My review of Iggy Pop's gig at the Royal Albert Hall, as published by The Perfect Pop Co-op
I love the Royal Albert Hall. It’s like a
rich, velvet bubble of flowing sound. Sitting up in the circle you miss out on
the intensity of feeling Right There with the artist, but you have the benefit
of being able to watch as though from a distance – like an out of body
experience.
The lights went dark, and my breath was held
in anticipation. The silence was broken as Matt Helders beat out a call to arms
in the darkness; then there was Light, and there was Iggy coming to Life,
baring his chest animalistically. I was disappointed to see several empty rows
towards the front of the stalls. I would have gladly given up my seat to be
down there in the thick of Lust for Life.
Within seconds, the first dissenters emerged:
refusing to stay back, they broke from their allocated seating, and vaulted
over the seats in front. One or two at first, then in a steady trickle. Before
Iggy could undo his buttons, the empty rows had been filled, fluidly, like
adoration being poured into a bottle.
Security didn’t stand a chance – no more than
a pebble can stop a stream. "Let them up" Iggy said – giving the
final say in the matter.
I have never seen Iggy Pop before. As a
teenager in the 1990s, I had thought he was someone that old people liked. When
I was 15, I had seen him perform on The Word and my best friend and I were
shocked, and a little repulsed, by someone of his age daring to show his body.
He’d undone the button on his trousers: “Oh My God it’s his pubic hair!” We had
squealed, and covered our eyes.
20 years later, I am ashamed of my childish
thoughts. I have come away from this gig with a lot of respect for Iggy Pop,
not only as an artist and musician, but also as a philosopher and a man. What a
Good guy! I have never heard someone crowd surf so politely: “Can you move me
that way? I need to go back and finish the song from the stage.”
Between songs, there was a refreshing lack of
talk, and when he did speak, everything he said had worth.
I totally identified with his analysis of
Work: “A little evil, stress, politics – fuck off, it's Sunday!” And his
introduction to Chocolate Drops roused me almost as much as the song itself:
“…A lot of good people who wanted to do something special and real with their lives…were getting fucked up through their own sensitivities or other peoples’ malevolence…everybody I think has a little voice that says to you every day of your life - I want to know, this path I’m on, does it have a heart or not?”
This gig was breathtaking, not just because of
Iggy, or the exquisite venue, but also for the band: a multi-talented array of artists,
valiantly holding the fort when Iggy got literally lost in the crowd; Matt
Helders’ arms must have been ready to drop off. And of course, Josh Homme,
whose performance was exceptional: his melting writhe as he played the first
few bars of Baby hypnotised me. He wasn’t making music – he Was the music.
The music was in Us and We were the music. We
were one rich, red, velvety organism, from Iggy’s deepest velvet voice to the
red velvet seats we (weren’t) sat on. From the red of the ushers’ jackets and
Iggy’s underwear, to the glitzy red metallic jackets the band were wearing. Everything
tied together; all wrapped up in a delicious gift of dazzling sights and sounds
that reverberated through my lungs. The music is my breath, and I don’t want it
to stop.
