Meeting Iggy, non-stop Pop

Press, 15 February 1989, Page 26

Meeting Iggy, non-stop Pop

A man called Henry told me I would have to get to Fukuoka if I wanted to see a man called Iggy perform. “Man” called Iggy? No, not really, but we don’t leap at that word “legend” like we used to. Every record company blurb-sheet writer flips that one out of the deck of cliches too often these days. But if anyone deserves to have “legend” served up as entree to their main course, Iggy Pop certainly does. If I had to fly from Tokyo, in the frozen north of Japan, to Fukuoka in the what would turn out to be even more frozen south of Japan, then lead me to the nearest translator.

ugly city of one million souls, standing in the Yubin Chokin Hall — having been biffed out of the backstage area “before Iggy arrives” — waiting, along with about 1200 Japanese versions of punks, rockers, greasers and junior office execs, for something interesting to transpire. Let’s face it, at 41, 20 years in from the start of a turbulent career of rock “n” roll madness —

beginnings, breakdowns, breakthroughs and performances of legendary (that word again) dementia — the Ig has just about earned the right to cruise into mid-life crisis-free, a kind of Sinatra of punk. “You wait,” said the man called Henry — Henry McGrogan, who has earned grey hairs managing Mr Pop on the road over 10 turbulent years — “you just wait. You’re really in for something.”

A mere 1000 kilometres later, here I am in an

collapses, relapses, new

COLIN HOGG travelled south from Tokyo to see Iggy Pop in concert just before the singer came to New Zealand (North Island only) to perform on the Barnestorming ticket. Here is Hogg’s report from the strange and wondrous Iggy front:

Managers ... they all say that sort of thing, don’t they? Nearly two hours later, he could have carved “I told you so” on my forehead and I’d have shaken his hand. Anyone who thought Iggy Pop, the man who set about shredding the rock face with his primal band The Stooges in 1968, would slip gently into middle age should be sitting in a tree trying to figure out how to unpeel

the banana. I don't for the life of me know what the audience in downtown Fukuoka was expecting. It’s kind of hard to tell with Japanese audiences. Two nights before in Osaka, there was apparently a virtual riot in the midst of Iggy’s show. Tonight, it feels like it has all the makings of a Sunday school picnic.

But there is a small army of security men crouched down in front behind a rope barrier. Whether it’s to protect Iggy from the audience or the audience from Iggy we shall soon discover.

At 6.45 p.m. (they like to get social unrest out of the way early in the evening in Japan), the lights drop. The audience breaks into an excited whisper and suddenly ... There he is. Tiny, skinny as a whippet, skintight black pants, black waistcoat faming his hard, muscled torso, hair redblond — teased into two spikes at the back — leaping, spinning, punching the air, screaming like a rabid dog. Starting a concert the way other performers, in their dreams, might hope to finish.

His band, four British and American punks grown up, slam into it like a bulldozer off a cliff. For 100 minutes it virtually never, for a second, lets up.

Iggy doesnt bother about breaks between songs. This is a sonic tidal wave, just roaring up and on and over, all muscle and noise and fury. The audience is probably terrified. Three songs in, Ig is slamming into 1969, from The Stooges’ debut album of the same year, a great grungy garage anthem, sawing along on Bo Diddley rhythmic steal, with the man swinging his mike stand like a majorette on fast forward. During “Power and Freedom” from his new album “Instinct,” he jumps into the audience

with his cordless mike screaming, ‘What’s the matter you suckers — f—it up. C’mon, f— it up.”

Some of the audience head back towards the door. The rest go crazy, Japanese version — bopping up and down gently while Iggy and his superbly raw and rowdy little band tear down the gates to hell with “High On You.” Even in the brief pauses between songs, Iggy doesn’t stop. He is dancing like some insane flamenco acrobat caught on the end of a hot wire. And when he sings, that high, deep voice never pauses for breath. He’s not happy about those security men down there between him and his audience. “Why don’t you guys f— off with your rope. You playing tag down there or somethin’?”

“The Passenger” is followed swiftly by a breakneck gem from ‘79. “Five Foot One,” and he dives back into the crowd, shoving the security aside, hauling some of the crowd around him to sing the chorus: “I wish life could be/Swedish magazines ...”

Now he’s back on stage, bassist Alvin Gibbs (ex UK Subs), guitarist Ahdy McCoy (ex Hanoi Rocks), a drummer Paul Garisto and Seamis Beaghem, who doubles on guitar and keyboards, grabbing a quick breather. “I wanna forget this theatre thing and turn this place into a dirty slimy little club,” yells the ringmaster.

whips out some rock “n” roll piano, and “Winners and Losers” almost qualifies as a ballad. The band disappears, but the Ig stays on, leaping, punching. More abuse for those poor security suckers and he stalks off, to return seconds later with the band for the vicious grind of “Cold

“Every time I wanna have some fun, some sucker’s trying to stop me. That’s why I’m so TOUGH

Slam, they’re into “Tuff Baby,” another one from “Instinct.” He’s down on his hands and knees bucking up and down like a dog on hot coals.

Metal,” then “Squarehead’ and another old Stooges classic, “No Fun.” The waistcoast goes and they’re into another classic statement of intent, “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” Another departure, then back again, even more energised, pants undone and looking dangerously like really giving the crowd a dirty thrill. But he settles for "I Feel Alright,” before the band disappear for the last time, leaving Iggy swaying stage centre. He looks like someone turned off his power without permission.

He hurls himself against the speaker stack, twice. Turns, limps off. Extraordinary ... Backstage, the band lie catching breath and trying to get a grip back on some sort of reality. It’s quiet, none of the usual hand pumpers and back slappers. A skinny guy with dangerous eyes, blue jeans, bright shirt and a big smile wanders in.

It’s ... Nah, it can’t be. He’s got a big friendly drawl. His name is Jim. “You liked the show? Great.

“Real Wild Child,” his hit cover version from 1986’s David Bowie-pro-duced “Blah Blah Blah” album, lets Beaghem

“You’ll want a beer?” He’s pleased to hear it should be warm down New Zealand way. "I haven’t played there before. Went there once (in 1979) for publicity only. A tragic time.” Laughs, drinks some wines, switches to beer, fetches me another can. “The band’s great,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says, punching the air. “The singer’s not bad either.”

‘Mmmmm,” he smiles.