Words: Marc Le Breton, Photos: Richie Yates
So here’s the thing – in certain social media forums we see plenty of talk about best musician (guitarist, drummer and so on) but what about best (living) frontman? Surely Iggy is the only contender that counts; Jagger had swagger but it’s all too polished and anodyne these days whilst Springsteen is a boss to some but it’s all too earnest and clean, Daltrey has become a shadow of his former self voice-wise and don’t even start with the Liam’s, Bono’s and other Bozos of this world!
Lest we forget, Pop was involved in both THE key LP’s in proto and post-punk with ‘Funhouse’ (or ‘Raw Power’ if that’s your preferred cup o’ poison) and ‘The Idiot’ – all glacial synths, sharp angles and sharper songwriting than it’s given credit for (as is the ‘Lust For Life’ LP, forever overshadowed by the title tracks’ ubiquity during the culture-hungry late 90’s).
Also, that voice! One part Jim Morrison, two parts Sinatra yet still capable of roaring forth like a Norseman’s battle cry, the latter being the foundational touchstone for a million wannabe rock stars over the years (albeit without the ability to project anywhere near to Iggy’s strength or reach). But what still makes him the greatest frontman? His presence, energy and absolute, goddamn need to fly by the seat of his pants to pull the audience into his vortex. Every gig is a voyage into uncertainty (is this the one where he goes too far?). Forget the oft-quoted Doors / Morrison dream of Dionysian stage presence; it’s a far more brutal, frenzied ritual that Iggy has illustrated down the years; a potential for danger, toying with the rock-crazed death trip indeed. A visceral existence in excelsis.
However, judging by the use of a coffin in the prior Ally Pally gig, he’s self-aware enough to know that age is diminishing his abilities. The amp-humpin’ days are indeed over and the abuse Pop’s body has taken over the years has clearly taken it’s toll but who would begrudge a 77-year old titan taking a final bow to the world?
And so it is that he rips into centre stage with the same wild-eyed intent of lore, straight into ‘TV Eye’ and a series of Stooges classics throughout two-thirds of this set, save for back-to-back renditions (including singalong parts) of ‘The Passenger’ and ‘Lust For Life’ just to keep the less informed attendees attentive (or ‘Best Of’ Bods a-nodding). But, oh, what songs! The all-too-stark menace of ‘Gimme Danger’, a snotty ‘I Got A Right’, the skull-crushing Ur-riff of ‘Search and Destroy’, the snarling peacock strut of ‘Down On The Street’ and the mic-stand throwing thrash of ‘1970’. It’s also worth noting that the added brass to many of these landmarks of hard psych-rock harks back to a lesser-known but still key component of the Stooges’ influences; the free jazz of John Coltrane, Sun Ra and Ornette Coleman was always a core aspect to their sonic assaults from the get-go and, although subdued somewhat within the live mix, it was still good to hear the ghost of Steve Mackay in the shadows.
There’s an argument to make that Iggy should’ve peppered more of his solo work throughout the set rather than leaving it to the last third; we only get a snippet of ‘Nightclubbing’ and just one song from the ‘New Values’ set in the form of ‘I’m Bored’ but maybe the momentum would’ve been lost in this long-deserved victory lap?
Sure, it’s a little rose-tinted to think that he’s anywhere near as energetic as he once was. Take the glasses off and he is limited in his stage movement; using the stage monitor as a makeshift chair on occasion, looking for all the world like he could easily be a Grandpa Joe resting on the porch. A closer look also exposes the spidery sinews of a decrepid lizard and his audience interactions are limited by Iggy’s former interactive standards but hey! This is the man who made stage diving and audience participation an art so let’s accept his ability to still do this at all for the blessing that it is!
Solo-setwise, the highlights included ‘Some Weird Sin’ (introduced as ‘a song I wrote under my bed’) and set-closers ‘Real Wild Child (Wild One)’ and ‘Funtime’, by which time the Victoria Warehouse roof had been raised sufficiently enough to warrant the presence of a living legend.
So long Iggy, we salute ya!
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