Attention all candy-ass punks and faux-metal fuckwits contemplating a career in music: GIVE UP NOW. You will never in a bazillion years touch Motörhead mainstay Lemmy. He's old enough to have bent your hippie mom over an amp in the back of a tour bus when he was a Hendrix roadie. He did enough drugs by '75 to get the boot from space-rock freak show Hawkwind. And almost three decades after founding Motörhead, Mr. Kilminster continues to lay an epic smackdown on eardrums worldwide. Sure, he's ripping himself off here ("Suicide" rewrites "Iron Horse/ Born to Lose" with environmentalist lyrics) when he's not stealing riffs back from Metallica's Kill 'Em All album ("Down on Me," "Fight"). Who cares? Even contributions from virtuoso wankmeister Steve Vai can't derail Lemmy's locomotive punk-metal juggernaut. Kneel and kiss his white snakeskin boots. Offer him your girlfriend and meth stash in tribute. Lemmy is your god.
