During the second half of my sophmore year of high school a metalhead moved into town from someplace in upstate NY. He joined the marching band and sat next to me during rehearsals. He could play very little on the baritone horn except “Smoke on the Water.” He spent rehearsals ragging on the band director and raving about his favorite band, Blue Oyster Cult.

His parents took the approach to teen drinking that since their son was going to get drunk anyway they might as well turn a blind eye to the parade of kids parading past the kitchen table with cases of Genesee Cream Ale on their way to the basement which was a heavy metal mecca, complete with a stereo, black lights and the mandatory mural sized Led Zeppelin posters. At least their son wouldn’t be in a car accident on his way home. Soon he had a dozen regulars who would show up on fridays to play quarters, do bong hits and piss in the sump pump to a soundtrack of Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult and AC/DC.

Among the regulars were a few people like myself with more ecclectic tastes in music. Our challenge each week was to turn everyone else on to music of other genres. Most of the time we failed, with albums like “Marque Moon” or “Here Come the Warm Jets” lasting no longer than a single song. But occasionally we’d strike the right chord with albums like “In the Court of the Crimson King” or the first NY Dolls album. The notion that any of us with more sophisticated musical tastes would be turned onto a great group we didn’t already know about. was out of the question. Then one night he put on an album that made me take notice.

Out of the speaker came the sounds of AC/DC style power chords along with the heavy Black Sabbath style drone. The singer had this rasp that sounded like he laid down the vocal track after three hours of screaming at a hockey match. And the basslines were what drove the songs. I immediately asked who this was.

“Motorhead,” he said as he handed me the sleeve.

The trio was the most intimidating looking bunch I’d seen this side of The Stranglers. They looked more like Hell’s Angels at Altamont than musicians, especially on the back photo where they were pictured drinking beer around a table without leather.

In one of those moments where the right combination of drugs and beer meets the perfect album for the occasion I found myself playing air guitar to songs with titles like “Love Me Like a Reptile”, “Jailbait”, “Bite The Bullet” and “The Hammer.” This wasn’t a Sex Pistols album getting me worked up like this but a blatently heavy metal album catering to the lowest common denominator! Fast guitar solos, feedback laden power chords and cymbal smashing endings. For a moment I even questioned the wisdom of giving all my Kiss albums to my youngest brother after the first time I heard The Clash. Damn, as much as I tried to dismiss this as politically apathetic, artistically void and completely uncool heavy metal tripe I couldn’t ignore the fact that this album, this band, this music “totally kicked ass” as my metal head friend would say. 

The next day I went out and secretly bought this album which in the next ten years would spawn or influence at least half a dozen musical sub-genres like speed metal or thrash. I am still listening to it.