By "The Ace of Dave"Krough

The splintering cracks of pane glass shattering on a hot Minneapolis sidewalk were the first notes I ever heard from Motorhead. And they still had four hours before they took the stage.

It was about 5 p.m. on a humid September day and Kevin and I were wandering the streets around First Avenue to kill time.

When you can't drive and there's a chance to get into "the city"even with nothing to do for hours on end, you take it.

We hit the record stores, the comic shops and the head shops on the infamous Block E in the hours before the big show. We set about kicking trash, shoplifting, avoiding the cops and catching the sweet, dangerous smell of clove cigarette smoke rising from the huddle of pierced leather-clad punk rock chicks on the corner.

Heading over to the club, we wanted to see if the doors were open yet. As we approached, a giant tour bus pulled up along the sidewalk.

We had just come from Army-Navy Surplus and I was doing everything possible to break in my new jungle-issue combat boots, dragging my feet and kicking curbs. Doors locked, outta luck.

Just then the bus doors slide open and I all see out of the corner of my eye is a sweeping figure in black, moving herky-jerky toward the club entrance.

"Dude! It's Lemmy!"Kevin whispered.

Sho 'nuff, there stood the Master of Manchester, Lord Lemmy Kilmister, oversized aviator glasses, leather jacket, black leather bell-bottoms and hands occupied by two, white Anvil suitcases.

He tried to pull the doors open, almost ripping off the hinges before he really lost it. From the stale bourbon smell issuing from his person, I would guess he was hungover. In any case, Lemmy was in no mood to take shit. Which, as I would soon come to learn, is usually how it is with Motorhead's towering bass player.

So without aiming the steel tipped white cowboy boot at the door, he hacked away at it two or three times before putting his foot through the entire bottom half of the glass. Then he cussed and got back on the bus.

We sat with jaws dropped, as impressed as only 15-year-olds can be by a violent boozed-up rock star.

As for the show, it was fast and furious fockin' MET-AAAALLLL!!!

These were the days when the Smiths and the Clash were giving way to hardcore. The first Metallica album was making its way around our circle and for the first time, the punkers were playing hacky sack in the smoking lounge with the metalhead burnouts, instead of getting pantsed in the hallways.

The opening band was Overkill, and it screeched its way through the set making for what we thought was good comedy, even though, in a way, it marked the beginning of the end for L.A. glam hair-metal.

After the rumbling thunder of our new heroes Motorhead, Kevin and I headed to the back corner by the coat check, where the under age kids were allowed to loiter, buy soda pop and play video games.

And there was a sweaty Lemmy, pounding away on the flippers of an ancient pinball game. No one around him — not even a blow-job line.

"Hey, great show man!”

We were a little intimidated, but he was more than gracious and had the manners of a true English gentleman.

And those warts! Holy shnikes! He's since said that he's having the two giant blemishes removed — but only if they'll get their own shelf in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

"Thanks blokes!"He called us blokes for fuck's sake!

We pumped a few quarters in for him, and I've still got the signed ticket stub.

On the way out with ears ringing, we had to pause to tell the janitor he was doing a bang-up job with that fresh cardboard on the front door.

And that's how I played pinball with Lemmy.