farewell to a colossal stooge

Rock and roll has been dealt a mighty blow. Ron Asheton, Stooges guitarist and co-founder, was discovered dead in Ann Arbor early this morning.

There are very few deaths of this sort that shake me up. If, say, Robert Plant checked out, I’d probably spend most of the next day thumbing thru old Zep records out of respect, but not out of devastation; were Brian Wilson to make an exit, I’d spin Pet Sounds, but only because I owe it to the guy.

The death of Ron Asheton, though, warrants greater reflection (subjectively speaking).

The Stooges mean far more to me than Zeppelin, Cream, the Stones. More than AC/DC, Deep Purple or The Experience. When it comes to hard, bruising rock, I can count on zero fingers the number of bands that match the Stooges snarl for snarl. Though Iggy’s spastic stage antics doomed the Asheton brothers (Scott is the drummer) to certain anonymity, there’s no denying they comprised the calcified backbone of the band. I've always admired Ron's guitar work on the first two records ('69's The Stooges and '70's Fun House). That man just didn't know how to write a lousy riff.

Asheton’s death hit me especially hard today because The Stooges have been on my mind more than a few times in recent months. Let’s count the ways:

1) A mere twelve hours ago I sent a friend “Gimme Danger” (off The Stooges’ Raw Power) via zip file. She probably received it within minutes of Ron’s body being discovered.

2) I caught The Stooges on Aug. 8th in NYC. Pains me to admit--in light of last night’s events--that the following entry is entirely Iggycentric (he was, frankly, too magnetic; I barely noticed Ron and the other band members). Read about the show here.

3) I passed thru Ann Arbor (birthplace of The Stooges) over Christmas break to meet up with my roommates. The ONE touristy (see: music obsessive-y) thing I vowed to accomplish during my brief stay was a visit to the site of the Fun House, the band's squat during their formative years. When not eating acid or fucking off, they used the building as a crude studio. The Fun House no longer stands. Now it’s a Bank Of America. (I wonder how many people waiting in line for the teller realize that bong resin, beer bottles and used condoms once littered the ground on which they tread.) I drove thru town in the pouring rain---it was a nasty night---and parked in the bank lot. Sans umbrella, I bolted from the car and 360ed the bank by foot, carefully avoiding the sidewalk in favor of the grass. Seemed more appropriate, somehow. Anyway, my circuit complete, I got back in my car, flipped the wipers, waved goodbye to Fun House Of America and her untold debaucheries. Mission accomplished.

4) Legs McNeil's Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History Of Punk, perhaps my favorite music book, has been in my reading rotation for a couple years. Ron, Iggy and Co. feature prominently within. I completed my fourth or fifth reading about a month ago before lending to Lucas.

R.I.P., Ron. I’ll be spinning your music all afternoon.