Motörhead
No Class

Perhaps the methodology may not be fully agreeable, but at least it stems from a ''cautious'' approach. Yes, because when I decide to focus on bands from a few generations ago, of which I have no material, or when I feel that the little I have received is not so exciting as to induce me to search obstinately for the missing pieces of their productions, I prefer to start with a compilation. This is the case with Motorhead, and never was skepticism so well-founded. After all, if the price didn't reach 5 euros (it's not a used record, mind you), there had to be a reason. This collection is supposed to represent (according to them) the best of Motorhead's production from 1978 to 1987; I can't even imagine what the worst could be! It is not my habit to be prejudiced, but this Ian Kilmister, aka Lemmy, has never been very likeable to me. He thinks he's cool but he's as ugly as sin, he's presumptuous, and he sings with the voice of a seventy-year-old devastated by the effects of four packs of cigarettes a day. Not that, had I appreciated his music, I would have reassessed the character, but perhaps something would have been different. Perhaps...

I believe that the 15 tracks of the album are sufficient to give an idea of what the band's creative process was over almost 10 years and, given the time span, I find the homogeneity of this collection truly embarrassing. I can't detect the slightest hint of temporal evolution. It could be that Motorhead do not communicate anything to me at all. They don't entertain and engage me like Kiss, they don't have that typical ''vis'' of Black Sabbath; in short, they leave me completely indifferent.

It begins with ''Overkill'' and it's exactly as I had imagined: five and a half minutes of frenzied rhythm that tires after just a minute and a half. In fact, after three minutes, it seems the song starts over, replaying the drum intro. Boring. With ''No Class'', recorded live, things don't get any better: ZZ Top-like riffs, and Lemmy's irritating voice this time only bores for two and a half minutes. The rock 'n' roll of ''Please Don't Touch'' is rather pleasant but, considering what awaits me, the enthusiasm is momentary. Indeed, ''(We are)...The Road Crew'' would sound perfectly like an ''Overkill II''; amid a sigh and a yawn, like a masochist, I let myself be tortured by the repetitiveness of the songs, waiting almost by inertia, for something to change. A vain wait, only slightly sweetened by the mild difference of ''Orgasmatron,'' a song, however, horrible, and ''Tear Ya Down,'' overall, salvageable. The dismay is such as to inhibit any technical judgment; I have only one bewilderment: if a greatest hits collection is so insignificant, what could I expect from an album within which the usual fillers often appear? And what could the so-called scraps ever be like? Better to draw a veil of pity...

Honestly, I don't have the courage to give it to anyone; I am, therefore, torn between three possible ways to materialize and justify its presence among my belongings: ornament for the rearview mirror, coaster, or frisbee? Please, do not stray from these three alternatives or, at least, stay within decency. Even though I have to admit that this record and decency are really at opposite ends...