Iggy Pop

Iggy Pop

It’s the stare. It’s the eyes of a guard dog, the riveting look of the sentry at Checkpoint Charlie. In the midst of the aural maelstrom, he stands serene, sharp-etched torso not even breathing hard, staring out over the crowd. Looking past us, to somewhere we can’t see. Then he explodes in a rush of violent action, body contorting into impossible shapes, bouncing off the Marshall amps, careening past his adolescent band. His voice is hard, flat. It shows none of his 52 years. He is the Dick Clark of punk rock — ageless, yet as rough as you would imagine when you read the exploits of his life. Exploits that have slain lesser men (Hendrix, Morrison, Moon). It’s all in his eyes. Daunting, teasing laser eyes. He knows no bounds. No stage holds him, no crowd control can contain him. He wants company on “Nightclubbing”? He invites the assembled mass on stage. They dance, hands slipping off his chiseled body, clutching his shiny leather pants. Briefly, he smiles, but it’s the smile of a winning general in a never-ending war. You will be won over, or not. Your choice. It won’t affect him at all. “So messed up; I want you here” he shrieks as “I Wanna Be Your Dog” taps on our shoulders, then hits us full face when we turn around. He might want us, but he doesn’t need us. But we do most certainly need him — to remind us how to dance. To remind us why we loved rock and roll in the first place. To rekindle our “Lust For Life.” Iggy, you are the man.

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