I stepped onto the elevator earlier this week on my way to make that crucial washer-dryer changeover down in the laundry room and one of my neighbors down the hall stepped on with me. Because I'm such a hopeless cliché and a prime midlife crisis candidate, I was sporting a classic, black Motörhead t-shirt. I'd like to point out at this stage in the narrative that I've been a fan of the band since my sophomore year of high school when I purchased No Sleep `til Hammersmith strictly on the strength of its sleeve. In any case, my neighbor turned to me and said, "I have that t-shirt." I furrowed my brow and dusted off that age-old observation that if Motörhead had sold as many albums as they'd sold t-shirts, they'd be bigger than U2 today.
My neighbor's eyebrows raised. He turned back to me and said, "it's a band?"
If I were half the man my usual vehement bluster makes me out to be, I'd have flayed him alive for his disrespectful ignorance before the elevator reached the lobby, but in all candor, he's a perfectly nice guy. I just sighed wearily and told him to go Google it (and himself, while he's at it). I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again: don't fly the colors if you don't know what they stand for.
Herewith the band in question during their salad days. Turn it up until your ears bleed and show some damn respect:
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