Monday, December 28, 2015

Lemmy 1945-2015
repeat.

Lemmy (embedding is disabled)
"You came from a fairly sort of middle class background, didn't you? How come you've turned out like this?"
"This is middle class"
and again
and again

On Hawkwind: "A bit more violent than Brahms but that's what it is."

"She was a bookbinder by profession, and then she had an uncontrollable urge one night to take all her clothes off and paint herself blue. Which was probably a throwback to the Roman invasion of Britain -- you think 'woad,' y'know?..."
---

Something I didn't mention the first time around. In the first interview, from the early 80's he complains that critics don't say much about the music.
You get reviews of your bullet belt. You get reviews of how loud it was. You get reviews of what the crowd looked like. You get reviews of how ugly you were when you didn't have a shave that day; but you very rarely got anybody taking the music apart and looking at it.
Recently when anyone asks about what the next show or the next album will be like he gives a one word answer: "Louder!"

Somewhere in the last 20 years I remember Godard saying that one must love old fools and wise young men. These days the smart angry pop stars of the past, JLG included, often find it easier to play Falstaff. There's tragedy in that.


16 years old when I went to the war,
To fight for a land fit for heroes,
God on my side, and a gun in my hand,
Chasing my days down to zero,
And I marched and I fought and I bled
And I died & I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time, That a year in the line,
Was a long enough life for a soldier,
We all volunteered,
And we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages,
Eager for life and ahead of the game,
Ready for history's pages,
And we brawled and we fought
And we whored 'til we stood,
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder,
A thirst for the Hun,
We were food for the gun, and that's
What you are when you're soldiers,
I heard my friend cry,
And he sank to his knees, coughing blood
As he screamed for his mother
And I fell by his side,
And that's how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other,
And I lay in the mud
And the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder,
And I called for my mother
And she never came,
Though it wasn't my fault
And I wasn't to blame,
The day not half over
And ten thousand slain, and now
There's nobody remembers our names
And that's how it is for a soldier.

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