Many have tried to follow in Iggy Pop’s footsteps, and many have perished trying. Forty years ago bookies would have given you even money for Iggy’s early death; 40 years later, the guy is still here, still playing, still laying waste to everything in his path. And tonight he’s at Festering Hall with his merry band of Stooges.
After the reunion of its original recorded lineup at ATP the previous month, the Beasts of Bourbon is back to its most recent formation. Tex seems more content in hard rock Beasts guise, and thrives on the nihilism, misogyny and narcotic celebration of I Don’t Care About Nothing, Hard For You and Chase The Dragon, and hams Cocksucker Blues for all its worth. The set is as subtle as a blunt cudgel over the back of the head, but that’s what the modern-era Beasts is about.
Iggy is a remarkable physical specimen. His weathered body has borne witness to just about every illicit chemical concoction known to rock’n’roll, and across his face are etched the lines of his infamous lifestyle. Like a stutterer who can sing without hesitation, Iggy walks with a pronounced limp, but dances like a motherfucker. He’s waving, skipping, flouncing and rocking, and he’ll be Iggy til the day he dies.
James Williamson, the fiendishly talented guitarist said to have cast a black across the Stooges upon his arrival in 1971, has morphed from junkie to corporate high-flyer to punk rock elder statesmen. Williamson stands and delivers with barely a grimace; Steve McKay, another near-victim of the heroin curse that struck the Stooges, augments Williamson’s freakish guitar attack with a jazz edge.
The setlist is riddled with classic Stooges (Raw Power, Search And Destroy, I Wanna Be Your Dog), and some Kill City material (Johanna, Kill City, Beyond The Law). There’s material many of in the crowd have never heard live – Penetration, Gimme Danger, Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell, Cock In My Pocket – and the band just keeps getting tighter and tougher. During Funhouse Iggy invites the crowd onto the stage to share the moment; Williamson and bass player Mike Watt retreat behind the crowd and lock in a groove that’s brimming with raw sexuality. Iggy taunts the security staff with his impish grin and child-like protestations; when you’ve faced down a Michigan motorcycle gang and a storm of glass projectiles, a couple of over-zealous Festival Hall staff barely even register.
The new songs are tolerated, if not widely celebrated; Iggy acknowledges the gulf between the old and new, and thanks the crowd for its indulgence. No Fun ends the first part of the show; after a short break Iggy and his modern day Stooges are back. The band saves the best til last, with Open Up And Bleed. It’s dark and threatening and fucking tight. Iggy makes his departure first, followed by the enigmatic Williamson. Mike Watt thrashes his bass for a couple more minutes, before discarding it theatrically behind him. The lights come on, and it’s all over. Iggy and the motherfucken Stooges, man. You can’t make this shit up.
BY PATRICK EMERY
LOVED: Open Up And Bleed.
HATED: The mangled sound on the side of the stage.
DRANK: Cooper’s Lager.
