Now, you might say, “But you read Lemmy’s autobiography, not Osbourne’s.” And you’d be right, but let me explain. Have you ever felt that doing something other than what logic dictates can sometimes be more helpful? That’s what happened here. Besides, the two of them were friends. Lemmy was also friends with Dio, who, as you might know, recorded albums with Black Sabbath—where, before him, Ozzy was the vocalist. All of them from England (except Ronnie), with parallel paths and intertwined histories. You see where I’m going with this? What connects Lemmy, Ozzy, and Dio? Exactly. So I wanted to revisit Lemmy’s life story, because the process itself brings me comfort. Maybe what I’m writing here sounds a bit dramatic or exaggerated. Maybe it is, but so what? These are the thoughts I carry, so these are the ones I put down.
Let’s talk about the book itself.
If you love rock ’n’ roll, as Kilmister himself would say, you’ll love White Line Fever. It’s a journey, an honest confession from a man who claimed he stopped growing up somewhere before the age of 25 (if my memory serves me right). And while the body aged and the years passed, he never changed his way of life, he simply became wiser. I can’t help but think, even though I know it’s a bit foolish, that if he had slowed down just a little, maybe we’d have had him around a bit longer. But if he had done that, he wouldn’t have been the same man. He would have gone against his own beliefs, and as far as I can tell, that was something he never did. In any case, whether he had left us at 90 or much earlier, his absence would have been felt just the same.
White Line Fever is a chronicle of his decades-long career: life on the road, making albums, countless collaborations, unstoppable productivity, and an immense influence on other bands. There are plenty of wild stories and excesses, but also a constant thread of humor and clarity, unsurprising, given the man we’re talking about. The book has an immediacy to it, and above all, it captures an era that’s gone. Those who defined it are gradually gathering somewhere else—not here. And I’d like to think that wherever that is, if such a place truly exists, unimaginable concerts are taking place.
Toward the end of the book, Lemmy says something about Ozzy, not only there, but this one instance struck me because it gave me chills, and you’ll see why. He recalls that sometime in the ’90s, Ozzy mentioned he would do a farewell concert. Lemmy never believed him; he even found it amusing because he knew it would never happen. In fact, he said that if Ozzy ever went through with it, he’d lose his mind, the only way it could happen would be if he could no longer walk. I think you understand the weight of that now.
I have only one small complaint, and it’s
not really a complaint. Especially past a certain point, it felt like he was
rushing a bit, moving from album to album as if releasing them was the easiest
thing in the world. Maybe it was. He didn’t dwell on each one for long; he’d say the
essentials and then move on to the next. In the earlier albums, five or six of
them, give or take, he was far more detailed.
One last thing I want to mention is
Janiss Garza, who helped with the book. Somehow, she managed to remain
completely invisible. I don’t know how, but her presence was like a ghost. Any
editing, suggestions, or interventions she might have made are entirely
undetectable, and I truly appreciated that. It feels as if the author sat down
one day, wrote it all in one go, and it was simply printed, now sitting on my
shelf. Outstanding work!
Next stop in what seems to be this
little reading cycle I’ve started will be Rob Halford’s Confess. I’ll
write about that too when the time comes.
Until
next time — be well, and keep reading.
It’s important!
Accompanying Notes:
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