The World’s Forgotten Boy Remembered

by Chris Adams
illustration by Mark Reusch

In Praise of Iggy Pop

There’s a record label called “Kill Rock Stars” and, although I like some of the stuff they put out, I gotta disagree, to a point, with the sentiment behind their name. I mean, if they’re trynna say “kill champagne-guzzlin’, limo-ridin’, groupie-screwin’, stadium-rockin’, hotel-trashin’ condescending motherfucking `superstars’ with Pepsi endorsements and $5,000 shades enacting some bullshit rock ‘n’ roll myth while releasing overproduced dreck aimed straight at the wallets of the lowest common denominator,” then yeah – git mah gun, maw, I’m goin’ to the front lines. Thing is, the unsavory picture painted above isn’t representative of all rock stars – just the really crap ones. (BEGINNING OF PRETENTIOUS SOCIO-PSYCHOLOGICAL ESSAY-READ FURTHER AT YOUR OWN PERIL.)

The history of rock music is littered with some great larger-than-life star-types, and, the way I see it, they play a crucial role in why we’re attracted to rock music in the first place. I mean, who wants to go see a buncha average joes schlep onstage and just stand there in their baseball caps and Gap jeans while they tap their toes to a pleasant repertoire of inoffensive candyfloss pap? Who wants to hear between-song banter like “how ’bout that local sports team, huh? Lookin’ good, Miami!” Why the hell would someone shell out ten bucks for something like that? If I were interested in ho-hum, everyday nobodies, I’d probably be checking out insignificant kaka like Hootie and the Blowfish, or hangin’ out with you. I think a mistake that a lot of people, especially musicians, make is that they think rock ‘n’ roll is actually about music – ya know, chord changes, scales, 4-part harmonies – all that crap. Sure, music, or at least sound, is the vehicle, the tool, the chosen medium, but that’s all. We don’t go to a show to see how the guitarist from Barclay James Harvest manages to nail that tricky d-minor seventh at the end of the middle-eight in the third phase of their triple-concept opus. We couldn’t give a shit, any more than we care to know how an illusionist makes a dove disappear. To paraphrase Nico, the Velvet Underground’s junkie chanteuse and all-around spooky chick, rock fans don’t wanna hear music, per se – they wanna hear poison. A good rock star is simply someone who feels that poison flowing in their veins, brings it to a boil, gets on stage, and subsequently opens up and bleeds all over us. We need rock stars to exorcise their demons as we watch, to publicly rid themselves of all the shit and garbage and filth that’s fermented inside them. We need them to live entirely in the moment, to throw all caution to the wind and give free reign to their most primal urges, deepest fears, suppressed desires, and hidden joys – to give expression to the extremes of their emotional spectrums. And we, the audience, who aren’t allowed to do these things cos we can’t or we’re too scared or it’s not socially acceptable, we got jobs to hold down, our moms wouldn’t like it,ad nauseum – we live by proxy through the rock star. We recognize their extremes within ourselves, and, as the star spews his “poison” we feel the same rush of adrenaline, the same sense of release. The rock star allows us to feel, reminds us that beneath buried beneath the weight of loan payments, asshole bosses, geometry tests, and court cases, we got these things called souls. So, for the price of a ticket, we inject that star’s personality into our lives, and it helps us feel a little bit better about ourselves, gives us a little inspiration, a little relief. And then we go home and get on with whatever crappy little crises life has to throw at us. The way I see it, the role of rock is, essentially, latter-day 20th century psychotherapy through noise and theater, with the rock star acting as therapist. And, for my money, no one ever served up a better ‘scrip than Mr. Iggy Pop. (END OF PRETENTIOUS BIT…WELL, PROBABLY…)

For a few years in the late sixties and early seventies, Iggy Pop was rock ‘n’ roll personified. He had it all: the songs, the voice, the look, the attitude, the sex appeal, the words… hell, even his name: Iggy Pop. Stop and think for a moment – have you ever heard a cooler rock ‘n’ roll name than that? (UH-OH…CUE MORE OVERLY-ANALYTICAL PSEUDO-INTELLECTUAL PSYCHOBABBLE.)

One of the greatest things, maybe the greatest thing, about rock ‘n’ roll, and punk rock in particular, is that it permits the individual to completely reinvent himself, to extract himself from the mundane confines of his previous existence and become whoever or whatever he wants, whoever he feels he really is beneath society’s skin. In the same manner that a British working class zero with no money and poor dental hygiene named John Lydon was able to transform himself into Johnny Rotten, England’s enfant terrible, expediter of the apocalypse, little Jimmy Osterberg from a trailer park in Nowhere, USA became Iggy Pop, the embodiment of the bacchanalian devil perched on all our shoulders, the id of every fucked-up lonely misfit that post-war America had spit into the world. Except Iggy made this transformation when the only safety pin to be found on Rotten was on his (in fairness, soiled) diapers. “Godfather of Punk”? Overused expression, but yeah, easily. In the late ’60s, when Iggy and the Stooges were just getting started, most of the western world was entranced by San Franciscan flower-power, all human be-in’s, good vibes, and feelin’ groovy. Enter the Stooges, from Detroit, a place where the lilting sound of genderless faeries blowing mystical penny-whistles from the center of the cosmic buttercup was drowned out by the deafening churn and metallic clank of big industry. So these Stooges boys, they don’t take much truck with this hippy shit – I mean, the drugs are OK, and the gurls are shore lookin’ fine, no bras ‘n’ all – but fuck that limp-wristed karma konciousness krap. Rockinfuckinroll should blow yur mind out yur eyes, man, make your ears bleed and yur balls throb. They dunno nuthin’ ’bout this peace ‘n’ love shit, but they got plenty to say about growing up as a zit-covered loser, a stoned loner, and a freak with nowhere to go and nothin to do. And because of this shitty set of circumstances, they harbor a rage and hate so powerful that they feel like they’re gonna explode unless they unleash it. So that’s what they do. Imagine the following: three lank-haired, kinda grungy-looking stoner-types walk onstage, set up their amps and drums, plug in their guitars, and proceed to assault the audience with the most violent, simplistically vicious barrage of repetitive noise this side of the Neanderthal Era. Enter Iggy, stripped to the waist, squeezed into a painted-on pair of silver pants with horsehair tail attached, hair dyed a garish shade of platinum blonde, about a pound of makeup smeared on his face. He is impossibly sinewy, his scarred torso a tightly-coiled cobra. He emanates a grotesque, androgynous alien beauty. Leaping about the stage like a spastic on speed, he pulls faces, and lasciviously contorts his body into inhuman shapes for no apparent reason whatsoever. Some half-soused redneck throws a beer bottle onto the stage, where it shatters. Iggy, the consummate performer, incorporates the bottle into his act by diving on top of the shards of broken glass, and subsequently rolling around in them, twitching and convulsing like a speared fish. A few seconds later, he’s up again, his chest, arms, and back totally lacerated, but he’s still twisting and turning in time with the music, which, at this very moment, is the loudest thing on Earth. Mincing up to the mic like a five-dollar whore, Iggy lets loose with a skin-shredding scream, tosses his hair back, and starts spitting the lyrics: “Ah’m a streetwalkin’ cheetah with a heart full of napalm/ah’m the runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb/I am the world’s forgotten boy/the one who’s searchin’ to destroy…” From the back of the room, some macho biker jerkoff yells “faggot!” Without hesitation, Iggy leaps off the stage and runs directly at the guy, who proceeds to beat the living shit outta him. The band, unfazed, keeps playing. Eventually, Iggy tears away from the asshole, stumbles back on stage, and finishes the song, entitled “Search and Destroy.” Other songs sport titles like “Gimme Danger,” “No Fun,” “Death Trip,” “Penetration” and “Raw Power.” They are lean, lewd, vicious, confrontational, and incredibly exciting. By the end of the set Iggy will have dived off the stage three times, whipped his cock out, walked on the crowd’s hands, smeared himself in peanut butter, vomited, and sung a twenty-minute version of “Louie Louie” before passing out on the stage. He is a genius. He is a lunatic. He is a born rock star.

In their lifetime, the Stooges released three classic albums:The Stooges, Funhouse, and Raw Power. (Raw Power has just been re-released, with a remix produced by Iggy.) If you don’t already own these records, buy them immediately, or your perception of rock ‘n’ roll will be stalled in a perpetually embryonic state forever. After the Stooges collapsed, Iggy began a career as a solo performer, releasing vital albums like The Idiot,Lust for Life and New Values. And he’s still at it. Granted, his last few records have been less than stunning, but it doesn’t really matter what Iggy does now. As far as I’m concerned, he can carry on releasing half-realized records cluttered with L.A. session hacks and besmirched by lousy cover art until the day he dies. Iggy Pop has already done his job, and anything else we get is a bonus. I’m just glad he’s there.