7/13/02: Brixton
Academy, London, UK. Doors 6:30 pm.
Guardian
Unlimited review. (Thanks Donald.)
Iggy
Pop
4
stars
Brixton Academy, London
More reviews
Betty
Clarke
Guardian
Monday
July 15, 2002
Iggy
Pop is 55 years old and still making mischief. Half-clothed, hunched over and
bedraggled, he is gleefully watching a naked young woman prancing alongside him,
arms in the air and breasts bouncing, while another girl jumps up and down in
her knickers. It is as though the last 30 years never happened.
Pop
has been hailed as the godfather of punk, thanks to his messy and exhilarating
tenure in the Stooges, and his anger has rarely abated. His most recent album,
Beat 'Em Up, is as scornful of society as ever, his nihilistic lyrics and nagging
rhythms still burning with dissatisfaction.
But
his showmanship is faintly comical. Pop skips on to the stage, pulling poses as
blinding white lights flicker around him and give his craggy features a goulish
tint, while the grinding guitars and demonic vocals of Mask add to the freak-show
atmosphere. Slight and sinewy, he caresses himself, using his torso like an instrument
as he matches each phrase he sings to a flexed muscle, thrusted hips or sudden
jerk. When Pop smoothes his long blond hair gracefully, it is like watching a
little girl dancing in front of a mirror, overemphasising every motion. He is
Bonnie Langford with Keith Richards's wrinkles.
For
Beat 'Em Up, Pop spans the tricky rap-rock divide, his gravelly vocals disentangling
themselves from the unceasingly heavy guitars. Each new song is strikingly similar
to the last, but Pop's voice is perfect throughout, youthful and urgent on the
sublime hymn to submission I Wanna Be Your Dog, cold and voyeuristic for The Passenger.
Pop himself
is both iconic and personable, inviting fans on stage and constantly demanding
for the lights to be on "so I can see your faces while I feed off you".
He is stage-diving after only three songs, fiddling about with his zip with a
devilish glint in his eye a little later. When his feet get tangled up in his
microphone wire and he almost falls flat on his face he simply puffs up his chest
and dances like a chicken standing on a hot plate. He may have been doing this
a long time, but he does it well - and as irascibly as ever.
MNE
review.
Iggy Pop
at the Lost Weekend : London Brixton Academy
Last seen
on the Letterman show wearing a sarcastic lump of broccoli, tonight punk rock's
one man Big Bang whirls forth and declares the game's begun by hacking down the
mic stand with his forearm. Iggy's sustained an awesome record of gladiatorial
stage madness through his middle years, but surely now, at 54, he'll feel less
compulsion to act the human hand grenade.
Except,
no, there's no sign of it. The Metallica-a-like three piece band take the psycho-crackhead
approach to Mask (from last years Beat Em Up
album), setting a pace and intensity which they maintain through the mix of Iggy
greats old and new. Meanwhile, the growling, shirtless trunk of sinuous obscenity
formerly known as James Osterberg parades before his devotees in a bumcrack-displaying
pair of denim hipsters.
The
primal frenzy which tracks him around the venue is unmatched in rock, and every
second is milked by the wee dynamo of errant calisthenics. He's down on all fours,
howling like a werewolf. He's statue still, holding a spastic crucific pose. He's
hopping and spinning and then casually leaning and waving, grinning idiotically,
while the bulging guitar-lead vein to his heart threatens to burst.
As
the band burn Motorhead-style through bludgeoning renditions of 'Search And Destroy',
'Corruption' and Johnny O'Keefe's 50s rocker 'Real Wild Child', all remaining
hopes of resisting the romantic lure of his writhing legend are systematically
napalmed. In underdog anthem 'Now I Wanna Be Your Dog' he executes a perfect swan
dive into the crowd. During 'The Passenger' he invites/challenges the whole of
the downstairs audience to join him, causing total mayhem as security guards battle
massed stage invaders, including one crazed girl who strips naked, gyrating and
throwing herself at a man old enough to be her grandpa.
Much
of the crowd are first time viewers of the original Detroit destoyer, and their
mouths open wide as the show hammers endwards through a velocity-centered 'TV
Eye' and a pleasingly mangled 'Sweet Sixteen'. Its a definitive gig. Less
a singer than a mythical beast, Iggy leaves after attempting to pull the Academy's
giant speaker stacks over, still the planet's most magnetic rock'n'roll performer,
his ongoing revenge for early 70s neglect still magical to behold.
Roger
Morton
Independant
review.
Iggy Pop,
Brixton Academy, London
A
lust for self-destruction
By Gavin Martin
17 July 2002
There
are stars and stripes illuminated on the drum riser, a three-piece band with curly
perms and satin shirts churns out a nondescript sonic jihad. Suddenly, there is
Iggy Pop, the all-American freak show and 57-year-old force of nature, naked to
just below the waist, arms akimbo, lank hair flying. He is a whirlwind in a padded
cell, a dancing dervish only visible for a short time before the strobe light
obliterates his frenzied movement and the words for the opening song "Mask"
hit home.
The
title track from his last album Beat 'Em Up, "Mask" is a typically excoriating
Pop lyric a diatribe at the falsity and emptiness of modern life, castigating
"critics, college graduates, everybody in LA". But, it soon becomes
obvious that, with his low-rent band and intensified theatrics, Iggy, too, is
wearing a mask of his own devising.
On
one level you can't blame him: hailed as the greatest rock'n'roll poet and most
extreme performer of his era, the one-time Stooges frontman and self-proclaimed
"runaway son of a nuclear ape" was washed up, down, and almost out,
in mid-Seventies LA. His recovery was evidence of steely resolve, while latter-day
albums such as American Caesar and Avenue B revealed a thoughtful tormentor and
savage inquisitor of the American psyche.
But
the Iggy mystique rests on self-destruction, foolhardy displays of audience baiting,
indecent exposure, blood and gore. Tonight, playing the part of the obedient entertainer
he gives the crowd most of what they want. He dives into the audience and four
bouncers go on a fearless rescue mission. Glasses land on stage and he spits at
the crowd. He has a weird, centaur-like physique, made for spectacle, and he delights
in contorting it. He hurls insults at the lighting man, exhorts us to drink new
blood and howls songs of despair and disdain, boredom and revenge in a tortured
vibrato.
It
might work but for a band stubbornly tuned to a lowest common denominator: all
the scowling magnificence of "Death Trip" and "Search and Destroy"
funnelled into a narrow squall of sound. He challenges the audience to be wilder
than he is and, during "The Passenger", stage invaders lose no time
in losing all their clothes. As they cavort towards him, Iggy's body swerves to
the side of the stage and he sticks his tongue out, waggling his hands donkey-ears
style at the crowd.
When
he sings how "corruption rules my soul and chills my bones" perhaps
he's explaining the infantile performance. Irony and sarcasm have long been part
of the Iggy survival manual, but on this evidence only the blindly besotted will
appreciate the punch line.
This
Is London review.
Iggy
gets jiggy in Brixton
Iggy
Pop, Pitchshifter
by Charles Shaar Murray at Brixton Academy, 13/7/02
It's
30 years, give or take a few weeks, since Iggy Pop played his first-ever London
concert, but, seen from the back of the cavernous Brixton Academy, the wiry figure
bounding shirtless on to the stage seems eerily unchanged from the archetype of
the "beautiful and damned" immortalised on the cover of the 1972 Raw
Power album.
A
formative influence on David Bowie, Johnny Rotten and many more, the 55-year-old
former frontman of Detroit's protopunk Stooges is still the most kinetic performer
in rock, barely staying still for a second.
He
doesn't exactly dance, at least not in the formal sense of vintage James Brown
or Prince: he's either undulating like a belly dancer, flexing his still enviable
physique like a bodybuilder or flinging himself around like a hyperactive child.
Backed
by a solid, workmanlike trio blasting out his trademark punk/metal roar, he blended
songs from his current album Beat Em Up with vintage classics such as Search and
Destroy, Now I Wanna Be Your Dog, Wild One and The Passenger, during which he
invited a stage invasion, though the ecstatic "guest" dancers were unceremoniously
bundled offstage the instant the song ended.
Age
and excess haven't frazzled either that distinctive voice - simultaneously harsh
and crooning - or his driven, shamanic intensity. As Iggy attempts to shake himself
out of his skin, he seems to be exorcising both his own demons and the crowd's.
Once a blue-collar Jim Morrison minus the rhetorical flourishes and poetic pretensions,
he has become rock's immortal dervish, generating enough energy to light up most
of south London.
A
packed audience of ageing goths and baby punks received him - literally: this
pioneer of crowd-surfing is still prepared to dive offstage into the front rows
- rapturously. It doesn't seem as if "the world's forgotten boy" is
going to be forgotten any time soon.
xfm
review.
Iggy
Pop @ Brixton Academy, July 13 2002
On
the evidence of a truly raucous performance at a rammed Brixton Academy, only
a 24-carat fool would dare question whether the man born James Newell Osterberg
can still pack em in, beat em up and spit em out like he used
to. Doubts about the recorded inconsistencies of the past 20 years and the overplayed,
Trainspotting-inspired revival of Lust For Life are banished
forever because, in the live arena, one fact remains unchallenged: Iggy Pop is
King.
Shadow-boxing
and jumping impatiently at the back of the stage, Iggy can barely restrain himself
while his band take root behind their instruments. As soon as Mask
begins its thrashing charge, so does he. The leash is off, the spring unwinds
and high speed dementia takes over as he teases, leaps and writhes across the
stage. Yet despite the fact that you know this is what he does, nothing prepares
you for the visual spectacle. How can anyone have this much energy? The man is
a freak of nature, a physical phenomenon, and the fact that he keeps it up for
the entire gig is nothing short of miraculous. Whoever he sold his soul to should
be very, very rich.
Marred
only by the sound - pure volume replacing clarity - the band hammer their way
through a set-list splattered with choice moments from the former Stooges frontmans
back catalogue. Cold Metal struts like a bull terrier with an erection,
I Wanna Be Your Dog tears new holes in dark places, while The
Passenger finds members of the crowd hauled onstage to dance like loons
with The Man.
Finishing
with TV Eye and Sixteen, Iggy leaves the stage. The fans
go nowhere, shellshocked by a truly iconic performance that, visually at least,
borders on the indescribable - and theres no sign of him slowing down any
time soon.
Kevin
Wood
Pix
from the BBC.
Superfan
review:
Review London: Saturday was great! Setlist comparable with Oslo
expect they didn`t play Death, Sterility, LOST, No Fun and Raw Power. So it only
took 1 hour : )During The Passenger a totally naked girl was dancing on stage.
Her clothes were gone! The band laughed and were a bit flabbergasted, Iggy also
looked at her. Art had to pull her away. Johnny Depp was there too. (BTW I tried
to post this at Virgin's Iggy Pop message board and they told me I was trying
to post innapropriate material! -cb.)
SETIST
(Thanks Gui.)
1. Mask
2. Espanol
3.
Beat Em Up
4. Drink New Blood
5. Search And Destroy
6. Howl
7. Corruption
8.
Real Wild Child
9. I Wanna Be Your Dog
10. Home
11. Passenger
12.
I Got A Right
13. Cold Metal
Encore
14.
Death Trip
15. TV Eye
16. Sixteen