White Line Fever

Motörhead got nominated for a Grammy in 1991. So I got on the plane in Los Angeles — New York’s a long walk. I had a pint of Jack Daniel’s in my pocket: I always find it helps with the sobering up. As we taxied elegantly out on the tarmac, I took a sip and mused pleasantly on this and that.

A voice: “Give me that bottle!”

I looked up. A waitress with concrete hair and a mouth like an asshole repeated herself, as history will — “Give me that bottle!”

Well, I don’t know what you might have done, honored reader, but the fucking thing was bought and paid for. No chance. I volunteered this information. The reply: “If you don’t give me that bottle, I shall put you off the plane!”

“Fair enough,” I said. And, can you believe it, the stupid cretin did it! She made all those people late and miss their connections in New York, all for a pint of the amber pick-me-up.…So what? Fuck her! And the horse she rode in on!

It was an inauspicious start to the festivities, and it carried on like it began. Having been nominated for a Grammy for our first album for Sony, I had foolishly entertained the idea that the company might be pleased. I don’t think they even noticed! I have still, to this day, not been lucky enough to gaze, enthralled, upon the splendor that is [former Sony chief] Tommy Mottola — that night, he was probably too busy chasing Mariah Carey around her dressing room. So I went to Sire’s party. Better. Got laid.

So fuck ’em. And the horse they rode in on!

Excerpted from White Line Fever, © 2004 by Lemmy with Janiss Garza. Reprinted with permission from Citadel Press.