Not a Radio Station of the Eastern Seaboard

Nope – it’s a video station, thanks to my bro Dave.

Bhangra bliss – let’s go Punjabi!

As he was reading my blog he came upon one of my ceaseless reccs for cool radio show – specifically the Bobby & Nihal show on BBC1Xtra a few weeks back. Tho’ we email daily regarding sneakers, the Yankees, etymology, and the occasional odd Japanese object, we had never spoken of our Punjabi MC collections and our mutual undiscovered fascination w/ bhangra.

So he yesterday he sent me this: Jazzy Bains, Oh Na Kuri Labdi

Jazzy B

via this site: <>

(alas, wordpress will not let me show vids from that site directly; thus the crappy YouTube version above)

The comments on are almost better than the vid! Jazzy B (who also did a version of “Romeo” w/50 Cent) def has his fans and his haters. Pretty funny.

So liven up your workout with some tunes from saddegeet — or iTunes! this stuff ain’t exactly underground.


Shootin’ Up by Bloomingdales, NYC

My company is looking for a plastic surgeon to write a book; we checked out an article in the NY Times today in the search for authors. It was about a new storefront Botox clinic opening near Bloomingdale’s in Manhattan.

How’s this for a quote from one of the founders:

“Botox is the female yuppie heroin,” Dr. Rose said. “It’s like electricity: If you want to keep in on, you have to keep paying.”

Hmm. So how’s this work? You tell us we’re ugly unless we shoot botulism poison into our heads – and by the way, you’re the only one who can sell us the poison. And we have to keep going back.

NICE one, Dr. Rose. Comparing your female patients to heroin addicts makes you, what, a drug dealer? Glad you’re proud of that.

What pissed me off? I mean, we’re ugly and deficient if we don’t wear mascara. Somehow injecting poison into the head, where the brain, senses, and expression organs are, is a little different from putting wax on our lashes.

And I gotta wonder about the blatant sexism of the male doctor/female addict drama, too. Would a male orthopedist who fixes middle-aged men’s knees and hips so they can continue to play sports – would that doctor compare his patients to addicts? “Well, the prosthetic hip is like heroin. It’ll wear out; and they’ll have to come back for a new one to keep playing. Prosthetic joints are the male yuppie heroin.” I don’t think so.

Years ago I went to a Botox party at a rich friend’s apt. Quite exclusive at the time: A chi-chi plastic surgeon would offer everyone free info about Botox and a free shot. It was in a gorgeous penthouse apt. But gotta be suspicious when the first taste of anything is free. Get your first shot in a penthouse; wind up getting shot up in a storefront. My god, Dr. Rose is right!

The quest for eternal youth has made people buy snake oil for a long, long, time. Helena Rubenstein referred to her face cream as “hope in a jar” way back in the 1930s. What’s wrong w/hope in a syringe? And Botox ain’t snake oil; it does freeze the face. Who doesn’t hope to escape suffering, old age, and death?

But few have expressed the flavor of the modern chase so well as Dr. Rose. I’m actually grateful to him for his clarity.

But somehow, this just set me off. Ya know, I’m NOT gonna shoot poison into my head to look however you define “okay”. I’m just not. And good luck and all my compassion to those who do.

Garofalo Maron Rollins: Gramercy Theatre, New York

aka the long-awaited “bitter rant fest” of April, Friday the 13th

When I first saw this show come up on the sked, I gleefully signed on. I LOVE Henry Rollins. I love Janeane Garafalo. Marc Maron makes me laugh. (Even tho’ Rollins cna be an asshole. But I love his hardcore in your face truth-telling honesty. Ever since Black Flag. He may often act like an asshole, but he’s not bullshitting you about it. He’s angry, he’s cool, and he’s more than a little goofy, when you get into it w/him.)

I’ve loved the wry, exasperated Janeane ever since she landed an inflatable raft on the restricted sands of Greenwich, CT, in a segment of the old Michael Moore TV Nation show. (All beachs in CT are private; reserved for the taxpayers of that particular town. Ya pay yr taxes; ya get the beach sticker for your car. No residency; no sticker; no parking; no way to the beach. Janeane invaded via Long Island Sound in a marine approach – a brilliant tactical move.)

Maron and Garofalo had also been on Air America, the sane and humorous anecdote to Fox’s “fair and balanced” dark side of radio.

Plus I was curious about the latest new venue in Manhattan, the refurbished Gramercy; bought by Live Nation (don’t let ’em fool ya, that’s Clear Channel the evil one) to compete with the Mercury/Bowery group’s similar-sized Bowery.

The Gramercy ain’t no Bowery. (I shouda guessed, I guess.) A more nondescript, airport-lounge-like space I cannot imagine. No visual detail mars the vast expanse of colorless plasterboard that form the walls and proscenium of this dead, dead space. I expect it will be a good venue for introducing new Microsoft design software or meetings of “the Forum.”

The stage was bare. The three performers did stand-up: a microphone stand, two speakers at their feet, and a high stool. Audience seated in folding chairs on the floor, or, in the balcony, snuggled into the single remmant to remind us this was actually once a theatre, some oddly comfy red padded seats.

janeane garofalo, gramercy theatre 4/13/07
Garofalo riffed on her hatred of obligation — the obligation to be anywhere, with or for anyone, regardles of whether or not she made the plan to begin with. She complained of that common affliction wherein one’s cell phone rings, you think, “Why the hell are these people CALLING ME!” and then suffering when no one calls you. She complained that now that she doesn’t drink, she finds no escape from the noise and no reason to go out of her apt. preferring to watch “The Rockford Files” or “Simon & Simon”. She discussed her willing suspension of disbelief and fondness for abandoning all science when dealing with expensive face cream in Sephora; complained of her stinking apt (she evidently smokes constantaly, emits particularly acrid sweat, and has two large, hairy dogs); and told some good “stealing the traffic cone” drinking stories. She referred repeatedly to the horror of the ever-present noise and dissonance, the horror of an old Backstreet Boys video in which they fly overhead, swooping down in apparent prep for tea-bagging young children, and finally, the horror of Ann Coulter, whom she asserted she often believes is Andy Kaufman’s current schtick. I liked that one; only someone sick as Andy K could or would invent Ann Coulter. She IS a man, after all. . . .I wasn’t so crazy about her performance. She looked a little fragile, sounded a little broken. I mean, I’VE made that point about the cell phone; I hate to go anywhere even when I’m the one who eagerly made the plans to begin with. She always seemed like one of my friends, but funnier, and on TV. Now she just seems like all the brown-haired, brown-eyed women with Italian last names in New York that I know. Like Flora. Like me.

henry rollins gramercy theatre 4/12/07

Henry Rollins is not like me. He is clearly not a woman; in fact, he is bedeviled with, um, let’s call ’em “situations and scenarios” in his head with them. He clearly loves them desperately, but has severe problems relating to misogyny, women, and, um, hell, anything with tits. I know that. He’s a freakin’ mess in that department. He tries really hard, but that whole area of his psyche is just dead flat opaque to him.

But he’s NOT a mess regarding politics and telling the truth EXACTLY how he sees it. Loved him since he was a monster in Black Flag and the Rollins Band. Loved him last year on public TV and this year on IFC. And LOVED him at the Gramercy.

Like Marc Maron, who followed Garofalo and preceded him – the solidly entertaining, professional corned-beef in the stand-up sandwich here – Rollins opened with a lovesong to NYC, a paean to its hot women who won’t give him the time of day (told ya), its racial, sexual, and personality diversity, and the nowhere-else-but-here thing that makes you KNOW you’re home: public urination. You’re not here till you see that old guy peeing on the street. Ahhhhh.

Rollins’s presentation was cool and white-hot and eminently GOOFY. He’s start with some jaw-dropping stuff about the bad, bad things the adminstration has done, about how freaking STUPID the stupid people are – but then spin off into a fantasy of what he’d like to do with the world; fantasy scenarios that were crazy, goofy, and weirdly compassionate. Like he’d like to make NYC a compulsory reeducation camp. Every kid in America would have to come to NYC for six weeks or months and just MEET all the people middle America is afraid of, all the people who don’t look like them, who’ve they’re all scared of. And then Rollins did a mock dialogue tween a kid who’s been to NYC and goes back to his redneck dad in Texas, and tells him how he’s going to France to fuck French women and be in a band, etc. . . and it was  funny, and angry and sweet.  And then, later, when Rollins started talking about his life growing up in the suburbs of Wash DC, I realized it was kinda like Rollins’s own life, like the storybook narrative version of it,  ‘cuz he hated his superconservative brilliant beer-guzzlin racist scientist dad.

Hmm. to quote a Rollins tag line, “Then there’s THAT.”

Rollins riffed on about the stupidity of “abstinence-only” education that allowed a friend to impregnate a buddy’s girl, when he loaned him his used condom; about creationists (he was damn funny on that); about how he dreams that George Bush will stand up at the end of his presidency and announce it was all just a test of Americans’ resolve, and all the veterans’ injuries were CGI (that one hurt); and about what it’s gonna be like when WE are in contol and what we’ll concede to the conservatives as sops to keep them happy. About racism and his liberal mom and how he got beat up everyday in kindergarten as one of four white kids in the class. About homophobia and his visit to an IFC party in a gay bar – he is very “gay positive” I’ll say that.

And finally he wound up in a brilliant, heartfelt fantasy scenario of  how great is the current wave of “predator death.” He tied the theory of Mother Earth’s retaliation to the increase in stories of lions eating joggers, of stupid Ukranians who walk into lion cages stating “God will protect me” and get eaten. How naked crackheads in Florida are getting chewed on by alligators. How reticulated pythons and boas are now loose and breeding in the swamps of Florida, how we should jsut freaking introduce alligators into NYC sewers and subways if they’re not there, to eat drunken Wall Street guys who roam the subways late at night.

He just let loose like a 10-year-old boy entranced with reptiles, as he spieled on about how romantic and doomed it would be if every day you went out and didn’t know if you’d be eaten. He sprinkled the fantasy with Latin names of venom-spitting cobras, keeping suburban dads from exiting their cars to get to the front door for dinner. And he wound up with a call to bring back the dinosaurs, to clone their bone marrow, to have ’em stomping around, giant T-rexes bellowing down the avenues of New York.  And to have them eating the freaking stupid-ass creationists.

And he talked about his recent trip to Iran, and the amazing women he met there – intelligent, funny ones, who one-upped him in conversation time and again. When he asked one, “What about your boy there, what’s the deal?” refering to the belligerent Iranian president, one woman raised an eyebrow and said “What about YOUR boy, there, what’s the deal with HIM?” About how great Iran is and how Tehran is like New York – held hostage by a leader elected by the fear-and-faith driven undereducated masses.  He  even called himself on getting way to into the fake cloak-and-dagger rush of being an American! in Iran! who can’t reveal he’s Famous! He was totally honest and totally clear.

Hell, I would go to Iran with him. I would listen to his hilarious obsession with predator death and killer reptiles. I’d argue about liner notes of punk bands in the 80s with him. I mean, who wouldn’t? But then I’d go home. As I did Friday night, cuz he is one fucked-up dude. Brilliant, creative–and beautifully, honestly, no bullshit fucked-up. We all are, in our ways, but not everyone’s honest about it.

Long live America, and all its ranters. I highly recommend the Rollins show live.

Will You Sue Me in a Box? Dylan, Seuss, and Letting Us Play with Their Stuff

The fabulous so-called Bob Dylan versions of “Green Eggs & Ham” and “Cat in the Hat” that this blog (when it was on myspace exclusively) directed you to back on March 7 are gone.

Seuss sues swift and sure.

Per Dan Brekke in, “When a musician recorded ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ in the voice of vintage Bob Dylan and posted it online, the Grinch estate promptly replied: One fish, two fish, cease and desist.”

Kevin Ryan, a music producer and author of Recording the Beatles (an amazing, slighly obsessive yet fascinating tome), created his brilliant pastiche of Theordore Geisel and Robert Zimmerman’s works just for the fun of it. But no fun in the new world for the little creators.

The heavy hand of copyright law is ready for a smackdown – more and more of the time.

A lot of people who work in publishing, esp children’s publishing, knows that the Geisel estate is somewhat insane over copyright.

NO one fucks with that Cat in the Hat. NO one mocks Fox in Sox. Seems a little contrary to kind old Teddy’s mild and wacky sense of humor, but that’s the way the will worked out.

So, what’s the point here? Another case of little guy getting squashed by those with corporate money and lawyerly muscle? Another case of how the Ecstasy of Influence – the wonderful mash-up sensibility that has informed so much of the current cultural landscape – is facing increasing opposition from the powers that be?

Well, yeah.

Look at what art and even advertising we see around us; EVERYTHING references everything else. Just about anybody born after 1960 who’s made anything has done this themselves in some way, even if they later abjure ironic reference or seek totally original nonselfconscious methods of expression.*

Culturally, the hip-hop sensibility of sampling and appropriation is arguably the biggest thing to happen since art entered the age of mechanical reproduction.

But it’s getting harder to cut up the pieces and play with them anymore.

Read the Salon article: Brekke talks about the 2LiveCrew case, and lots of other fascinating stuff. He doesn’t talk about how user-created or consumer-posted content, like YouTube, is causing conniptions among product owners like NBC and Viacom, who just don’t want us to play with their stuff! That’s the basic thing I see.

They just don’t want us to play w/their stuff. Even if it helps them sell more of it. . . .

btw: Ryan’s note-perfect “Dylan” versions of Seuss are still out there somewhere – find ’em for a smile. And to pay tribute to Ryan’s loving work – he just did it for the fun of it. He didn’t really deserve that big a smackdown.

Or did he? Weigh in your self.

*see David Foster Wallace’s seminal 1983 essay, “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction,” for the starter argument AGAINST ironic reference. Oh wait, I just used a long footnote, a marker of Wallace’s style, to talk about Wallace – Help! Dave! Don’t sue me!

Environmentalism and Kant’s Categorical Imperative

Recently, I read a post on Maximum Bob, via a link from another friend’s site (Cardboard Gods). Bob was writing about how the installation of wood-burning stoves, a commendable action when it comes to reducing dependence on foreign oil, could basically re-smogify Britain.

The issue reminded me of the Destroilet, an artefact of my engineer dad’s 1970s Mother Earth News/Euell Gibbons-reading era:

We had a little place in Vermont, a tiny vacation house for skiing, fishing, rusticating, and such. It was on a small pond, and rather than contribute to runoff and wastewater problems, my dad, an engineer who had designed numerous wastewater treatment plants (He used to tell people “Your shit is my bread and butter!”, much to the mortification of my mom) decided to act with awareness. So to prevent sewage runoff and protect the pond, he ordered an expensive new toilet from Sweden for the Vermont house.

The Destroilet.

I kid you not.

This toilet rid the world of human waste by incinerating it. After use, when the top lid was closed, a small, thick metal lid would also close over the well at the bottom. A jet of burning gas would incinerate the solid waste and vaporize the liquid. A chimney to the outdoors carried away the vapors.

Not very far, it didn’t. The air quality in the vicinity after use of the Destroilet was, um, not high. God only knows what was floating around. Imagine if all our neighbors had installed the same? No one would have been able to go outdoors.

We children gleefully terrorized our youngest brother with the Destroilet from the age of about 4 onward. All too often, raising the lid before the recommended 5 minutes would reveal burning embers of human shit, glowing and pulsing horridly red. I’m surprised the kid was ever successfully trained.

Anyway, those damn Swedes. . . . watch out how environmental you are. Or how big you think your environment is. It DOES include the neighbors. Ask what Kant would ask; consider the categorical imperative.

Would you want all to behave — or burn — as you do? that’s the question I ask myself. Ever since the Destroilet.

Iggy @ United Palace, NYC – Ramblin’ Pete’s guest review

So Iggy Pop is turning 60??! (If the “facts” printed on his Web site are to be believed…
As with Latin American pitchers, with rock stars you just never know.)

David Letterman just turned 60. I cannot picture Letterman, who has lived a far more sedate lifestyle (less substances, though more open-heart surgery), flailing around a stage and throwing himself about like a madman for an hour and a half. It is exhausting just WATCHING the Ig. He is a freak of nature. Or something.

Enough ink has been spilled on the glory of the reunited Stooges, godfathers of scuzz-rock, survivors, legends…. Their on-stage mayhem may be scripted by this point, but there is still that rock and roll feeling of things threatning to get out of hand whenever, wherever they unloose their monstrous sound.

My ears still ring. We were in the balcony of the “United Palace,” a heretofore little known yet ornate gem of a theater located way the hell up in Wahington Heights. Walking around the “hood,” it was not difficult to spot who was there for the show. The grand old theater has been used since 1969 as a home for the crusades of “Reverend Ike,” a charismatic minister popular in the African-American community. Now suddenly there are concerts galore being held here, courtesy of the folks who book Webster (the ol’ Ritz) Hall and Bowery Ballroom. Bjork is coming. Bloc Party just played. The Stooges sold out the joint and nearly blew the gothic-styled intricately detailed roof off. A Gilded “Palace” of Salvation, indeedy….

Not much to look at from the outside, but inside, the theater (built in 1930 as one of the city’s WPA-era-grandeur-luxe movie palaces) is absolutely gorgeous. Lots of period detail. Carpeting. Balustrades. Moorish, Byzantine, and Romanesque influences. (thank you, Architectural Digest.) And above the stairs, large framed quotations from the gospel of Reverend Ike. Picture a slightly smaller Beacon Theater for the vibe.

We were ensconced in the “loge” about halfway up the balcony. Bird’s Eye view of the proceedings. The opening act, the eponymous “Sistahs in the Pit” took the stage.

Pretty much what you would expect…vaguely metal-ish, occaisionally energetic, thrashy and riff-heavy sloganeering from a butch trio of uniformly punk-attired women of color. Not bad, but not anything that revelatory. They seemed tough. WIth apologies to MSNBC…uh…these were some [GUEST writer inserted Imus’s recent slur]. Excxept the drummer. She (I think it was a she) wore a mohawk.

Sitting (well, standing) way above the fray, I didn’t think earplugs would be necessary.

“Iggy likes the treble high and LOUD.” Gotta remember that. When the Stooges took the stage to ‘Loose,’ the energy quotient went up ten notches. And the volume went up eleven.

I’ve seen the re-formed band three times, and somehow hearing then rip through the material from the first two albums never gets stale. Shirtless from the get-go, Iggy is Iggy. Doing his Iggy-isms. The trademark flailing, gesturing, dancing, writhing, exposing himself, exhorting the audience…

In his NY Times review, Ben Ratliff makes mention of “the delicate middle-state between having pants on and not having pants on…” Amen.

The band was remarkably tight, having been steadily touring for a few years now.

Ron Asheton in his military jacket and hair weave, deliberately slamming out chords somehow recognizable in the din. Remember this grotesque beauty and simplicity, children, when some blowhard starts going on about his Pat Metheney collection. Kid brother “Rock” on drums as primitive and menacing as ever. And Mike Watt, G-d bless ‘im. An avuncular and comforting presence on the four-string, REALLY getting into it, clearly enjoying himself.

Watt pretty much played bass-as-lead-guitar for much of his Minutemen/fIREHOSE tenure, and has said in interviews that he literally had to teach himself how to play all over again to access the Stooges’ gestalt. Well, he done good. Even if the low-end was hardly dominant in the deafening racket.

Iggy was agitated, which is good of course. No peanut butter to be found, but he was very much the performer, and considering his less-than-monastic lifestyle (please site the priceless tome Please Kill Me for details verging on T.M.I.) looked about as ravaged as Rangers’ winger Brendan Shanahan, and pretty much played as physically as # 14 does.

The band tore through the expected “classics,” I don’t remember the order exactly, but most of the first two albums were churned out at breakneck pace in the maelstrom. The fans, a decent number of whom appeared not too far from Mr. Pop’s age, were delirious. ‘Down in the Street,’ ‘1969,’ ‘I Wanna be Your Dog (performed only once this evening….).’ No regrets. The Stooges drove ’em wild.

Iggy repeatedly called for the house lights to be brought up. He threw his mike stand over every 30 seconds. He wanted to interact. Much to the chagrin of the brutish security detail, he had about a hundred fans rush the stage for a couple of numbers to dance, even as the bouncers roughly threw them off (‘No Fun’ indeed.) Mike Watt was surrounded by a bevy of punkettes graciously giving him personal space to riff, and hugged about 50 people after the songs ended and the stage was cleared.

‘Real Cool Time,’ ‘T.V.Eye,…the band brought out not-so-secret-weapon Steve MacKay on his battered saxaphone about halfway through the set, and he managed to cut through the mix to add another primal texture to the noise. The did ‘Fun House…’ it broke down into chaos with Iggy thrashing about in the audience somewhere (it was hard to see,) …was this an ‘L.A. Blues?’ …Can we officially call this an ‘L.A. Blues??’ Hmm…maybe it was an obscure Albert Ayler cover. Regardless, Iggy came back. The band did two encores (the first a three-song bid.)

The newer material held up alright, especially in the chaotic auditory conditions where minute detail and words weren’t as important as phrasing and SOUND. Some complain validly that the lyrical content of new album “The Weirdness” isn’t so hot, but c’mon…people….What do you, expect a Shakesperean sonnet from these guys?! I mean most of us didn’t even know Iggy could read and write until the late ’70s at the earliest.

Regardless, even if the newer stuff isn’t quite the older stuff, Ig performed it enthusiastically, and the band never let up for a second. Songs like ‘Skull Ring,’ and ‘Little Electric Chair’ from his last “solo” album, and ‘I’m Fried’ and ‘She Took My Money’ from the newer Stooges joint at least provided some variety in the set list.

My major ‘plaint: The group has been reformed for almost four years now, hatchets buried, contracts signed, gym memberships for all, etc. etc. It would be NICE (to put it less bluntly than any Stooges dirge) to hear Iggy and the lads take on some more diverse material. ANYTHING from ‘Raw Power’ would, at this point, be greeted as enthusiastically as a ‘St. Stephen’ at a Dead show and them some. Both Ashetons played on the album, but Ron was moved to bass to accomodate the enigmatic (and supposedly still alive) James Williamson.

How about some of Ig’s later material, then? It’s not like he has a lack of back catalog to choose from. Can we please, maybe, once, please, hear ‘I Got a Right?’ Do I hear a ‘Passenger’ down the line? A ‘Five Foot One?’ ‘Johanna?’ Even ‘Lust for Life.’ Hell, enough time has passed since it was a Volvo (?) ad….

Still and all, though, seeing the Stooges live is an experience not to be missed. A journey to the center of the Id. Or the Ig. A chance to see a legend. Who still puts out so much loud noise and buoyant energy that he can barely be restrained. Happy 6-0 Igster. (April 21st).

May you continue to rock out for many years to come.

– Ramblin’ Pete

Mr. Pop & the Stooges – NYC, April 9, United Palace Theatre

The Living Sinew, Iggy Pop, and the Stooges made the United Palace SCREAM on Monday night. My companion the inimitable Millerman and I were up in the freakin’ rafters, but it was the LOUDEST show we’ve heard in years, literally. My ears hurt today. A lot.

Iggy was incandescent; I am deaf. Hmm.

He opened with “Loose” and got “I Wanna Be Your Dog” out of the way by the 3rd song. He leapt and writhed, shirtless in his spray-on rayon denim, same as it ever was. That man is built like a snake — but tan and lithe as he is, the binoculars revealed – gasp – more than a bit of loose flesh around the waist. The hint of decay worked for him.

“1969” saw the denim unbuttoned and some very carefully orchestrated writhes as the denim slipped. Strategically placed twirl and slippage near the last 20 seconds of the song; ALAS, I glimpsed the hairy man root of him.

G-A-A-A-A-C-C-C-K-K-K!!!!!! Iggy! You’re SIXTY YEARS OLD already. Millerman averted his eyes in time.

The band was the Asheton bros on guitar and drums – the original Stooges, minus the deceased Dave Alexander, plus Mike Watt (Minutemen, fireHOSE – all praise DIY – he was resplendent in a plain darkblue jumpsuit – like you’d see on the guy who rotates yr tires) on bass. And original horn Steve Mackay showed up about halfway thru, on a snarly, dirty, bleating sax. The band produced all-out punky-metal assualt with one tempo – fast – and one tone – loud – for 1 hr. 30 mins of ear-splitting tunage.

The rest of the crowd probably had less trouble w/it than me and Millerman – they just turned their hearing aids off. Seldom have I felt so young lately in a NYC concert crowd. But in general, the sound was more ‘n a bit muddy.

Show included a lot of songs from “Fun House”; stuff from the first record of course, “Dirt,” “Down in the Street”; some bits from Skullring, and some stuff in the encores from the merely serviceable The Weirdness, the most recent CD — “Electric Chair,” “I’m Fried.”(oh I get it. haha.) Just as at the Garage Fest at Randall’s Island two years ago, Iggy called all onstage for a mass writhefest during “No Fun” – the bouncers were brutal on those loathe to leave. Bastards. I knew at least one of the people onstage – go Jimmy! You Rock.

“Fun House” the song featured Iggy at top o’ his form, hollering at the end, “I’m sick. All the time. I’m you” while Mike Watt dropped the bass, and as it swung from his shoulders, turned spreadeagle w/his hands on top of the sixteen-woofer speaker behind him, and proceeded to fuck it. Or his guitar did, anyway.

There is no one like Iggy. There are lots who want to look like him – he kinda defined a certain sinewy gristly lead singer sickness. But it’s odd to see him now.

Hence the blog title: Does it make any sense to call Iggy “Mr. Pop”? Like he’s pop music?!

Weren’t the Stooges all about raw primitive punk? Aren’t they cited by every young historian of the movement as seminal proto-punks, along with Stiv Bators, etc.? I’ve seen recent movies and read quite a few books claiming the Stooges and even the MC5 as “real” punk, even before the Ramones, portrayed by would-be Lester Bangs as the total opposite to manufactured groups like Malcolm McLaren’s carefully crafted Sex Pistols. Yes, it seems the historically accepted conclusion (this year, anyway) is that the brutal economic realities facing young James Osterman in Ann Arbor, MI (okay, we all know that’s his name!) plus a very twisted personality, gave rise to Iggy Pop.

WhatEVER. Too much historical commentary lately; too many labels; too many rewrites and revisions of stuff I remember myself.

So, is Iggy Pop’s music now pop? Hell yeah!

“Lust for Life” was the theme song for a cruise line commercial, after all.