock music in the decades that followed them. No — Motörhead were not a club. They were a warning against clubs. They were the broken two by fours used for everyone else’s clubhouse. They didn't want members. They didn't care for fashion. Or logos. They just wanted to do the things that, decades later, leave you broken, shaking and alone.

by Matty Wishnow