ATLANTIC CITY—Other than The Ramones and AC/DC few bands have been able to get away with essentially releasing the same record year after year. Motorhead have built a legion of fans over their 30+ year history by doing just that—not changing a damn thing. Their take-no-prisoners blitzkrieg is what has attracted everyone from bikers, metal heads, punks, and your average rock fan over the years. I myself have been trying to catch Lemmy and the guys in concert since 1986 on their Orgasmatron tour but for some reason or another whether it was a school night, work, the flu or lack of funds England’s finest have always evaded me. I never saw The Ramones and I’d be damned if I was gonna miss another opportunity to see Mr. Kilmeister yet again.
Now tonight’s bill also featured the trailer trash sleaze rock of Nashville Pussy and psych-o-billy showman The Rev. Horton Heat. This was my first time at Atlantic City’s House Of Blues, which is located on the boardwalk in the Showboat Casino. The fans this night ranged from a large assortment of metal heads, rockabilly types, and some sketchy characters who looked as if they had just escaped from the the nearest correctional facility. It brought back shady memories my ‘80s hardcore days in burnt out buildings in Baltimore when part of the thrill of going to a show meant you weren’t sure if you would get the living crap kicked out of you.
It wasn’t long before Nashville Pussy hit the stage and tore right into their usual gritty brand of whiskey-fueled buzzsaw guitars courtesy of fret-shredding busty Ruyter and singer Blaine Cartwright’s foul-mouthed good lo’ boy vocals. I haven’t seen them in some years and while they still were all piss n’ vinegar and tight as all heck, I couldn’t help but miss the presence of the fire-breathing Amazonian bassist Corey Parks.
Next up was The Rev. Horton Heat who doesn’t know the meaning of ‘bad set.’ The Rev. attacked the neck of his Gretch hollow body like the bastard son of Eddie Cochran possessed by the spirit of Dick Dale. Poodle dresses were twirling as Fonzie punk look-a likes were spinning their gal pals, while others were banging their heads to the shreddin’ twang of the Texas trio.
After about forty-five minutes of the Reverend the audience was primed and ready for Motorhead. Lemmy, Phil, and Mikkey kicked the set off with “Iron Fist” and then proceeded with “Stay Clean,” “Rock Out,” “Over The Top,” “One Night Stand” and more obscure cuts like “I Got Mine.” Then in the middle of the set to make things even more exciting some lunatic muscle head bum rushed the band, first charging toward guitarist Phil Campbell and picked up his mic stand and proceeded to spill Phil’s drink everywhere. It took six bouncers to subdue the wing nut.
Most bands would have stopped playing or even run off stage but not Motorhead, even as the guy was knocking into the back of Lemmy’s legs, he didn’t miss a line or a beat the entire time. The best though was when Phil walked over the guy as security was dragging his ass off stage and tossed a pick in his face. I know I wasn’t the only one in the room who was a little freaked with flashes of Dimebag Darrell running through their heads. Luckily nothing happened and the band continued to treat fans to such classics as “Killed by Death” and “Bomber.”
For an encore drummer Mikkey Dee came out and played acoustic guitar with Lemmy and Phil and jammed out to the haunting “Whorehouse Blues.” Lemmy and Phil quickly plugged back into the wall of Marshall stacks behind them and finished out the blistering set by delivering the goods with “Ace of Spades” and “Overkill.”
