What can I say about Iggy Pop that hasn’t been said before? Not much, really.
Godfather of Punk; Innovator of stage diving, crowd surfing, body mutilation and the originator of heroin chic. Leathery, rubbery, other-worldy figure that he cuts, he’s fucking survived. And you can’t take that away from him.
People make that joke about Keith Richards and a cockroach…I really think Iggy’s got one up on Keith. My take is that Keith has always had a shit load more money and support system to help him stay alive. How many times was Iggy in the gutter before his ass was barely saved? First in ’72 by Bowie producing Raw Power. In ’75 when Bowie again swept him away to Berlin to record both of their finest work (Low, Lodger, Heroes, Lust for Life, The Idiot) and again in ’83 when Bowie puts Iggy’s “China Girl” on his massive Let’s Dance record, providing Iggy much needed, albeit mismanaged income. Richards has been living like a high class junkie since 1968.
Though this Riot Fest gig was billed as Iggy & The Stooges, Scott Asheton and James Williamson were nowhere to be found. No reason given. Bizarre, but nothing is surprising when it comes to the word of Iggy Pop.
So you may be saying to yourself “We really don’t need these many pictures of Iggy Pop. It’s just gross.”
I say to you now, I don’t give a shit what you think. Firstly we should all bow to his greatness and fucking balls for inventing a lifestyle called punk long before it had a name and was remotely cool; back when it meant being piss poor, not knowing how to play, but earning enough to score heroin and miss your next gig; cutting yourself with glass because you were at the peak of your trip midway through your set. He was a joke. A loser. A gutter rat who is now heralded as an icon. He wasn’t sold at Hot Topic and American Apparel or an exhibit at The Met. I was privileged to be in his presence and allowed to shoot so God damnit I’m baring ’em here today.
Either you’re with us or you’re against us. Or some shit like that.
I give you, Iggy Pop