A lifetime ago, I worked as a counter server slinging lattes at PJ’s on Maple St. I was a punk 19 year-old kid that found a fun group to grow in, my co-workers a lot like family—many of whom are still today only an email away or closer. We had a shorthand as close compatriots often do and inside jokes too of course.
We’d often go out together, drinking, catching a show. But none of us, not one of us, really, truly dug Motorhead—at least not enough to go to see them play live. But we had a little fabricated vignette we would trot out periodically specifically about Lemmy. And that was, if only he’d do a set in one of our living rooms while we sat couchside, then, yes, we’d go. That was over 20 years ago, and damn if I don’t regret never having seen Motorhead now. Continue reading »