A Night In The Ruts
"L"
EMMY IS MY UNCLE. HE IS A GOD," NILS TOLD ME, AND JAMES HETFIELD BASICALLY SAID THE SAME THING.
But let me start at the beginning.
People were lined up down the block to get in; apparently it had sold out. The last time I was at Maritime Hall was
for North Coast Underground in 1997, down in the dark underbelly of the building. New to me now was the upstairs,
a massive box of a room closely resembling a high school gym. People poured in and streamed up the stairs; there
were a staggering amount of the expected punk rockers, long-haired metal freaks, and endless amounts of guys
in "I Saw So-and-So Band in '89" T-shirts. No one except me seemed surprised to be part of such a large crowd
or surprised at waiting in line to get a wristband to wait in line to get a drink-which could take all night. The
bar spanned much of the length of the gym and was easily flanked five or 10 people deep times 30 from
left to right. And yet the crowd was surprisingly peaceful. They just shuffled along, glancing anx-
iously at the stage over an endless rash of heads.
My boyfriend disappeared into the mosh pit to take photos as soon as Fu Manchu took
the stage. I myself missed their first song or two on account of having to push my way
through people to get to the bar. When I turned
around and focused on the stage, the band was very
still in contrast to the slow grinding rifts that came
out over the crowd and hung in the air. "Heavy,"
someone said, which was true of the music, but the
terminology made me really aware of how FUCKING
OLD many of the people were surrounding me. I
wanted to know, were they all here to see Motörhead?
How many times had they seen them play? I
knew someone there should win a
groupie prize. So I asked around,
and at first Nashville Pussy
seemed the dominant draw. I
understood why when they took
the stage.
"We're Nashville Pussy and the
party starts now!" But I was
again six thick in the bar line, this
time for a shot of whiskey AND a
beer so I would never have to go
back to the trough. When I was
finally served and walked close
to the stage, I stood there in
shock. Could they actually be
real? Her tits were the most.
amazing things I have ever seen.
More graceful than water ballet,
more massive than a pond or the
Bay or the ocean, they looked
ready to explode. They heaved
Left: "Die, pou bastards."
Lem in the shoes.
Right: Phil "Zoom" Campbell.
Words by Brooke Forsythe
Photos by Josh Withers
Above: Full-tilt Pussy.
and swayed, and they glistened with sweat that disappeared into cleavage as
big as the golden arches. They were amazing. Now I know why people call
Nashville Pussy a "performance art" band. As if her chest wasn't enough (did
I mention she had amazing tits?), she put down her bass, and after chugging on
a liter of booze caught her breath on fire and spit it out over the audience. The
theatrics were necessary, as their music vanished from mind as each note was
played. I understand they are often likened to AC/DC but much, much worse.
The singer, reportedly married to the gits, even sounded a little like Brian
Johnson but with a trailer-trash vibrato that didn't work in their favor. "All tits, no
rock!" someone told me, but I disagree. They rock a little. "Mongoloid AC/DC!"
Well, maybe.
Every first impression was delayed. I was in the bathroom when Motörhead took
the stage. "What time is it?" Lemmy asked the crowd. "It's ass-kicking time!" His voice
filled the stalls at high decibels, and the girls around me pulled up their leather pants and
ran. I made my way into the crowd as Lemmy snarled over people's heads out into the fuck-
ing universe. He was loud. Determined to find my groupie of the year award recipient, I con-
tinued asking people how many shows they had been to; then I discovered who I thought was Kirk
Hammett just standing there, bobbing, his head. So I asked him, how many times? At least 25, he said.
"Lemmy IS the godfather of metal." His favorite Motörhead show, he recalled, was in Japan in 1983.
Someone previously told me they saw them in 1978. I myself was six years old then.
As I thought this over, he offered, "I play for a band called Metallica." I nodded. "My name is James
Hetfield." Oops.
"I want that car," I said.
His eyes got big. "The Camaro?" he asked. I nodded yes. "It's totally destroyed!" he exclaimed, clearly
pleased with himself. I turned back to watch Lemmy but some guy was staring at me, obviously protective of
James and suspicious of me, so I asked him to identify his own level of devotion to Motörhead. "Oh,
I've seen them probably 50 times, maybe 45, no probably 50 times." I fucking knew it.
Someone would indeed take home a prize. I tried to ask him more, but he clearly was
irritated that I was talking during the band. I felt like a schoolgirl. James handed me
a beer and we toasted and then I asked, "Is this just a beer?" As soon as I said it I
realized how stupid it sounded, but rock stars are crazy, right?
They just stared at me, James and his boys. "Yeah, it's just a beer," one of
them said. Oops. As Motörhead rocked song after song, I began to understand
the reason for their devoted following. They were amazing: heavy, perfect,
timeless. And loud-my ears rang for days afterward. James disappeared
from my side and minutes later was rocking with Lemmy, concluding the
evening with an encore of classic, guitar driven, hard rocking LOUD tunes,
the kind you stagger away from with a smile on your face.
139