i am the world's forgotten boy

Saw Iggy last night. There were a few other Stooges up there, too, but I couldn't pick them out of a lineup. My eyes rarely strayed from Mr. Osterberg.

He's the best performer I've ever seen.

I arrived later than I wished (8:20 for 8pm doors) and made straight for the bathroom and cash bar, readying the ol’ system for the task at hand. Crowbarred my way into a spot about 20 feet from the stage, just left of the Ig’s mic. Perfect. Life was making a whole lotta sense.

Well, not entirely perfect. That’s misleading. I found myself jock-strapped behind two young pretenders who probably had their mom cart them over in the family Prius. They both donned Interpol t-shirts and talked a lot. I did the side-shuffle. Threw a few elbows and ended up ten feet to their left, safely immune from their moronic fist-pumping and ill-timed "Iggy!" chants. Little craps have probably never heard The Idiot. There oughta be an entrance exam to these things.

Ten minutes before showtime an overenthusiastic fan in the third row of heads hurled a beer skyward. It landed straight on my dome, dousing me and four or five people in my cluster. Awesome! I wasn't even all that upset about it. These things should happen at an Iggy show. Terminal 5, thankfully, doesn’t serve their drafts in glass pints.

Mopping my skull, reeking vaguely of college, I overheard a conversation between a hot tatted girl and a guy that kind of looked like Neil Young:

Hot Tatted Girl: “Ever read that book Please Kill Me by Legs McNeil?”
Neil: (confused stare)
Me: (interrupting) “Oh yeah, yeah. Great read.” (it really is…check it out)
Hot Tatted Girl: “See the white-haired guy to my right?”
Me: “Yup.”
Hot Tatted Girl: “That’s Leee Childers.”
Me: “Oh wow, nice. How do you know him?”
Hot Tatted Girl: “Well, I spend a lot of time in Alphabet City. He’s a regular of (muffled).”
Me: “Oh.”

That’s when Iggy came on. I screamed like a crazy person. We all did.


First few songs:

“Loose”
“Down on the Street”
“1969”
“I Wanna Be Your Dog”

The throng pressed forward. At one point I was leaning at a 45 degree angle towards the stage, feet off the floor, walled by a crush of bodies. It hurt like hell, but you weren't gonna see me at the back with the cape cod drinkers. I had to check out all the fuss.

What really awed me about this whole experience was the amount of sheer physicality involved. I’ve never worked so hard, perspired so profusely, for a few inches of space. At one point a girl to my left got knocked by my wayward arm, so the loon bit my wrist! I've still got marks. Clearly, this was a very Darwinian viewing experience. The greatest men won.

During “No Fun” Ig invited the crowd onstage. Pandemonium ensued. I rode the wave near the front rail, seeking an opening. Nada. A few dozen people escaped, hurling their bodies up there with exaggerated braggadocio. I hated them for it.



















Highlight of the night came about 2/3 of the way through his setlist. The Stooges played “Search and Destroy,” inducing mass psychosis. At this point I was in the second row of people, about six feet from Ig. He stage-dove twice during the song (check the above pic that I pulled from Brooklyn Vegan...I'm the guy on the right with the grey shirtsleeve), both times just out of my arm’s reach. You better believe I flailed like a maniac trying to surf him. During the outro Iggy sidled into our section, suave as hell. Bear-hugged us. I finally got my wish and threw an arm around that leather body of his. How cool is that?

Ig was the Ig of old. He crawled on all fours, pawing the air like a subhuman. Clamped down on the microphone cable with his teeth and extended both arms, as if on the cross. Got coital with the floor. Exposed most of his ass and a great deal of his pubic region. Emptied more than a few bottles of water in his hair. Hollered obscenities, passed the mic to people in the crowd. It was refreshing to watch a performer give so much of himself. Supreme showmanship is a bit of a lost art, but not in Iggy's world. He knew what we wanted, and he put his body on the line to provide. No one walked away unhappy.

Isn’t hero-worship crazy? Every hand in the place wanted to be on that body. Whenever Iggy got within three feet of the crowd, fifty arms would reach and grope and stretch towards him, praying for a brush of skin. I’m usually relatively subdued at concerts, but I was right there with them, lunging like an idiot at The Idiot. It was magic.

I think he played “I Wanna Be Your Dog” twice. Didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but then, no one was complaining.
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