Iggy & The Stooges
Iggy's a lamb, our sacrificial lamb to be frank, well actually ravaged by age he more resembles a crumbly Sunday Roast. The Messiah's Son: fucked up and not yet forgotten. Forget the onstage bleeding of the 70s, he now bleeds internally; his veins visibly thinner with his palms out-stretched showing off his unusual life-line. Red drips from his straightened dentures, as his chops bear the mark of an unmistaking grin. That grin a subtle two finger salute to the past and a symbolised mouthing: 'WE TOLD YOU SO!'
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The blood of The 1970s Stooges is intravenously fed through some time-warp and into the hearts of several old dogs in present day 2011. These ancient granddads claim to be the same batch of misfits led by one James Osterberg and proceed to carve out something more than a stage-show for an underwhelming audience in middle-class Kent. I happen to be a part of this audience. They sound the same. They have the same swagger and certainly the power. Recent reports actually confirm a match in Stooge-DNA, a rebellious strand of genetic information, informally known as Punk.
These (almost) Stooges power up their rocknroll machines and leave tire-marks all over the stage. Older Iggy arrives last and collapses into the mic-stand, berating it for even being there "SEARCHHH AND DESTROY!!" He jolts his body into some devil-dance-effigy and screams as if he's pissed all over a plug-socket and paid the price. This Sizzling Skeleton cackles with delight, singeing eyebrows in the first seven rows; a jittering advertisement for the pros of electro-shock treatment. He waves and giggles bemused at the outstretched and unappreciative audience. The Wild Band rev and roar as their fiery engines are smothered in gasoline; meanwhile Iggy continues to flick his lit matches in their general direction, baiting them toward the lava he's already waist-deep in. The guitars are now flamethrowers and the drumming an inferno. We're at minute 1 of this Stooges fire fight.
The Stooges as a collective rip through me with a menace, a menace that isn't dark, but gives the lax festivities of Hippy Hop Farm a much-needed scare. The security guards become violent as they cannot enjoy another drippy daisy chaining Newton Faulkner set and are forced into over-handed action against real music lovers. People have paid money to see a band they love yet are being nutted for the privilege. Iggy protects us school-kids from the brutish playground bullies during 'Shake Appeal' - pulling several fans on-stage "YA LET THEM UP HERE... LET HER THA FUCK GO! LET HER UP!" The band remains entirely faithful, accomplished geniuses who play expertly and with precision. Mike Watt straddling his bass, hunched in a pose akin to a squatting pregnancy, taunting Iggy with his beast-like bass-lines. Steve Mackay cuts through spinal cords with his buzzard-sax riff that reels with a self-destructive finesse, purpose and beauty. We are left deafened and dumb-struck by a sound that's cast out of heaven for its blinding dirty truthfulness.
'Gimme Danger', '1970', 'I Wanna Be Your Dog' and 'Cock in My Pocket' all explode in our vicinity as multiple gyrating body parts assemble with Little Stooges birthing in the audience from the sprayed sweat of The Onstage Daddies. Mock-Iggy stances and bulging eyes abound as The Stooges retire away from the cot - exhausted from feeding their tit-craving babies. "How do you follow The Stooges?" Morrissey said upon appearing... You just don't.
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