Iggy Pop
Ave. B (Virgin)
by Jon Sarre
“Let’s not forget your favorite well-mannered boy, the singer, let’s hear it for the singer”
-Iggy Pop for the Stooges, “Louie, Louie” intro, from Metallic 2XK.O. recorded live, Detroit MI, 10/6/73 (SkyDog Records)
“It was in the winter of my 50th year, when it hit me, I was really alone and there wasn’t a hell of a lot of time left…”
-Iggy Pop, “No Shit,” 1999
Ah, Iggy, we hardly knew ye… I get the feeling that nowadays, the great and mighty Iggy Pop just puts out records so we’ll feel bad for him, instead of remindin’ us that there was a time when we were really awed by the guy. Check out the bio Viagra, er, Virgin, sent out with Avenue B: “innovator and icon to at least two generations” whose work has been covered by big stars you may’ve heard of (Sex Pistols, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Guns’n’Roses, let’s not get into all the schmucks who actually matter(ed)). Jeez, don’t even mention that he was once the end all/be all of rock’n’roll (and that those moldy old LPs often sound fresher than the shit he or anyone else has put out since).
Mr. Osterberg is, sad to report, sorta just another old rock star who should put a shirt on and maybe finally rest on the ruins of his fucking laurels and not chew on the fat of some beatnik poetry (“I Felt the Luxury”) or rip off his own Idiot-era self en Español (“Español”) like he coulda been Ricky Martin twenty years ago like he was Johnny Rotten, Henry Rollins, Larry from the Candy Snatchers, and the entire nation of Australia and much, much, more before anyone else thought of being any of those people.
Nah, I’m not livin’ delusionally and expecting Iggy to be the young jerk he usedta be, in fact, I’d rather see the guy just accept the fact that he’d be on VH-1 these days if only the boomers had given two shits about the Stooges when he was vital. It’s just that with the odd exception (mostly when he shows up on stage), Ig’s various rock moves on Instinct, Brick By Brick or American Caesar are sorta cringe-inducing embarrassments. On Avenue B, he doesn’t even pretend to rock (‘cept sorta maybe on his electro-shlock cover of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates’ “Shakin’ All Over”). Rather, Iggy kicks back and acousticizes his elder-statesmen musings (over Don Was’ programmed adult-contemp beats) with spoken word reminisces between tracks. I’ve read early reviews where the scribes gawk out spiel like “best material in years,” but maybe they’re big Bowie fans or want to believe Iggy Pop is Bob Dylan or something. “Give it up,” they encourage anyone who hears otherwise, “he’ll never recreate Raw Power.” They’re right, too, but I still think the most tragic rock deaths are the ones that don’t happen. Iggy Pop, R.I.P.