The Band I Respect More Than I Can Survive
Let’s be honest—I was never going to ease gently into the New Wave of British Heavy Metal.
From Dio’s velvet thunder to the eyeliner-smeared chaos of Iggy Pop, it was only a matter of time before I slammed headfirst into the loudest, filthiest, most unapologetic noise machine the UK ever spat out: Motörhead.
Enter: NWOBHM, Stage Left with a Snarl
The New Wave of British Heavy Metal (NWOBHM, because metal loves a good acronym) wasn’t born in a studio—it clawed its way out of the 1970s like a gremlin raised on garage rock and venom. Punk, disco, and bloated arena rock were ruling the charts. Metal needed something raw. Something mean. Something that sounded like a biker bar set on fire. Enter: Lemmy.
Motörhead Wasn’t Trying to Be Metal. It Just Was.
Formed in London in 1975, Motörhead took the blues roots of early metal and curb-stomped them into something faster, louder, and unrepentantly feral. Lemmy Kilmister (1945–2015)—the eternal middle finger in human form—was the band’s only constant member. He didn’t play bass. He assaulted it.
“I just don’t play like a bass player. There are complaints about me from time to time. It’s not like having a bass player; it’s like having a deep guitarist.”
—Lemmy, being delightfully difficult
22 studio albums. 40 years of sonic obliteration. A sound so consistent it could be mistaken for stubbornness—except it wasn’t. It was principle.
“We’re Motörhead, and We Play Rock’n’Roll.”
Yes, they’re considered heavy metal. No, Lemmy never agreed. He insisted it was just Rock’n’Roll. Loud, fast, and designed to piss off your parents and to get laid.
“Very basic music—loud, fast, city, raucous, arrogant, paranoid, speed-freak rock’n’roll. It will be so loud that if we move in next door to you, your lawn will die.”
—Also Lemmy, thriving
Their first album dropped in 1977, but it was Overkill and Bomber (1979), followed by Ace of Spades (1980), that truly blew the doors off. These weren’t just albums. They were declarations of war.
Monsters on the covers. Monster riffs inside. No hippie vibes. No bluesy swaying. Just sonic whiplash and relentless momentum.
Punk and Metal Walk Into a Bar…
Motörhead was one of the few bands both punks and metalheads could agree on. Lemmy wore tight jeans and chaos like a badge of honour. He sounded more like The Damned than Judas Priest—but the hair was long, so: metal. Obviously.
“If you shut your eyes and forget our history, then we are a punk band... But we have long hair, so we have to be metal. Obvious to any thinking man.”
—Lemmy, master of logic and disdain
Influenced by garage rock monsters like MC5 and The Stooges, Motörhead didn’t play punk—but they carried its heartbeat.
Their speed and aggression paved the way for thrash metal. Lemmy didn’t just inspire Metallica and Slayer—he was revered by them.
James Hetfield called him “The Godfather of Heavy Metal.”
Lars Ulrich probably has a shrine.
A Voice Like Gravel and Gunpowder
Alright. Here’s the confession.
I admire Motörhead more than I enjoy them. There. I said it. Lemmy’s voice is... an experience. Monotonous. Raw. More bark than melody. After three songs I feel like I’ve been cornered in a dark alley by someone trying to sell me motor oil and trauma.
But I get it. I do.
It’s functional chaos. It’s movement music. It’s “get sh*t done” music.
The drums on Overkill alone are enough to make your blood vibrate.
I have six of their tracks on my playlist—Overkill, Bomber, Ace of Spades, Damage Case, Motörhead, and Killed by Death.
And honestly? Overkill wins. Every time.
Those drums hit like caffeine to the sternum.
Lemmy: Patron Saint of Never Backing Down
What I respect—deeply—is Lemmy’s unwavering commitment to who he was. No reinventions. No genre pivots. No chasing trends. Just one man, his bass, and a volume knob permanently set to “obliterate.”
He lived it. Breathed it. Died with it.
Watch the Lemmy documentary if you haven’t—it’s part sermon, part wake, part whiskey-fuelled fever dream.
What Lemmy Teaches Me
Lemmy didn’t care if you liked his voice.
He didn’t care if his songs sounded the same.
He didn’t care if your lawn died.
And maybe that’s the most metal thing of all.
Stay loud. Stay weird. Stay you.
The lawn will die anyway.