Welcome in, everyone. We are really glad you're
joining us today for this deep dive. Absolutely.
Thanks for being here. We're going to be exploring
the life of someone who completely redefined
what it meant to be a rhythm section. We aren't
just talking about a musician today. We are talking
about the literal engine behind one of the loudest,
most relentlessly high energy bands to ever walk
the earth. The one and only. Right. I'm talking
about Philip John Taylor, known to fans all over
the globe as Filthy Anol Taylor. the legendary
drummer for Motorhead. That's right. And for
our mission today, we're going to be unpacking
a comprehensive Wikipedia article detailing Taylor's
life. We are going to trace his path from this
chaotic, almost accidental entry into the music
scene all the way through to the very... real,
very heavy physical toll of the life of pure,
unfiltered rock and roll takes on a human body.
It's a heavy toll, yeah. It really is. Our goal
for you today is to uncover how a completely
unique mix of pure chance, sheer willpower, and
raw, undeniable talent came together to cement
what is widely regarded as the definitive classic
Metterhead lineup. And I want to set the tone
right out of the gate here. You do not need to
be a heavy metal historian or even a massive
Motorhead fan to appreciate what we're about
to get into. Oh, not at all. Honestly, if you
just love a good character study, this deep dive
is for you. This is a story about profound resilience,
chaotic creativity, and the deep, unbreakable
bonds of brotherhood. It's about a guy who lived
life at 100 miles an hour and left a massive
mark on music history. It really is a fascinating
human story before it's even a music story. Because,
you know, to really understand the man, you have
to look at the contrast of his early years. Right.
He was born in Haslin in 1954. Exactly. And then
moving to Ashington and eventually bouncing around
working class towns until he landed in Leeds.
But here's the detail that matters most. Before
he became the pioneer of this grimy, blistering
speed metal drumming, he actually took formal
drum lessons. At the Leeds College of Music.
Yes. And he did it simply on the advice of his
father. I find that contrast absolutely fascinating.
You picture this guy who eventually embodies
the dirtiest, most chaotic era of punk and metal,
but he starts out sitting in a formal music college
practicing his rudiments. Right, reading sheet
music. Exactly. What does that kind of formal
training actually give a drummer who ends up
playing as fast and loose as he did? Well, it
gives him the underlying architecture to survive.
playing that fast it's a brilliant juxtaposition
because it shows that beneath the wild persona
that would later emerge there was a foundation
of actual musical instruction he wasn't just
hitting things randomly he knew what he was doing
he really did he understood the mechanics of
the instrument when you were playing at the tempos
motorhead played at if you don't have proper
technique your wrists and arms will completely
give out just cramp up and die exactly that formal
training gave him the physical capacity to push
the drum kit to its absolute limits later on.
That makes perfect sense. He had the structure
so he could afford to break the rules. And speaking
of breaking the rules, OK, let's unpack this.
It turns out Taylor actually crocked paths with
Lemmy Kilmister back in 1973. Lemmy, the legendary
frontman of Motorhead. the man himself at the
time lemmy was still playing in a band called
hawkwind which was deeply entrenched in the space
rock scene right for anyone listening who might
not be familiar with that term space rock was
essentially this psychedelic heavily atmospheric
trippy style of 70s rock. Yeah, very different
from Motorhead. But what's really interesting
is how they bonded. They didn't bond over a shared
love of jazz fusion or music theory. They bonded
over being what was referred to at the time as
speed users. Meaning they were both heavily into
amphetamines, which, when you think about it,
is a chemical that really fueled that frantic,
aggressive energy of the music they would eventually
create together. It was a gritty, very underground
connection. It was. But that chance meeting set
the stage for a massive turning point in 1975.
Right. 1975 is when Motorhead is trying to record
their first album on parole. They had a drummer
named Lucas Fox, but things were just falling
apart. And this leads to what has to be one of
the most hilariously pragmatic. unglamorous auditions
in the history of rock music. Oh, it's the best.
Taylor ends up replacing Fox, but not because
he came in and blew everyone away with a magical,
technically flawless drum solo, right? Not at
all. Lemmy is on record explaining exactly how
it went down. Fox wasn't working out. And they
brought Taylor in because, and this is practically
a direct quote, Taylor had a car and could give
them a lift back down to the studio. Wait, really?
He had a car. That's it. That was his golden
ticket. He was a guy with a driver's license,
a vehicle, and a willingness to act as a chauffeur
for the day. I mean, how many incredible moments
in history hinge on something that mundane? It's
staggering when you think about it. If we connect
this to the bigger picture, it highlights how
much of music history and just history in general
hinges on entirely practical favors. A ride to
the studio. A simple ride. That favor accidentally
shaped the entire trajectory of Heavy Metal.
Because Taylor getting that gig didn't just solve
their immediate transportation problem. It set
off a chain reaction that built the band. Because
once Taylor's in the room and behind the kit...
He becomes the connective tissue for the rest
of the lineup. He ends up introducing Lemmy to
the guitarist, Fast Eddie Clark. Right. And how
did Taylor know Fast Eddie? Was it from the underground
metal club scene? No. They had worked together
painting a houseboat. Painting a houseboat. You
have a drummer who got the job because he had
a car, introducing a guitarist he knew from a
random painting gig, and suddenly, completely
by accident, you have formed the definitive,
iconic... Motorhead Trio. Lemmy, Filthy Animal,
and Fast Eddie. Exactly. And a great reminder
to you listening that sometimes the most legendary
partnerships aren't born in boardrooms or through
rigorous vetting processes. They happen because
people are just in the right place at the right
time. Doing the work and saying yes to the weird
opportunities in front of them. That sheer luck
of getting the gig is one thing, but what kept
him in the seat is a whole different story. A
story of almost superhuman pain tolerance. The
sheer absurdity of Taylor's physical resilience
is just mind -blowing. It really defies logic.
Let's fast forward a bit. They record the absolute
classic album Ace of Spades in 1980. They are
on top of the world. And shortly after that peak...
Taylor breaks his neck. Yes, and the way he broke
it is just as chaotic as everything else in his
life. Oh, yeah. It wasn't a car crash or a stage
dive gone wrong. He was lifted above the head
of a friend in a spontaneous test of strength,
and he was simply dropped on his head. Boom.
Broken neck. Wait, how is it physically possible
to play speed metal with a broken neck? Didn't
that risk completely carolizing him? For almost
anyone else, that is the end of the tour, the
end of the year, maybe the end of the career.
You would certainly think so. You need your neck
to play the drums, especially the way he played.
But instead of quitting or checking into a hospital
for months of rest, Taylor just wore a medical
neck brace and kept on playing the tour. Unbelievable.
In fact, if you go and watch the music video
for the song Ace of Spades, you can actually...
spot the neck brace. Really? Yeah, he's just
sitting back there on a kit, blasting away, fully
immobilized from the shoulders up. That is insane.
The trauma actually left a permanent mark on
him. He developed a prominent lump on the back
of his neck, which was a calcium deposit from
the spinal trauma healing improperly. And he
had a name for it, right? He did. He affectionately
referred to this lump as his knob. That is just,
I don't even have words for that level of stubbornness.
But that's not even the only insane injury story.
Tour disrupting injuries were apparently just
a normal Tuesday for him. They really were. Later
on, Taylor breaks his hand. Oh. Because he was
punching a guy outside his flat in London. Naturally.
Again, an ordinary drummer cancels the gigs.
He physically cannot hold a drumstick with a
shattered hand. So what does he do? He uses gaffer
tape. Gaffer tape. Which, for those who don't
know, is that incredibly strong, heavy -duty
cloth tape they use on film sets to tape down
cables. And he just physically straps the drumstick
to his broken hand so he can keep playing. What's
fascinating here is what this tells you about
the ethos of the band. We often talk about the
image of rock stars, the leather, the spikes,
the tough guy posturing. Yeah, the whole aesthetic.
Right. For a lot of bands in the 70s and 80s,
that was just a costume they put on in the dressing
room before they went on stage. But for Motorhead,
and especially for Phil Taylor, it wasn't an
act. Their gritty, unstoppable DIY survivalism
was just their daily reality. Taping a piece
of wood to your broken hand so you can go play
blistering heavy metal for two hours. You can't
fake that kind of grit. It almost sounds like
a form of madness. It forces you to think about
the sheer dedication required to push through
that level of agony. It wasn't just about the
music. It was about an uncompromising commitment
to the lifestyle and to the momentum of the band.
Like a runaway train. Exactly. They were a runaway
train. And Taylor was the engine room. He refused
to let the train stop, even if the engine was
literally falling apart. But even a runaway train
eventually hit some rough tracks. Taylor didn't
actually stay in Motorhead uninterrupted. He
left the band in 1984. He did, yeah. During that
time away, he made appearances with a band called
Wasted, and he joined up with former Motorhead
and thin Lizzy guitarist Brian Robertson to form
a band called Operator. He also played in Frankie
Miller's touring band around 1986. But he couldn't
stay away forever, right? No, the pull was too
strong. He returned to Motorhead in 1987, and
his attitude about coming back is... brilliant
how so he casually shrugged the whole departure
off saying i always regretted leaving let's just
say i took a three -year holiday a three -year
holiday that's one hell of a way to frame quitting
a world -famous rock band it fits perfectly with
his whole persona it does but this is where the
story takes a much heavier turn he comes back
in 87 but by 1992 the magic had really started
to fade it had And this is the sobering counterweight
to all the humor and the wild resilience we've
talked about so far. Over the previous two years
leading up to 1992, Taylor had been warned three
separate times by the band to get his act together.
Three strikes. Yeah. Finally, after recording
just one track, the song I Ain't No Nice Guy
for the March Erdi album, he was officially fired
from the band because of his poor performance.
Man, that is tough. Fired from the band you helped
build from the ground up? The psychological toll
of that has to be devastating. Absolutely devastating.
I think there's a real lesson here for you listening.
It shows that even the most legendary, seemingly
indestructible partnerships require upkeep. You
can be the guy who tapes a drumstick to a broken
hand. You can be the guy who played through a
broken neck. But raw talent and past glories
can't always outrun personal decline. That is
the core tragedy of this phase of his life. This
raises an important question about human limits.
Taylor's entire brand, his entire existence in
the band, was built on the idea of pushing past
limits. Pushing until things break. Yes. But
eventually, the physical and perhaps lifestyle
tolls accumulate. The firing wasn't out of malice.
Lemmy deeply loved him. It was because the machine
of Motorhead demanded a level of relentless performance
that Taylor could simply no longer provide. It's
a harsh reality of the music business. And of
getting older. But the thing that strikes me
is that he didn't just fade into total obscurity
after that. He had this relentless, undeniable
drive to play. He really did. Even after being
let go from the band that defined his entire
identity, he stayed incredibly busy. From 2005
to 2008, he played with a group called The Web
of Spider. In 2007, he worked on a project called
Capricorn. He even formed a band called Little
Villains. Which actually led to two albums that
were released posthumously, Filthy Lies and Taylor
Made. Oh, wow. That's right. He also joined the
American thrash metal band Overkill in 2009 for
a set at the Islington Academy. For context,
thrash metal is a genre of incredibly fast, aggressive
metal that was massively influenced by Motorhead.
Full circle. Exactly. In fact, Overkill took
their name directly from a Motorhead album. So
here he is playing with a band that wouldn't
exist without him, and they actually covered
a Motorhead song together that night. Why do
you think he couldn't just put the sticks down?
He had nothing left to prove. He was already
a legend. Why keep grinding away in smaller clubs
and side projects? Because for someone like Taylor,
it was never just about the fame or the arena
tours. It was about the physical act of playing.
The drums were his primary mode of communication
with the world. That makes total sense. When
you spend your entire adult life generating that
kind of volume and momentum, the silence of retirement
is probably deafening he played because he had
to it was in his blood he just had to keep moving
oh and i have to throw in this amazing visual
from the history books just to show that through
all of this he never lost his sense of humor
oh the girl school video yes back in 1980 taylor
actually made a comedic cameo in a promotional
video for the band girl school for their song
yeah right he appears midway through the video
dressed in full drag aggressively brandishing
a rolling pin it perfectly encapsulates who he
was He was a terrifyingly fast heavy metal drummer
who looked like a biker, but he didn't take himself
too seriously. He understood the absurdity of
rock and roll. He really did. But jumping back
to his later years, there is an incredibly poignant
moment that happens on November 6, 2014. They
are at the National Indoor Arena in Birmingham.
Yes. This is a... Deeply moving moment in heavy
metal history, Taylor reunites on stage with
Lemmy and Fast Eddie Clark. The classic trio.
Back together during a performance of their signature
song, Ace of Spades. But here's the critical
detail. Taylor doesn't play. He doesn't get behind
the drum kit. What does he do? He simply walks
out onto the stage, waves to the massive crowd,
and leaves. Wow. Just walking out to wave, to
stand there and hear the roar of the crowd one
last time. It serves as this beautiful, unspoken
final closure for that classic lineup. To stand
in front of their fans together one last time.
Not to perform, not to prove they can still play
at lightning speed, but just to acknowledge the
legacy they built together. That is so powerful.
It's a quiet... dignified moment for a man whose
entire life was defined by extreme volume. That
really gives me chills. Just a wave goodbye to
the people who understood him best. Which brings
us, inevitably, to the final chapter of his story.
Filthy animal Taylor passed away on November
12, 2015, in London. He was 61 years old, and
liver failure was cited as the cause after a
period of illness. The tributes from his bandmates
poured in immediately. And they reflect exactly
what we've been talking about today. Fast Eddie
got a statement, didn't he? He did. Fast Eddie
Clark released a touching tribute saying, My
dear friend and brother passed away last night.
I have known Phil since he was 21, and he was
one hell of a character. Fortunately, we made
some fantastic music together, and I have many,
many fond memories of our time together. Rest
in peace, Phil. And then there is Lemmy's reaction.
Lemmy gave an incredibly raw interview to Classic
Rock magazine right after Taylor died. And just
to be clear to you listening, we're sharing his
exact words here just as a historical record
of his grief, not as a political statement from
us. Right, purely as a historical document. Lemmy
was completely devastated. He said, I am feeling
very sad at the moment. In fact, devastated because
one of my best friends died yesterday. I miss
him already. His name was Phil Taylor, or Filthy
Animal, and he was our drummer twice in our career.
Now he's died, and it really pisses me off that
they take somebody like him and leave George
Bush alive. It's just so raw. It is. Lemmy went
on to say, so muse on that. We're still going.
We're still going strong. It's just first worsel
and now filthy. It's a shame, man. I think this
rock and roll business might be bad for the human
life. Analyzing that quote purely in the context
of human emotion, what you're seeing there is
Lemmy's raw, unfiltered grief. It's the chaotic
anger of losing someone you deeply love. Just
lashing out at the world. Exactly. When people
are in the throes of sudden loss, they lash out
at the unfairness of it all and they reach for
whatever targets they feel represent that unfairness.
It's a stark, painful portrait of a man looking
at the mortality of his inner circle and realizing
that the indestructible armor of rock and roll
was just an illusion. It's just pure, devastating
loss. And that last line, Lemmy said, I think
this rock and roll business might be bad for
the human life. It ended up being grimly, tragically
prophetic. It was the start of a tragic domino
effect. Lemmy gave that quote while grieving
his best friend. Less than seven weeks after
Phil Taylor died, Lemmy himself passed away on
December 28, 2015. Less than seven weeks later.
That is heartbreaking. It is. And the tragedy
didn't stop there. Just a couple of years later,
on January 10th, 2018, Fast Eddie Clark died.
In just over two years, the entire classic Motorhead
lineup, the three men who accidentally came together
and redefined heavy music, was completely wiped
out. It's staggering to think about. A band that
felt absolutely indestructible. A force of nature
that just steamrolled everything in its path.
Gone in the blink of an eye. Yeah. So, what does
this all mean for us as we sit here looking back
at his life? We've taken a deep dive into the
life of Filthy Animal Taylor. We've seen that
he wasn't just a guy keeping time in the back
of a band. He was the literal engine of a musical
revolution. The driving force. He was a guy who
got his life -changing job because he happened
to have a car to give someone a lift. And he
kept that job because his spirit and his almost
frightening pain tolerance was utterly unbreakable.
He lived at the absolute extreme edge of what
a human body and a human life can sustain. And
I want to leave you with a final lingering question
to ponder on your own. after we finish up here
today. Let's hear it. Look at the incredible,
iconic art born from Taylor's reckless breakneck
lifestyle and then juxtapose that with the ultimate
tragic physical cost that Lemmy mentioned right
at the end. It raises a fascinating question.
Does the chaotic fire required to create truly
groundbreaking, rebellious art inevitably consume
the artist in the end? Can you have the revolutionary
impact without the devastating burn rate? That
is a phenomenal question to chew on. Is the destruction
the ultimate price of the genius? Wow. Well,
thank you so much for joining us on this deep
dive into the loud, chaotic, and incredibly resilient
life of Filthy Animal Taylor. It's been quite
the journey. It really has. We hope you walk
away with a new appreciation for the man behind
the kit. Keep questioning, keep exploring, and
we'll catch you next time.