Iggy and the Stooges
April 28, 2013
(Le) Poisson Rouge
New York, NY
Iggy Pop is ready to die, and if he’s ready to die, then so am I.
And it’s on this knife edge of a living deathwish that Iggy takes the stage at (Le) Poisson Rouge in New York City and throws down the gauntlet, right in your fucking face.
Watch the fuck out, people.
So I’m thinking you’re only truly ready to pass into the infinite when you’ve grasped the moment, that one true, ecstatic moment. Is that what the white light is? Did somebody say soul? What soul?
Iggy Pop is a colossus, a force of hell-fire nature, a living shaman, a prehistoric madman. It’s as if he’s always existed—once a sadistic killing machine, like Judge Holden, or a firestarter in the Genghis Khan Army of Psychotics, or maybe he was something else entirely, like a cock-rock version of the Mad Monk, both saintly and debauched. In recent times, he worked in the red-light district of Les Halles as some junked-up chanteur, singing late-night paeans to the sad and sorry denizens of the eternal underworld.
What the fuck happened to Iggy’s skin? Has he ever worn a shirt?
So the Stooges are doing what they do best, which is bring a noise so fucking fierce and bombastic you’d think these guys invented modern warfare, which of course they did. Iggy has put you square in the here and now with a fist to the jaw and a rumble to the body—as in the fully realized moment—nothing more, nothing less. Everything has fallen away and everything you think you care about has no meaning. Not here, not tonight. Zero fucking chance.
Anybody else ready to die? Well then, break on through…
How the fuck did I end up on stage with Iggy Pop?
And will you just put that fucking phone away?
Which brings us to this…
Can anything ever again be defined as a Truly Transcendent Rock Experience at this point in our self-absorbed, small-minded, shoegazing, pansy-assed, addicted to vapid mind-sucking nothingness, shitty little garden-variety existence we call Modern Life?
Iggy Fucking Pop.
The Fucking Stooges.
Fuck me and everybody alive.
Ready to Die
Sex & Money
Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell
Photographs by the Rock File