ON THE ROAD WITH... FREAK
by: Freak/Q101-FM


            

MOTORHEAD @ HOUSE OF BLUES

I didn’t really sober up until the plate of french toast hit the table in front of me, six Texas-cut slices of golden brown heaven just waiting to be devoured.   

I was holed up some forty yards from a mechanical bull in a dump called the Saddle Ranch on Sunset Boulevard recovering from a long night of heavy drinking.  What else is new? 

It began with the “Playmate of the Year” party at L.A.’s ultra-hip Sky Bar that was immediately followed by a live broadcast which started at 3:30 am California time.   

The party had been the most extreme case of “fish-out-of-water” that I’d ever fallen into but as a guest of the one and only Hugh Hefner, there was nothing they could say about my choice of attire.   

There I was smartly dressed in a long-sleeved, black Chicago Harley-Davidson T-shirt with Levi 501 button-fly jeans (on their second day) and motorcycle boots.  I accessorized brilliantly with a denim vest, an American eagle bandanna, and a six-dollar, yes SIX dollar, can of Coors. 

I strolled among the crowd of beautiful twenty-somethings all dressed to the nines and busy chatting away about projects they had “in the works” or bragging about where they were into a cell phone.   

A giant bed covered in oversized pillows had been constructed under a palm tree between the bar and the pool for Hef to lounge on with his dates, all seven of them.  The heated pool featured a dozen perfect specimens of the female anatomy prancing about topless teasing a captivated crowd of men who never stood a chance with young aqua-nymphs. 

I spent most of the night hanging with the only bastard willing to be seen near me, Turd.  We sat wolfing down fancy hors d’oeuvres while pounding Coors and sipping Crown Royal from a flask we smuggled in.  Among the celebrities in our midst were N’Suck’s Lance Bass, NFL quarterback Tom Brady, that dude that hosts “American Idol,” and Chicago’s own Lucky Boys Confusion.  Not exactly Hollywood’s A-list, but entertaining none the less. 

I inhaled my breakfast and headed back to our over-priced hotel, leaving Turd behind with his pitcher of mimosas, and promptly crashed. 

I rolled out of bed around three and headed down the street to a liquor store called the Pink Dot for a few tall boys of MGD and went searching for Ozzy’s star on the walk of fame.       

           I was pretty buzzed and in full-on tourist mode by the time I tripped over it on Hollywood Boulevard, so I had no problem asking some lady to snap a photo.  Mission accomplished, I cracked open my last tall boy and headed for the West Hollywood House of Blues. 

The scene that awaited me in the parking lot of the HOB was simply insane.  An amazing hodge-podge of knuckleheads of the like that I had never seen before.   

There were the famous Hollywood vampires dressed like goths but in a more extreme manner.  There were old-school metal heads donning jackets with back-patches from Judas Priest and Motley Crue.  There were hard-core bikers wearing denim vests and leather chaps.  Then there were the regular joes, all hanging out together enjoying one last cigarette before entering the smoke-free show.  

Inside, the hall featured much of the same artwork the Chicago HOB has though the room itself is situated much differently.  I got a great spot next to a pillar in the back of the room on an elevated tier giving me a clear view of the smoky stage.   

Lemmy, Phil, and Mikkey took the stage well before the lights dimmed and it wasn’t long before the “warted one” spoke.  “Alright, I’ve got a drink waiting for me backstage so let’s get this thing started,” he growled as they launched into rousing version of “We Are Motorhead.”  

The set was excellent as they churned out a deafening mix of oldies like “No Class,” “Iron Fist,” and “The Ace of Spades,” along with newer songs like “Civil War,” “Sacrifice,” and a great cover of the Sex Pistol’s “God Save the Queen.”   The fans were loud and rowdy but there was no crowd surfing or stage diving during the show which was kind of strange. 

When it was over, I filed out of the building along with the rest of the sweaty folks and ambled across the street to my hotel where I was promptly greeted by security.  

These high-brow rent-a-cops were finding it impossible to believe that I was staying at their precious establishment and as I dug for the room key they were demanding, I couldn’t help but wonder if Steven Tyler ever had this problem.

Back to Top

Web Design By:
6 String Design

 All Rights Reserved © 6 String Design2003