Picture this: it’s 1975, and rock and roll is at a thunderous peak. The titans—Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Led Zeppelin—are dominating arenas, their riffs shaking stadium walls and filling the airwaves. But a storm is brewing. Punk is beginning to spit in the face of excess, and disco is slinking into the clubs with a new kind of swagger. The days of elaborate solos and 20-minute epics are numbered, and the so-called gods of hard rock are about to lose their grip on the throne.
And then there’s Hawkwind.
Never quite part of the mainstream rock conversation, Hawkwind were the outliers—cosmic travelers peddling their brand of space rock, a swirling blend of psychedelia, synths, and chaos. Critics rarely embraced them, and commercial success always seemed just out of reach. By 1975, the spaceship had long since veered off the main course. The band kept flying, sure, and still does to this day, existing in its quirky orbit. But in the golden age of “what’s next,” space rock never really was the next big thing. At best, it was a side alley of the psychedelic era—less about songs and more about the voyage, with feedback and fuzz guiding the way.
Now imagine you’re Lemmy Kilmister.
Lemmy Kilmister was the embodiment of rock and roll excess—a rough-edged, gravel-throated bassist who lived fast in every sense of the word. With a steady spot in the space-rock band Hawkwind, he was riding the high life—literally. The drugs flowed freely, the women came with the territory, and the road never seemed to end. For Lemmy, it was the dream: a haze of music, chaos, and chemical-fueled nights.
But dreams have a way of crashing down.
After being busted at the Canadian border for drug possession, Lemmy was unceremoniously kicked out of Hawkwind. Fired for doing exactly what the rock lifestyle preached. The irony wasn’t lost on him—or anyone else. Getting booted from Hawkwind for drugs? That was like being too wild for a circus.
Not one to stay down for long, Lemmy—always one step ahead in attitude if not in planning—already had a new name in mind: Motörhead for his next gig. Originally a song title, it would soon become the banner under which he’d forge an entirely new, louder, and far grittier path.
So what now?
If you’re Lemmy, you don’t sulk. You double down. You decide to build something heavier, louder, nastier—something that’ll make Hawkwind look like a quiet Sunday jam session. That was the idea, anyway. But the road to revenge-rock glory wasn’t smooth. Motörhead didn’t start as the well-oiled machine fans would later worship. The early days were a mess—personnel changes, label setbacks, and gigs that didn’t pay. It was more sweat than stardom.
Still, Lemmy kept going. He may have been exiled from the stars, but he was hell-bent on conquering the underground. Eventually, he did just that—and in doing so, created a legacy louder than anything Hawkwind ever attempted.
What began as a messy rebound turned into one of the most influential bands in rock history. But no one could have seen that coming. Not even Lemmy.
By the end of 1975, Lemmy regrouped with guitarist Larry Wallis and drummer Lucas Fox, forging a new path with a band that was less cosmic and more primal. Their live sound was ferocious, a punishing sonic assault that Lemmy once described with typical swagger: “So loud that if we move in next door to you, your lawn will die.”
Enter The Manticore Tapes—a revealing set of studio recordings from the late summer of 1976, capturing the first sessions by this classic lineup. Scheduled for release on June 27, these recordings showcase a band in the rough—brimming with energy, promise, and fury. At the time, the band wasn’t ready for prime time. But the foundation was unmistakably there.
Laid down at Manticore Studios—owned by prog-rock giants Emerson, Lake & Palmer—the sessions include raw versions of early live staples and studio hopefuls. These include Lemmy’s final creative offerings intended for Hawkwind, like “Motörhead” and “The Watcher,” along with gritty originals such as “Vibrator” and “Iron Horse/Born to Lose.” The tapes also capture the band’s eclectic taste in covers: from John Mayall’s “I’m Your Witch Doctor” to an R&B rarity, “Leavin’ Home,” originally penned by Holland-Dozier-Holland and popularized by The Birds—a British R&B group Lemmy admired.
The band recorded a session for United Artists with producer Dave Edmunds, but internal tensions quickly flared. Fox was soon ousted and replaced by Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor, a drummer whose raw power perfectly matched Lemmy’s chaotic vision. Wallis didn’t stick around long either—after Lemmy auditioned a second guitarist, Wallis left, paving the way for “Fast” Eddie Clarke to take up the mantle as the group’s sole guitarist. With that, Motörhead’s most iconic trio was born.
At that moment, punk was erupting across the UK, and Motörhead found themselves in a strange position: too metal for punk, too raw for traditional rock, but undeniably poised for something big. Still, it wasn’t clear where they fit. As the momentum stalled, Lemmy even planned a farewell show for April 1977 at the Marquee Club, thinking it would be the band’s swan song. But fate intervened.
When the show couldn’t be recorded, indie label Chiswick stepped in, offering studio time almost immediately. That weekend, with producer Speedy Keen at the helm, Motörhead laid down their self-titled debut album, drawing heavily from the material captured on The Manticore Tapes. Within three years, they were headlining stages and climbing the UK charts with releases like The Golden Years EP and the legendary Ace of Spades album. Even United Artists belatedly cashed in, repackaging the earlier Edmunds sessions into the 1979 release On Parole.
Motörhead’s impact would ripple far beyond their era, shaping the sound and spirit of future generations. From thrash metal giants like Metallica to the swaggering theatrics of professional wrestling, the band’s raw, no-compromise attitude became a blueprint for rebellion that defied musical boundaries. The longest-running and most stable lineup—Lemmy alongside guitarist Phil Campbell and drummer Mikkey Dee—remained intact until Lemmy’s death in December 2015, just days after being diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor had died only weeks earlier, and “Fast” Eddie Clarke would pass in 2018, closing the chapter on the original trio.
Though the classic lineup existed only briefly, their legacy is carved into rock history. The songs they created—loud, fast, and unapologetically heavy—laid the foundation for everything Motörhead would become. The Manticore Tapes offer a rare glimpse into that formative phase, the band’s embryonic stage, where the sparks first began to fly. Without these sessions, the chaos and brilliance that followed might never have taken shape. This is the sound of a legend being born.
CD/LP 1 – The Manticore Tapes: Studio Sessions
- Intro (Instrumental)
- Leavin’ Here
- Vibrator
- Help Keep Us on the Road
- The Watcher
- Motörhead
- Witch Doctor (Instrumental)
- Iron Horse/Born to Lose (Instrumental)
- Leavin’ Here (Alternate Take)
- Vibrator (Alternate Take)
- The Watcher (Alternate Take)
LP 2 – Blitzkrieg in Birmingham ’77
(Originally released by Receiver Records Limited as RRCD/LP 120 in the UK, 1989)
- Motörhead
- Vibrator
- Keep Us on the Road
- The Watcher
- Iron Horse
- Leavin’ Here
- On Parole
- I’m Your Witch Doctor
- Train Kept A-Rollin’
- City Kids
- White Line Fever
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