CENTERSTAGE

CENTERSTAGE

BEERLY WILD

IGGY POP St. Andrew�s Hall, Detroit, MI November 8, 1986

by

Dave Segal

It�s amazing that Iggy�s simply living, isn�t it? That he has an LP in Billboard�s Top 50 or 100, is touring and getting heavy MTV play boggles the minds of historians everywhere, I�m sure. As happy as I am for Iggy�s comeback, I can�t help feeling that the whole Blah Blah Blah package irritates Ig something awful. In his heart he must know that almost any deep-voiced white man could�ve made this new Blah music. The Igness has been emasculated by Dave Bowie and modern recording technology. But Iggy in the flesh still ignites those fires of yore.

As nutty as it sounds, the most remarkable thing about Iggy�s return to the Murder Capital in something like eight years was the presence of millionaire writer of detective fiction, Elmore �Dutch� Leonard. Sitting up in the balcony with calm dignity, he cut a most incongruous figure. I found myself watching him as often as I eyeballed Mr. Pop.

Not that Iggy was crappy or anything. It never got close to being embarrassing, as I thought it might. Iggy was a responsible entertainer giving the customers a good, disciplined rock show. And I swear on a stack of Stooges albums, there�s still vestiges of legendary something-or-other emanating from his double-jointed self.

At 39, James Osterberg appeared fitter than 99 percent of the audience (many of whom were well into their fourth decade of living). Hair slicked back and wearing black everything, he showed he�s as elastic and as bouncy as ever; going through jive-ass matador movements and punching the air (why not?), Ig is still a magnificent specimen to behold. When Jimbo inevitably stripped off his jacket and shirt, the observer could note every rib delineated, every striation on the famous torso. It brought a tear or three to the eye. Up in the balcony, Elmore. Leonard watched with professional detachment.

Also stimulating the ducts was the sight of Jim�s band. One guitarist looked like Marshall Crenshaw�s brother; the bassist and keyboard player resembled chemistry students. I couldn�t see the drummer very well, but you wouldn�t mistake him for Scott Asheton, that�s for damn sure. A nerdier bunch would be harder to imagine. Predictably, they were ultracompetent. They seemed to be chosen so Iggy would stand out even more than he normally does. It worked. In the balcony, Elmore Leonard watched with stoical boredom.

From the first song (�I Got A Right�) to the last (��Cry For Love�; how fucking obvious!) middle-aged infants tossed beer and other spirits at the diminutive vocalist. Fear registered in Ig�s eyes, I believe, and that fear spurred him to bound around the stage with even more gusto and to raise both middle digits in anger. The jackassery got excessive and unfunny in a hurry and I mightily prayed that security would crack open the craniums of the guilty parties. But they didn�t. If this was an attempt to re-create the Metallic KO experience, it failed pathetically.

With a lunatic pride, Iggy performed 21 songs in 90 minutes. He sang as well as one could expect some 16 years after the release of Funhouse. I could�ve done without the ballads, which were like eternities in Purgatory. And I could�ve done without the Blah songs. I think I�m not alone in lamenting the pernicious influence of Bowie that�s rampant on the new LP. On Blah, Jim O. has become what was once unthinkable for him: a mediocrity. He�s not the dynamic hedonist of the Stooges� heyday, nor is the desperate, creatively bankrupt shadow figure of his early �80s records. On Blah he parodies Idol parodying Pop parodying Bowie. If Ig isn�t visceral there�s not much point, really. Tender, sappy Ig bores. I realize it�s hopelessly quixotic to think a creative breakthrough can occur at 39. Still, one winces at the blandness of Blah. A pox on the smooth coating of shit with which Bowie�s covered Pop�s music!

Back to the show. Ig�s id blazed hottest on "Five Foot One,� "Sister Midnight,� �Lust For Life,� �TV Eye� and �Down On The Street.� His surprisingly subdued singing on the latter was either subversive or an indication that Igbo can no longer whip himself into the frenzy needed for that Dionysian classic. Which is not to say that our man can�t still pound wild music out of pain, because he did on occasion this night. And in the balcony, Elmore Leonard watched with uncontainable indifference.

All in all, the show was dandier than any optimist had a right to hope for. Should this progenitor of punk and postpunk come to your village, go see him and learn something about the politics of the crotch.