Born to Lose, Live to Win (A Tribute to Lemmy)
This short little piece was written in memory of Ian "Lemmy" Kilmister, longtime frontman of Motorhead and metal icon, who passed away this December. If you are by any chance a fan of loud and/or heavy rock music, read this. It's a nice tribute to a unique man.
You could also look at this as a furry tribute to Motorhead and their paramount influence on the genre of heavy metal.
If you don't know who Lemmy is, then search up any live performance of any Motorhead song. He's the bassist, and he's instantly recognizable.
I was at Sneaky's Bar in Guelph when I heard the news. My band--a young, upstart act from Toronto called Claws of Perdition--had just finished our show, loitering around the bar with my good friend Dashaen and I. The raccoon wasn't a huge fan of my music by any means, but he always liked to come out and support my dreams of being a successful musician. But right now, I wasn't focused on him. I had my eyes glued to the TV, a pang of sadness clouding over my consciousness as I struggled to come to grips with what they were reporting:"--After a discovery of a 'very aggressive' form of cancer. 'Lemmy'--as he was known by friends, family and Motörhead fans alike--was an icon in heavy metal circles, regarded by many as the essence of a 'true' rock star..." My left ear flicked as Trevor (our pine marten rhythm guitarist) gulped a long, sad note beside me. Indeed, it was shocking. I was never much of a Motörhead fan (being, admittedly, more into bands like Killswitch Engage and Asking Alexandria), but we all held Lemmy in high respect. It would almost be blasphemy to be in a heavy band and not hold him in high regard. In other words, he was immortal, a god to be revered by all rock and metal fans alike. And yet, he had now passed--at the young age of seventy--to the gates of heaven (or hell, depending on who you ask). I wanted, more than anything, to burst into tears for him. I wanted to mourn loudly for the whole world to hear, to feel Lemmy's vacancy. Instead, I dropped my head and stared dumbly at the gold plaque at the back of the bar, still in shock. Even the scents of my Coke and of other furs couldn't detract me from my stillness. Suddenly, a slightly hoarse voice piped up: "Hey, Miss! Give us all a Jack and Coke, will ya'?" It was the voice of our bassist, a boar named Sullivan (though we all called him Sully). I watched as the Russian Blue she-cat--evidently the bartender--mixed us five our drinks, sighing as she went through the motions. I could tell by her sunken eyes and drooping whiskers that she was deathly tired. I'd be, too, around those guys; even though they were my friends and band-mates, they could be a hell of a nuisance sometimes. She silently handed our beverages out, one by one, before retreating to help other customers. Absentmindedly, I stared at my new drink. The mixture of whiskey and carbonated
sugar tickled my nose, its scent strong yet tangy. My ears dropped; I almost never drink alcohol, so this was quite the test. Give in or don't. Apparently, I had no choice, because as soon as Sully shouted, "This is for Lemmy!" we were all leaning in on a toast. I was the last one to join, of course, my shaky paw slowly rising to clink the glasses of four others. As a group, we all downed our drinks. I closed my eyes. In the buzzing static of my mind, I heard the legend himself, all in his black-clad glory: "If you like to gamble, I'll tell you I'm your man/Win some or lose some, all the same to me..." "Guys," I announced, setting down my glass, "I have an idea." All of my compatriots went silent, listening. "I'm gonna' go home tonight," I proposed with a raised finger, "and write a song for Lemmy." A tapered, masked-furred head suck out from the crowd to my right. "How are you going to do that?" Dashaen asked. A confident smirk slid up my muzzle, pulling my whiskers upright. "Watch me," I replied slowly, "you... will be amazed."