If all Lemmy had left behind was Ace Of Spades, Silver Machine and a bad reputation that would still be enough evidence of a life well lived.

RIP Lemmy Kilmister, 1945-2015.

Three Johnnies

Tuesday brings three Johnny songs, none of which I own in any format and all suggested by friends in the comments boxes. Simon went for Lucille #1 by Prefab Sprout and Echorich concurred. It’s from that moment in the mid 80s when some of the indie heroes went all sophisticated and adult. This performance is from the Old Grey Whistle Test in 1985.

Very nice. I had the Steve McQueen album on cassette but never replaced it after the tape died out.

Johnny #2 is from Drew and his almost annual pilgrimage to see Stiff Little Fingers, usually at this time of year. Simon loves this one too. SLF do a rip-roaring cover of Bob Marley’s Johnny Was. This version from a 1999 tour is seven minutes long and causes punk pandemonium.

Thirdly, Ctel, chronicler of all things dance music related at Acid Ted, requested Motorhead or Hawkwind doing Lost Johnny. The internet is sharply divided into those who favour Motorhead’s fast and angry version and those who go for the earlier, trippier and heavier Hawkwind one. Out of the two I prefer Hawkwind’s stoner rock, distorted bass and reverb-laden vocals. Lemmy it should be noted played bass and sang on both.


One minute and twenty five seconds of big, stupid fun, written by Lemmy and Motorhead, performed by the last Ramones line up, tacked onto the end of the Japanese edition of Adios Amigos, this is R.A.M.O.N.E.S. If you don’t like this….

Meetings With Footballers 4 & 5

For about 18 months in the early-to-mid 90s I ended living in a flat above a hairdressers in Hale. The flat was large, very reasonably priced rent and just down the road from my then flatmate’s girlfriend. Hale is a wealthy suburb of south Manchester, near Altrincham. I lived in almost abject poverty, but as Gang For Four said ‘to hell with poverty, we’ll get drunk on cheap wine’. We started drinking in the local pub, the romantically named Bleeding Wolf. It’s now a block of expensive apartments. As happens when you spend a lot of time in one pub, you get to know the landlord, you get lock-ins, next thing you know you get asked to dj at the staff Christmas party. So we hauled our records down the road, scrounged and cobbled together various pieces of equipment and set up to play in a large landing area above the pub once the last order’s bell had been rung. Well into the night, everyone drunk and having a good time, I put on The Clash’s (White Man) In Hammersmith Palais. Careering out of the kitchen, at the time injured with a dodgy knee but clearly having a good time, comes Roy Keane. He clatters around the dancefloor, jumps up and down a bit, and then vanishes back into the kitchen, with us praying we’re not responsible for worsening the knee. Still, it’s not every night you can say you made Roy Keane dance. I’ve posted White Man recently so there’s no point putting that up, I don’t have Morrissey’s Roy’s Keen (and it’s rubbish), so instead here’s something else I’m pretty sure we played- Motorhead’s Ace Of Spades.

Another time, in the same pub, in the lead up to major international football tournament (probably USA ’94), a reporter is on the rolling news live from the Republic Of Ireland camp commenting on the mysterious absence from the squad of Paul McGrath (who also had dodgy knees). Everyone in The Bleeding Wolf that afternoon knows exactly where he is. It should be noted, Paul McGrath attended a charity dinner in aid of our son’s special needs school last year and was the perfect gentleman.