LAS VEGAS — “Wise people say that this life is a dream,” Iggy Pop reflects in his unmistakable signature baritone, pausing mid-song to survey the worshipful fans at his feet in The Palms’ Pearl Theatre. “This is no fucking dream. This is all we’ve got. This is fucking IT, baby. And I need you.
“Oh yes, I need you,” he stresses, pointing at the crowd as his ironically named band of Losers chug away behind him. “And I want you. I want you. I wanna fucking get inside you. And you. And you. And you. And you. So here I go … ”
Pop eases into the last verse of The Stooges’ classic I Wanna Be Your Dog and the musicians follow his lead, slowly cranking the song up to a thundering finale. The audience erupts. The tipsy guy next to me — who has both hands clamped to the sides of his head as if it might explode with amazement and joy — turns and grabs me in a combination bro hug / handshake. “Man, I’m so glad I got to see this with you,” he says, even though we met less than two hours ago and don’t know each other’s names. “This has been incredible.”
To put it another way: Life is no fucking dream. But this night? A fucking dream come true.
• • •
“Iggy Pop?!” responds the casino doorman with a mix of shock and awe after asking how I’m spending my Sin City Saturday night. “He’s still around? Wow. I had no idea.”
He’s not alone. Despite being the godfather of punk, Pop remains the world’s forgotten boy in Vegas. While massive animated billboards for Adele, Rod, Usher, Miranda, Donny, 50 Cent, Wiz Khalifa, Elle King, Keith Urban, Weezer and more blanket the neon-soaked Strip, Iggy’s craggy mug is nowhere to be found. In fact, aside from one poster in the Palms itself, the only hoopla I can find about Pop’s local stop is a two-page spread in a tourist rag. And it’s basically boilerplate and background — no interview, no quotes, not much to explain how historic this show truly is.
Allow me to explain. It’s simple, really: Iggy is fucking back. Not that he went away. Not totally, anyway. But he’s been kinda quiet for the past two decades. Aside from 2016’s Josh Homme-helmed Post-Pop Depression, he hasn’t made a solo rock disc since 2003’s Skull Ring. Instead, he’s crooned jazz standards, adapted French novels into concept albums, recited poetry like Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night over ambient soundscapes. He even gave up stage-diving. And who can blame him? He just turned 70-goddamn-6, fer chrissake. In his own words, he’s “rickety.” He sometimes uses a cane. His taut torso once resembled a Greek god; now he’s like a troll doll that’s been microwaved. Bottom line: He’s an elder statesman of rock. And he’s been acting like one.
That changed on Jan. 6, when Pop dropped his 19th album Every Loser. Produced by and co-written with guitarist Andrew Watt — whose bizarro CV encompasses everyone from Bieber and Miley to Ozzy and Eddie Vedder — it is a loud, proud return to rock. And a star-studded comeback at that, thanks to VIPs like Guns N’ Roses bassist Duff McKagan, Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith, multi-instrumentalist Josh Klinghoffer, Jane’s Addiction bassist Eric Avery and guitarist Dave Navarro, late Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins and more.
Naturally, many of them have been happy to reprise their roles onstage for a handful of shows. McKagan and Smith are the rhythm section. Watt and Kills guitarist Jamie Hince handle the fretwork. There’s also a keyboard player I don’t recognize. With respect to Homme, this is Pop’s best band since The Stooges. Word is this slate of five West Coast shows — Vegas is the last stop — might be their only gigs.
Either way, it’s the sort of lineup that makes you feel you won the lotto. I suspect that goes for the players as well. After all, these guys grew up on Iggy. They probably played these songs in basements and garages. To do them with the man himself must be like carving your initials in Mount Rushmore after decades of climbing. Sure, most folks will never know you did it. But you’ll know. As will people who care. That includes people like Gogol Bordello singer Eugene Hütz, who I met at the Punk Rock Museum the day before. “Iggy is a tremendous influence on everyone in here,” he told me. “I don’t think anybody would be doing anything onstage if it weren’t for him.” It’s a bit of a stretch. But only a bit.
Hütz’s point is not lost on the 2,000 fans of all ages and stripes in The Pearl, many of whom queued up in a massive, snaking line for shirts (I left with two) and posters (signed ones go for $150). And it’s not lost on the punk bassist-turned-painter (walls, not canvases) beside me. It’s his first Iggy show. He’s naturally excited — and impressed that I flew in for this. I tell him I wouldn’t have missed it, and that he’s in for a treat. Hell, we all are.
• • •
Things get rolling around 9 p.m., after a half-decent but unnecessary set by Grace McKagan (yes, Duff’s daughter) and The Nepo Babies (not really their name, but it should be). When the lights dim, Grace’s dad and his cohorts take the stage and lay down a slowly shuffling blues vamp. Iggy saunters in from the wings reciting The News For Andy, an Every Loser interlude inspired by Warhol’s suggestion back in the ’70s that Iggy just read the newspaper out loud over his songs. (When Pop hits the line: “Have you been injured in an auto accident? Get cash!” it reminds me of a joke billboard outside my hotel: “Been injured searching for dead bodies in Lake Mead? Demand compensation!” Only in Vegas.)
While fans are still finding their feet, the band launch straight into the one-two punch of Neo Punk and Frenzy, a pair of Only Loser standouts. Iggy still sounds great, though his voice is rougher and more ragged around the edges these days. As he delivers the goods, McKagan strides about in a black leather vest adorned with the Heartbreakers’ L.A.M.F. logo in pink on the right breast. Hince slides and glides across the stage in white shoes, jiving like James Brown. Watt is a whirling dervish, sprinting back and forth, striking guitar-god poses and peeling off blistering solos. Smith is a monster behind the kit, forsaking the funkiness and finesse of his day job for relentless pounding and propulsion, lobbing drumsticks into the crowd every few bars. (By the end of the show, he’s flung what seems like half a lumber yard into the audience.) On their own, they would be a must-see band. But of course, they’re all here for the same reason we are: To celebrate the one and only Ig.
The man of the hour does not disappoint. Shirtless as always, his melted-candle body on unabashed display, Pop commands the stage with effortless swagger, despite his advancing age and lurching gait (Iggy’s right leg is shorter than his left, the result of scoliosis, a teenage football mishap or some combo of the two, depending on which story you believe). But even if he’s not as limber as he once was, he’s still one of rock’s most compelling frontmen, flinging and flailing himself about as he eggs everyone on with demands of “Come on, baby, come on!” and “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” McKagan’s daughter heeds his call, dancing in the stage-right wings with a gaggle of women.
Iggy and co. reward them (and us) by taking it up another notch with the stone-cold ’70s classics Raw Power and T.V. Eye. The former barrels like a freight train, topped with its iconic one-finger piano line; the latter slams and pounds, with Smith hammering down the beat. The band sound like they’ve been together for years, not weeks, stretching out the arrangement so Iggy can roam the stage, dance and interact with fans.
After the mellower Sixteen, a comparative deep cut rom Lust For Life, Iggy pauses (or lets us pause) for breath. “Hey, fucking thanks for showing up!” he enthuses. “I see you back there … We’re filming and taping tonight. So if you want a little immortality, you could jump off the balcony, you could bum-rush the stage, you could strip, you could stage-dive and be wild.” Over the course of the 85-minute set, a few fans take him up on his offer, mounting the stage to dance or dive. But the only true immortal here is Iggy. Marvelling at Pop’s youthful energy, my seatmate and new bestie informs me, “My grandfather was 72 when he died, and he looked like an old man.” To be fair, so does Iggy. But somehow, he’s also ageless, ephemeral, constantly on the move and in the moment. He can’t stop the clock or defeat gravity, but he refuses to surrender to the forces of nature and the laws of physics. He will not go gently.
Following solid renditions of Every Loser’s Strung Out Johnny and the shuffling classic The Passenger — with the crowd belting out the “La, la, la la” refrain en masse as Iggy approvingly nods, “That’s beautiful” — comes the mission statement / Trainspotting anthem / cruise-line jingle / signature song Lust For Life. Smith kicks it off about 10 bpms slower than normal, but it still packs a mighty punch. As does the Raw Power gem Gimme Danger, which builds from an ominous darkly jangling rocker into a blazing showpiece for Watt.
As the set list enters double digits, Iggy and co. lock in and keep the momentum going, alternating newer fare like Modern Day Rip Off and the sell-out ode Comments with vintage treats like the sleazy Loose and the Berlin-era drug dirge Nightclubbing. “Well, here we are,” Iggy proclaims of the latter, “in the perfect fucking town for this song. So let’s take some hard stuff and leave ourselves behind.”
But what goes down has got to come up — and Pop, never one for half-measures, takes it all the way to the top. “I’ve only got one fucking thing left,” he announces. “One thing left to say to you … gonna get you! Search and fucking destroy!” And so they do, with the keyboardist and Hince departing so Watt, Smith and McKagan can rip through Iggy’s nihilistic classic as a power trio. As the guitarist wails at the song’s end, Iggy casually tosses his mic over his shoulder and lumbers around waving farewell. His unbuttoned pants start to fall. He turns to face Smith, unconcernedly mooning us — apparently Iggy is going commando tonight — then spins around to give us the half-Monty. While his bandmates leave, he basks at center stage, beating his chest and whipping up the crowd before sauntering off, his ass hanging in the wind. It is the perfect ending — except he isn’t done yet.
“I hate waiting for shit myself so I’m not gonna make you wait,” Pop cracks as he returns a minute later for the encore. “This is not fucking Coldplay.” Well, not unless fucking Coldplay decided to play a gorgeous left-field cover of Lou Reed’s Take A Walk On The Wild Side. Iggy takes a knee to croon — joined by the audience, of course — while Grace McKagan flies in to help out on the “Do-doo-do” refrain, giving Dad a hug before leaving. The song turns into another band showpiece, evolving into a double-time groove-rocker. “We’re gonna walk a little bit,” Iggy offers on the stroll. “We’re not gonna fucking walk on the golf course. We’re not gonna walk in any bourgeois places. We’re not even gonna walk in fucking reality … We’re going to the wild side, baby!” He continues improvising with a final verse: “Playing for you has been a lot of fun / We’ve done the very best we could have done / But now we’re gonna sing a song / About a very special dog…”
Seconds later, Pop drops back to his knees, barking and begging as The Losers unfurl the clanging opening chords of I Wanna Be Your Dog. The energy peaks as a bellowing Iggy plays call-and-response with the crowd on the verses. He lays on his back, clawing at the air like a pup seeking a belly rub as Watt stands over him soloing. Eventually, he rises and hoists the mic stand to his crotch before motioning the band to take it down so he can deliver the dreamy monologue up above that sends my new pal over the top — and before launching into the set-closing garage-rocker Louie Louie (“I gotta go now!”). One last fan leaps onstage to dance while Iggy approvingly watches, rewarding her with a fist-bump, a smile and a hug before ushering her back to the pit. As the song slams home, Smith kicks over his drum kit, scattering pieces hither and yon, walking off with middle fingers hoisted. Iggy laughs and applauds, takes his final bows and hikes into the wings, going gently into that good night. For now.
Set List:
1 | The News for Andy
2 | Neo Punk
3 | Frenzy
4 | Raw Power
5 | T.V. Eye
6 | Sixteen
7 | Strung Out Johnny
8 | The Passenger
9 | Lust for Life
10 | Gimme Danger
11 | Modern Day Rip Off
12 | Loose
13 | Comments
14 | Nightclubbing
15 | Search and Destroy
Encore:
16 | Walk on the Wild Side
17 | I Wanna Be Your Dog
18 | Louie Louie
