The Last Call 1/7/09
If good looks was a minute/ You know that you could've been an hour- Smokey Robinson, 'The Way You Do The Things You Do'
Whaooooh! Rock!
I don’t want to get into a history of the ’60s and ’70s in this post. Lord knows, there are stacks of books, which could fill a decent liberal arts college’s library, on the subject. But to get where I am going I need to start with how the ’60s ended. The Rolling Stones arranged to play a free show at the Altamont Speedway in northern California on December 6, 1969, four months after Woodstock. The concert quickly got out of hand, with the Hell’s Angels pushing people around the front of the stage. During one of these scuffles, one man was murdered. This violence marked the end of the ‘hippie’ era. This violence marked the beginning of ’70s rock, where the amount of money bands made was only dwarfed by the interstellar distance between fan and band. A distance protected by hired goons and A&R whores. A distance marked by violence and distrust. After Altamont, youth culture never hung out with their heroes. The young fan was the outcast-thanked in liner notes and from confused arena stops, but never touched by anything more personal than a wallet grab.
The Stooges, a little known band from fly-over, college town Ann Arbor, MI, could never have dreamed of playing an Altamont. But the Stooges, the Stooges were Altamont.
On Halloween night 1967, James Osterberg, Ron and Scott Asheton, and Dave Alexander took the stage at University of Michigan’s student union. James Osterberg had recently renamed himself Iggy Stooge, later Iggy Pop. The music the four of them played had its roots in the regional garage band sound which was at that point fading away. Major records companies, amazed at just how much money you could make off youth culture, had begun the process of strangling the small, local labels to which a band like the The Stooges only two years before would have signed. Instead, the Stooges signed to the most esoteric major label, Elektra. Esoteric they may have been, but Elektra had no idea what to do with the the Stooges. The lead singer regularly found himself in physical confrontations with the audience. The lead guitarist dressed all in black and wore an iron cross around his neck. The label, which was the home of West Coast acts like Love and the Doors, was completely befuddled. The band’s self-titled debut tanked.
The Stooges wanted to be stars. Badly. They looked at the charts, at the bands who were in the Top-10. Blood, Sweat, & Tears. Iron Butterfly. Led Zeppelin. They knew they were better than these bands. Instead of throwing themselves into the studio, determined to make a pop splash, they threw themselves down a bottle and, in the case of Iggy Pop, down the hole of a spike. Unlike jazz and blues stars before them, rock musicians on heroin suck. Drunk and strung-out, the Stooges shambled about the US, leaving in their wake sodden tales of missing teeth, missed gigs, and disappointed fans. The Stooges were disintegrating.
Wanting to get a pay-off on their investment, Elektra duck-walked their degenerate wards back to the studio. Awaiting them was Don Galluci, former keyboardist of ‘Louie Louie’-howlers the Kingsmen. Galluci knew what he had when this wreck arrived. He knew he would have to make sure the album reflected the present condition of the band. The album, Funhouse, is still the most furious piece of popular music ever recorded. Bands have been louder. Bands have been heavier. But no band has ever been angrier. The Stooges, filled with self-loathing and an awareness that this was their last stand, played as if their fix depended on it. And in Iggy’s case, it did.
This week’s track, ‘Loose’ begins with the absolute sonic fury that is the Stooge brothers, Ron and Scott Asheton. Every Angus Young riff, every Johnny Thunders riff, started as a Ron Asheton riff. His brother comes in behind him, smashing every cymbal between himself and Valhalla. If this was your home, Ron’s busting up your TV and Scott’s breaking your mother’s china. In comes Dave Alexander’s serpentine bass figure. And then Dr. Death himself, Iggy Pop croons, “Well, look out.” Well, look out, indeed. While you keep Ron and Scott away from your Kingston Trio albums, Iggy’s already flipping your mattress looking for money, and about to flip your old lady looking for fun. Or mayhem, if there was no money. A man with such infamous carelessness with his own blood is surely not going to value your wife’s.
Yes, this was exactly what kind of band this was. This is exactly what kind of music this is. If Kubrick’s Droogs were greasy townie thugs, this was the album they would release. There is no love. There is no peace. There is just every man for his f&cking self. And you better run if you think that knife’s gonna do you any good.
“I stick it deep inside/ I stick it, deeeep inside”
Yeah, Iggy didn’t find any money, man. He and your wife are on the flipped mattress. Ron is sawing away at your leg with a rusty hacksaw, while Scott pulls your head back with the towel in in your mouth. No one can hear you scream.
You’re in hell. And not dead yet.
OOOooomph. Uh oh. Dave has found a mallet. He winds ups and thumps you with it. You fall back, hemorraghing now in a number of places.
Now you’re dead.
The Stooges carry on, though. Ron follows Dave’s breakdown to get completely banshee on his guitar. Iggy just screams unintelligibly. Your house is a shambles, man. Not that it matters.
And then it’s over. You blink once or twice, headphones still warm from that assault. Your crib is fine. It was just the music after all. That sweet, wonderful, music.
This is rock n’ roll. 
“I Think I Helped Wipe Out The ’60’s”
The 70’s were awesome. Great movies. Great musicians. Great clothes. Everyone and their mothers’ on drugs. The clip above, from Iggy and David’s 1977 stop at Dinah Shore’s morning show, could never happen today. No Age isn’t about to hit Good Morning America for a chat-up. Not gonna happen. America today is too divided on itself. The squares stay with the squares. The hipsters stay with the hipsters. But in the ’70’s, Reagan had not happened yet, nor indie music. We all lived in this drugged-out, post-Watergate haze. We were all equally disillusioned. It was fantastic. God, I wish I grew up there.
Iggy lies about how he lost his teeth in the clip, not ‘fessing up that he lost most of them because he was a degenerate junkie. All the punks want to own Iggy, but it’s pretty clear from this clip he wanted to be Bowie. Iggy wanted to be a pop star. He was always just a little too strange for it to ever happen. Like a similar interview from the time I’ve seen of Iggy with Dick Cavett, I’m always amazed at how curious the mainstream was with Iggy. When he was on these shows, it was almost like he was one of Joan Embry’s wild animals.
Iggy Pop/David Bowie Interview – Funtime performance – Dinah
There is no doubt that Rosemary Clooney (George’s aunt) was way higher than Iggy during this interview. The whole thing is delicious. Dinah loving the fact that Soupy Sales’ sons are in Iggy’s band. Iggy performing ‘Funtime’ while the rest of America put on their plaid jackets for work.
Finally, here is David solo making his first appearance on the Dinah show, coked out of his gills and in full Berlin Thin White Duke mode, enjoying a chat with the Fonz and Madge from the Palmolive commercials. Stick around and watch the four relate to each other like my wife and her girlfriends. Creepy. And then he practices karate with what appears to be a human underneath all that afro! Why are modern variety shows never this compelling?
With all of this, plus the holiday he spent with Der Bingle, did Bowie just have an awful agent, or was he fully aware of how freakin’ alien his appearances would be viewed twenty years on?
We at Shambollocks! would also be remiss if we did not mention the passing of Iggy’s sideman, Stooges’ guitarist Ron Asheton, who died yesterday at the age of 60. Ron was truly one of the unsung heroes of rock. If you’ve never listened to his work, particulary on Fun House, you best get yourself to your nearest retailer and check it out. The man’s guitar was a screaming animal, in an awful lot of pain.
Devil’s horns, Ron. May you enjoy the adulation in rock n’ roll heaven you never found here.
O'Hare Arpt., IL
