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You might almost have thought that you were in an Orthodox synagogue: On this May evening, the downstairs area of a turn-of-the-century meeting hall in lower Manhattan was packed with chanting black-clad men—and the upstairs was filled with women. But it quickly became clear that this congregation was paying homage to a deity even more merciless and ancient than the god of Israel when a mustachioed patriarch took the stage and began the ceremony with the invocation, “We’re Motorhead, and we’re gonna kick your ass.” And so it was. Since the last time I saw Motorhead (in 1983; it was so loud I was completely deaf for a couple of days), everything has changed. I am twice as old, the theater where the show took place has been torn down, and New York has been renovated so thoroughly it’s practically unrecognizable. But Lemmy Kilmister has not changed. He wears the same old uniform (open black shirt, ultratight black pants, white gator boots) and he still plays his Rickenbacker bass as if it were a six-string. And he doesn’t approve of what has happened to New York. “I don’t know about you, but I hate this fucking Mayor Rudy Giuliani,” he said. “He took away all the tits.” For an encounter with the eternal, living spirit of rock ‘n’ roll, don’t miss Motorhead—and forget your earplugs at your own peril. With Dropkick Murphys, Hatebreed, and Skarhead at 7:30 p.m.Tuesday, June 1, at the 9:30 Club, 815 V St. NW. $17.50. (202) 393-0930. (James Lochart)