Rock of aged

Motorhead
Astoria, London

Rating ****

Lemmy, Motorhead's lead singer, has assumed national-treasure status simply by dint of being 54 years old and having a face like a map of Zagreb. That's one reason why the band still sell out their infrequent gigs years after they ceased to be musically relevant. Ticket sales are undoubtedly helped by the fact that, in the era that's given us baggy-trousered "sports metal", they're custodians of hard rock as it was back when virility was gauged by the snugness of your encrusted denim.

By which measure Lemmy must be a veritable Barry White, thundering away in the same painted-on black jeans and shirt he's worn since 1975. Not a pretty sight, but it's not meant to be, for both Lemmy and the rest of Motorhead - currently veteran guitarist Phil Campbell, relatively youthful drummer Mikkey Dee and a grumpy girl backing duo - aren't in business to tickle libidos but to cause motorheadaches that last till the next day.

They accomplish it with a brilliantly simplistic formula: everyone mucks in as belligerently as possible and Lemmy shouts like a stoat. The gig is a masterpiece of economy, with all songs sounding just like the one before except the closing Ace of Spades, which is distinguished by a joyously propulsive rhythm for which headbanging was invented.

Born to Raise Hell and Orgasmatron, the latter camped up with satanic green lighting that reasserted metal's position as the last redoubt of anti-social adolescence, show just how unreconstructed Motorhead are. Entirely oblivious to every musical advance of the past 25 years, they carry these centrepiece tunes to their elephantine climaxes with a combination of drum solo and sheer force. Apologists claim that the lyrics add intellectual weight, but as there's absolutely no chance of hearing them we'll have to take the music at bludgeoning face value.