Filed under: Tour Fog, Legal Gray Areas, and Emotional Leather.
It was 2005 or 1999. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. Time melted that night like the ice in Lemmy’s Jack & Coke. What matters is this:
We got too high with Lemmy Kilmister, and by the end of it, he looked us in the eyes and said,
“You’re family now. Don’t make it weird.”
And just like that, we had a stepdad. A cosmic, mustachioed, bass-playing stepdad who smelled like Marlboros and prophecy.
We were backstage at a half-legal music festival in a city that has since disbanded. Lemmy wasn’t scheduled to play. He wasn’t even in the country legally, but someone whispered, “Lemmy’s here,” and a ripple passed through the crowd like we were about to see a deity light a cigarette.
He entered our trailer uninvited and immediately changed the TV to a documentary about war tanks. We offered him an edible we found in a guitar case. He asked, “Is it strong?” We said, “It might be soap.”
He ate two.
What happened next is blurry but spiritually vivid.
There was an arm-wrestling tournament, someone invented a sandwich that violated several international condiments treaties, and Lemmy gave us all nicknames that felt legally binding:
At some point, we sat in a circle and he made us repeat the phrase,
“Motörhead is not a band. It’s a personality disorder.”
Then he nodded solemnly, declared the ritual complete, and handed us each a pocketknife.
The next morning, there was a Napkin Contract that said:
“I, Lemmy, being of sound distortion and high volume, hereby take custody of these soft fools.”
It was signed with a smear of ketchup and a partial bootprint.
He’s gone from our lives now.
But we feel him.
In every bad decision, every volume knob turned too far, every time we refuse to explain ourselves.
Rest in Power, Lemmy.
