Quarterlifeparty

NOTE: I would like to introduce Quarterlifeparty’s latest writer, Denis Wilson. He will be covering shows in the Philly area and adding some general posts on music, etc.

Reunion tours are all about expectations and surprises. When I saw (one of the many) Who reunion tours in 1997, I was fully expecting a bombastic rock exorcism, and at 17, my expectations were amply fulfilled. I was not expecting them to play Quadrophenia in its entirety, wasn’t expecting Billy Idol as a guest vocalist, nor was I expecting to see my high school economics teacher there, slurring “I’ll see you in class tomorrow!” but was pleasantly surprised by all three.

Well The Stooges are back too, with the same 1970 line-up that produced the essential Fun House, sans the departed Dave Alexander on bass. But that also means that the oft-overlooked Steve MacKay (saxophone) was also in tow for the show. Add on top of that, indie-rock icon Mike Watt (bass), and you have enough American punk history to blow your eardrums (ask my brother’s ears.)

So expectations were high Wednesday night – among which were seeing Iggy bare-chested with wrinkling skin and rippling muscles. And as always, the obligatory reunion tour force-feeding of the new material was expected, feared, and even derided while we had some pre-game drinks. The gig was at the Electric Factory, within walking distance of Northern Liberties (aka Hipsterville) – perfect for pre-gaming. Adjoining the Electric Factory is Whiskey Dix Saloon, also great for pre-and-post-aural saucing.

We got to the show with enough time to catch the second opening band – a black-girl fronted, OK rock band. Just a warning: the balcony where the bar is provides a good view of the stage but pretty awful sound. We scurried to the floor to catch The Stooges come out. Fortunately the room wasn’t packed and we nestled our way comfortably up front.

Well, this is where I tell you that expectations are abhorrent, slutty ghouls out to ruin a good time. Tonight they were blown away by the first smash of guitars. Without reservation, I immediately new that this was a show. This is also where I tell you that Iggy Pop does not fucking phone it in. He’s a man that should be dead by now and has more energy than most of the crowd half his age. Bare-chested: check. Wrinkly: check. Sinewy muscles: check. The band crashed through the numbers, and thank the lord, Fun House was the sound they harken back to – essentially a live album itself – a template for the evening’s avant-noise bedded with Iggy’s erotic rave-ups. Scott Asheton on drums was what Entwistle was to the Who – steady – holding down the chaos, while brother Ron explored Noise and Feedback and Iggy provided an equal part of monotone melody.

It’s hard to be critical when you’re smashed at a Stooges concert. Really, The Stooges, like most good punk, are immune to critical musings: you either get it or you don’t. It’s easier to climb into the pit for a while, thrash around with strangers and friends, and wonder why you weren’t 16 in 1970.

First Surprise: When Iggy Pop tells you to “get on the stage motherfuckers,” and you’ve had a pint or two and are of sound body, you get on the stage. Mid show, he made the call and a friend and I jumped the railing and hopped on stage. As MTV-orchestrated as it was, I can’t say it was a bad time. Best of all was witnessing Mike Watt, slamming away on his bass three feet away from me, smiling from ear to ear. About twenty people swirled around Iggy as he drifted back and forth on the stage, his Scottish-looking bodyguard keeping the kiddies at 2-foot bay.

There’s a 50% chance that they were playing “T.V. Eye” during this whole debacle. All I know is that I wanted to hug Mike Watt. He looked like a kid in a candy shop. For me, The Stooges have always teetered between meaning and nihilism, emotion and oblivion – and in songs like “Loose,” the rhythm section consistently provided the kindling for the embers of distortion.

The concert was a flash. Iggy jaunting, posing, intimidating at times, and vulnerable at others – he was a fucking apparition. He would strut out with danger in his eyes, while at other times, he pranced innocently. His dirty-blond hair drifting, oddly effeminate, I actually mistook him for my friend’s ex-girlfriend at times. At one point he hopped upon the amps and posed like a catish model.

And yes, they played some stuff off of The Weirdness. On CD, “My Idea of Fun” doesn’t jump out of the speakers (probably b/c Steve Albini is a punk-rock Protestant,) but live, it was catchy enough to get a head bob by the end of the song. From my notes I gather that they played “I Want to be Your Dog,” which slowed to a mere crawl at one point. I’m pretty sure they played every ounce of Fun House. Someone yelled. I screamed. People wore flannel.

The surprise of the night was that this didn’t feel like a reunion tour. Not for me, not for my friends, and I’ll be a Iguana’s uncle if also not for Iggy, Scott, Ron, Mike , and Steve. The Stooges sounded as good as probably ever. The primordial groove that they sunk into over and over again was awesome. Iggy countered each bluesy rant with equally-raucous screams.

MacKay punctuated the evening with his playing on “Fun House” (the song), sounding like someone strangling a goose while learning guitar – a band of squalls and scronks. Their sound was singular: the guitar chords would rise, crackle, burn, pop, and self-destruct – the note would sink below the fed-back noise, once peaking and utterly swallowing itself, like a wave, never fully taking form nor claiming existence. I closed my eyes and let it drown me – working class stooges creating a layered symphony of sweet cacophony. (Don’t forget, they were once the Psychedelic Stooges.) And then they were gone.

Related:

• Ron Asheton Dies at 60

Tags: live , Iggy Pop , The Stooges