Foreword

Patti Smith came up with the equation “art + electricity = rock’n’roll”. When I was a student in Dublin in the late Seventies it was generally perceived, in student circles, that Iggy Pop fitted into that equation perfectly. In the damp impoverished provincial city of those times he seemed an outstanding presence, right up there with the Lou Reeds and Bob Dylans of this world. Only that, while art made them rich and famous, Iggy was one of our own. We imagined that his bank account didn’t run into four figures, that his stance was somehow more extreme or brave than others. We guzzled the bottomless pit of pro-Iggy propaganda that NME, then the most important style bible in rock, spewed out. We imagined ourselves to be playing some part in an heroic anti-adventure. Or else Iggy seemed to be playing that part for us.

This was just so much wishful thinking, a wishful thinking that helped Pop survive, and which eventually facilitated his emergence as punk’s Tina Turner. The spin is much the same. A sexy past. Great achievements back in the days. Tough times and tragedy. The world’s forgotten boy. Never got a fair shake. And isn’t it great that he’s still around to show us how things once were? So what if he’s past his sell-by date? So what if he appeared in Crocodile Dundee II and endorses Reebok? He deserves everything he gets, good luck to him, says a compliant media and a mendacious entertainment power elite happy to go along with the notion that he was done out of his crown back in the Seventies.

There is something to this argument. Except that Iggy has been getting a fair shake all his life. Some of the most powerful (and richest) people in music and art bent over backwards to help him. Some of the most beautiful and intelligent women (many of them rich too) put themselves entirely at his disposal. He was an abuser of other people, “a dedicated user” as he once self-described.

His fans would be horrified by his occasional political views. The sort of people who checked out junk rock and fag rock, the territories where he once ruled supreme, never had anything to do with the sexual politics which informed both his private life and his music. Those same people might be surprised to know that their seemingly anti-heroic icon – his image forever incarcerated in a needle infested Berlin transvestite whorehouse of the imagination – actually lives in Southern splendour and drives a Rolls-Royce Corniche when not buying antiques or discussing with his gardener what they should do next to improve the grounds.

In 1979 Pop told Nick Kent that he was a leader who does not want to be followed, that he was exactly the sort of man that Nietzsche could only write about. An important critique of misogyny in rock music, The Sex Revolts by Simon Reynolds and Joy Press (which looks at rock clichés like the born-to-run syndrome, the rock singer as soldier or warrior, and “self-aggrandizing fantasies of man machine omnipotence”) attributes a sexual fascism to Pop, claiming that his work portrays a kind of rapist without victim, burning for total connection with reality.

“Iggy’s whole aesthetic,” say Reynolds and Press, “was based around the quest for blackout and bloody miasma. Though he often hurled himself into combat with the audience, the main target of his aggression was his own body.”

Pop is an old school sexist and misogynist. There are so many “chicks” in this book that one might be forgiven for thinking that it’s about poultry farming. Leee Black Childers, who shared a house with him, can quite distinctly remember Pop saying that he hated women. Pop told Nick Kent, “Well, I hate women. I mean, why do I even have to have a reason for that? It’s like, why are people repelled by insects? I use ’em because they are lying, dirty, treacherous and their ambitions all too often involve using me!” This anti-women stance is not merely confined to long ago doped out interviews and extravagant rock lyrics. His treatment of women in real life has been lamentable too. He still encourages girls to get naked on his stage for the delight of the crowd.

No rapper would get away with the kind of bitch-hating which characterises Pop’s life and work. The white middle-class liberal media never misses an opportunity to point the racist finger at smart aleck black kids who are often being entirely ironic. But when Pop shows up in town, telling journalists what difficult books he’s reading (he usually seems to be reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire) and how much he likes fine wines, he is rarely challenged on his past right-wing politics or attitudes towards women. In code, he is one of us. White, bookish, and comfortably off. So leave him alone. He has product to push.

I was never an Iggy fanatic. I don’t think I’d be an appropriate person to write a whole book about him if I were. When I was a student advocate of Pop my knowledge of his music was just about as sketchy as the next guy. I knew him from hearing the Bowie/Berlin stuff and the Raw Power album at parties and in other people’s bedsitters. I didn’t own any of his records. I first heard Metallic KO while walking through a flea market in Dublin in 1993. His rent boy face or Tom of Finland physique on the cover of Raw Power or Creem magazine was the most of what I knew about him. This image tied in with my taste for sleazy drug-addled outsider rock’n’roll.

Later his Arista albums showed up in Dublin remainder bins for next to nothing so I picked them up and brought them home. Two of these – Soldier and New Values – were accurate insights into the real Iggy. He was the Ugly American, standing up for blue-collar values while not believing in fairies anymore. I liked those records very much despite, and because of, their stance.

Twelve years ago I met him. I was involved in writing a book about Brion Gysin, the important William Burroughs collaborator. I was told that Gysin had had a relationship of some sort with Pop so I went hunting for that story. Pop’s manager was contacted, and he persuaded Iggy to fax through a freshly written text on Gysin which made its way into the book.

When the book came out Iggy was doing his Instinct World Tour and I met up with him after one of those shows. He gamely sang the tune Gysin had written for him back in lost time, ‘Blue Baboon’. He looked old at the after show party where every lowlife on the local music scene was vying for his attention. He was extraordinarily courteous, like most Americans are, but he was obviously a burnt-out shell of a man. Uptight, sick of this showbiz shit, working his music biz crowd. Working.

I caught him working again two years back. He was headlining a gig at London’s Brixton Academy. The venue was far from sold out, the show was OK if somewhat dry. It was certainly better than the previous time I saw him, somewhere down the middle of a nu-metal bill in the middle of a field at an open-air festival. That was an atrocious one-for-the-money effort, providing a unique opportunity for most of the young crowd to go have a piss or pick up a veggie burger before the contemporary big boys took to the stage.

The Brixton crowd were mainly 30-something, shaved-headed, suburban fat boys and frat boys who, clearly, were not familiar with his back catalogue. There was nothing romantic or glamorous about it. The fat boys were there to see the freak show. The guy who did that tune from Trainspotting and had a hit with ‘Real Wild Child’. Success had stranded him in the middle of a Frankenstein of his own creation.

To some extent Pop had sold himself cheap. To some extent he’d bartered his integrity for a lucrative career in advertising and commercial movies. If you whore yourself to Hollywood, the catwalks, and the ad agencies it’s tough going holding on to integrity. The sad thing about this was that his records could still be very good. His 2001 white noise attack, Beat ’Em Up, is one of his finest. Not that anybody paid it too much attention; like its predecessor, the much-lauded but soporific Avenue B, it sold fuck-all.

Initially nobody paid all that much attention either when, in 2003, Pop got back together with the Asheton brothers to record some of his Skull Ring album and to tour once more as Iggy & The Stooges. The sound experiments abandoned long ago in the last century suddenly recommenced with a vigour both youthful and mature. The usual Stooge suspects – fashionista rock hacks, sexy bitches, bitter 30-and 40-something guys with receding hairlines from moneymaking indie bands, queers and junkies – got their collective knickers in a twist about the enterprise.

It was once said of the MC5 – by a member of a megaselling rock group – that they “chopped down the trees to clear the dirt roads to pave the streets to build the highway so the rest of us could drive by in Cadillacs.” This is an honourable role in music, one fulfilled by The Ramones, Woody Guthrie, Horslips (who respectively chopped down forests on behalf of Pearl Jam, Bob Dylan and U2), and innumerable other musicians/ bands who never got to lodge the money in the bank but who surely showed the rest of us how to make the art. The crazy thing about Iggy is that he seems to need to be relaxing in the exclusive limousine, cruising down the highway at the end of the movie, having torn down the trees with his bare hands and teeth in the first reel.

But he has a great story to tell. One of the greatest in rock history. Up until the age of 40 he testified consistently and admirably on behalf of a compelling, beguiling, self-destructive lifestyle. I can only endorse that testimony, so eloquently and elegantly lived out through his life and art. Bob Dylan and Lou Reed may have passed their years making better albums and being more consistent. But Iggy went out and lived the life. Read here about degradation, cruelty, sex beyond one’s wildest imaginings, Scarface-style quantities of drugs, life lived beyond the edge and beyond the law. Why is Iggy Pop important? Because he is rock’n’roll made flesh.

Joe Ambrose, Marrakesh, March 2004

CHAPTER 1
Rock’n’roll High School

IF you take Iggy’s explanation seriously, Jim Osterberg from Ann Arbor and Iggy Pop from Hell share one body but multiple personalities, much like Superman/Clark Kent or Jesus Christ/God. Jim Osterberg is allegedly a clubbable, well-read, methodical, glasses-wearing, quiet fellow, given to golf, money, and regular-guy politics. Iggy Pop, a “charming fucker” according to one of his many women, is a well hung rock’n’roll asshole; albeit, at the time of writing, a semi-retired asshole.

Everybody called him Jim until his band The Stooges were in full flight. Then he began calling himself Iggy Pop and a manager caused him to be known, briefly, as Iggy Stooge, a formulation he detested. To this day his real pals know him as Jim. Iggy is a name reserved for his public persona and for those he wants to keep at arm’s length. He says that the people who call him Jim are “people I’ve known a long time or smart alecks.”

The creature eventually known as Iggy Pop was born James Newell Osterberg on April 21, 1947 at Muskegon Osteopathic Hospital, Michigan. When he was one and a half year’s old the family moved from Muskegon to Ypsilanti, an industrial centre on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, a significant university town replete with the coffee shops, dives, and record shops one associates with provincial university towns. In a 1996 interview Iggy said he’d “never figured out what this guy Ypsilanti did. He’s some obscure Greek hero. It’s a really strange name for a town in Michigan. The most famous thing in Ypsilanti is this big water tower made out of brick, about 175 years old. It looks like this big penis.”

His mother Louella (nee Christensen) was of Danish and Norwegian descent. Dad Osterberg – another Newell – claimed Irish and English lineage, but he’d been adopted by a Swedish family living in America. Tough-assed Newell – in his day a first class debt collector – was a professional athlete before World War II, playing in the minor leagues on farm teams for the Brooklyn Dodgers. He was regarded as being a good first baseman and hitter. After the War he went back to college and trained to be a teacher. Louella worked as a controller/executive secretary for Bendix Aerospace while Newell was an English teacher at Ypsilanti High. Louella died in 1996. Newell, aged 84, now lives in what they call “an assisted living facility” in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where his only child visits him whenever he can.

Dad was a stern disciplinarian as teachers often are and, like many men of his generation, he believed in trailer life. “This is the way to live!” Newell confidently opined. He instilled in young James, generally called Jim, traditional American values concerning sport and hard work, values which would remain buried within Jim during the turbulent decades ahead only to reemerge in the Nineties when the son wholly embraced his old man’s flinty, puritanical approach to work, money and life. In an autobiographical sketch Iggy described his parents as being “hardworking and arrow-straight”. Iggy’s childhood was passed in trailer parks which remained his relatively prosperous parents’ home of choice.

The Osterberg trailer from when Jim was eight until he was 13 was a New Moon model, 45 feet long and 8 feet wide, the trailer used in the hugely influential family movie of the Fifties, The Long, Long Trailer, starring Lucille Ball, Desi Arnez, and “40 feet of train”. Iggy’s parents subsequently traded up into a spacious 50 foot by 10 Vagabond trailer with which they were content for a long time. The Osterbergs lived at Lot Ninety-six, Coachville Gardens Mobile Park, which Iggy later described as being “on the outskirts of the outskirts”. There were 113 trailers in the trailer camp, and the only people there with a college education were the Osterbergs. Young Jim slept on a shelf above the kitchenette.

Iggy: “In a well designed trailer, to save space, the doors don’t open and close hinge-wise – they’re sliding doors and generally without locks. So I had no lock on my door. A boy without a lock on his door and without at least one storey separating him from his parents goes through some funny shit. So I used to spend a lot of time in the bathroom, or out in the cornfields.”

He was never particularly enthusiastic about his Ann Arbor roots. “It’s a dry town,” he complained. “I never cared for Ann Arbor very much. I went to school there really and that’s all. I’m from Ypsilanti which is more like a town. It’s oakies, bunch of oakies.”

In Ypsilanti the Osterberg’s trailer was planted right across from a big shopping centre, located in the middle of a huge cornfield. It was the repressive postwar America of J. D. Salinger, Pat Boone and Eisenhower. The malign forces of American optimism seemed un-assailable. Vietnam was still France’s problem. America was strong. The transcendent Frank Sinatra dominated the airwaves while Rock Hudson was the very essence of American manhood. After 20 years in the belly of the grungey rock’n’roll beast, these influences would re-emerge to shape the Iggy Pop who now provides soundtrack material for corporate advertising campaigns, drives a vintage Cadillac, and shows up in a tuxedo at the Oscars.

During his childhood and early teens Jim had bronchial asthma which caused him to lead a sheltered life under pretty constant maternal supervision. His mother Louella remembered him as being a well liked and happy child: “He was definitely a very normal kid, and he had lots of friends. He would get along with them well even as a very small child. He enjoyed his friendships and got along very, very well.”

The Osterbergs were located significantly close to the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor campus, a centre for independent and influential cultural thinking. SDS (Students for a Democratic Society), the powerful radical student organisation, was founded in Ann Arbor in 1959 by Tom Hayden. Composer Robert Ashley – busy forging the future of American opera – was working in the University’s Music Department. By the late Sixties Ann Arbor was a major hub for drug distribution and consumption throughout the Midwest.

Any full-blooded American boy – and wimpy, geeky, asthma-scarred, young Jim Osterberg was just about full-blooded enough when it came to conventional male pursuits – would’ve been thrilled to have his trailer parked around the corner from a Sixties campus then cooking up a tough potent stew of pussy, protest, and pot. It was entirely relevant to the emergent noise merchant that Ann Arbor was 40 miles from the legendary motor city of Detroit, the centre of the American automobile industry, a big music town, and an important port. The State of Michigan was heavily industrialised and fertile. It’s a cold, bleak, and isolated place in the winter.

Iggy says that his father was a difficult customer who couldn’t stand the “buddy-buddy suburbs shit, watering the lawn, talking to the guy next door. I’m kinda cantankerous too. Born on the cusp of Aries and Taurus: stubborn, miserable, never satisfied. My father was very highly strung. Very shy man. A disciplinarian. Kept his army haircut, made me get these military haircuts, quarter-inch all round, bought my clothes. Didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke or cuss or fool around with women.” The Osterbergs were definitely the most literate occupants of the entire trailer park. Their neighbours were mainly drivers of heavy trucks or low-wage unskilled workers who were often migratory. “Guys,” according to Iggy, “who would come up from the South when they heard there was some work in Detroit.”

It was an incredibly isolated environment. He never met kids who lived in houses. He never felt like the other kids anyway. He felt weird. “We lived near this gravel pit,” he said. “I never knew when I was a kid why I always felt so melancholy. But it was because I was looking at this slag heap every day … Even later, I hardly hung out with anybody, even the guys in my group.”

He got good grades in English, Communications, and Mathematics. Mother Louella said that all the other mothers she knew would come up to her and say, “I wish my son was as well-behaved and nice to talk to as your Jim.”

A hyper-intelligent kid with some health problems whose curiosity was encouraged by bookish parents, the adolescent Jim grew active in civics and student government, and got involved with both music and drama at school. Although subsequently a vocal supporter of far-right President Ronald Reagan, the young Jim was, like most other smart kids of his generation, a fan of the neo-liberal John F. Kennedy. Jim was made Vice President of his class in Ninth Grade and, according to Louella, chosen to represent a foreign country in a statewide school civics project known as The Model U. N.: “I can’t remember which country Jim was supposed to be involved with, but they would go away for about three days and they actually had a model United Nations organisation. They spoke on the particular issues that were in the real U. N. at the time.”

Jim got interested in music in the fourth grade when he started playing drums. He found himself fascinated by the industrial home environment that was always around him, by everything from his father’s electric shaver through to the electric space heater in their metal trailer. When he was nine years old he was taken on a tour of Ford’s main assembly plant in River Rouge and there he saw his first machine press. “A machine press is basically a metal foundation,” he said, “a great piece of very heavy metal cut in a form. You put what’s to become a fender in the middle, it crashes down, you pull out the form of metal and put another piece in. I loved that sound!” The sound gave birth, 20 years later, to a song about his background, ‘Mass Production’.

The industrial and industrialised noises of his childhood and early adolescence made Jim crave for something nastier and less acceptable than the rather conventional aspirations of other Sixties R&B buffs: “A large part of me remains like this kid listening really close to some of this stuff and going, ‘I like this and I like this. This is shit, and I hate it and I wanna blow it up.’ A lot of Mishima in me – Confessions of A Mask. The day I was out of school; platinum hair shoulder length as soon as possible. Wrecking cars, breaking into houses, drugs … the wildest thing.”

His father initially opposed his son’s interest in drumming, and his nascent desire to be in a band. Newell, a big man, said to Jim, “You’re gonna have to push me out this door if you wanna go off and play the drums with these bums instead of going to school.” Jim said, “OK Dad, here I come.” At that moment, when Newell realised that his son was serious and committed – not to mention scared – he was very graceful about it, and let the drumming continue.

Louella was more indulgent: “We always encouraged him in everything he did. We have always supported him, and we gave him a lot of financial support. He always knew that he could call us if he needed us in any way.” (This may well have been the case, but those calls were not always entirely welcome, especially during the Seventies when their son was globally synonymous with self-destructive excess. Iggy: “I always kept in touch, yeah. I remember I rang them up from Germany in the middle of the fuckin’ night once, rambling incoherently. I was practically an alcoholic. Awful … my dad just went, ‘You’re boring,’ and slammed the phone down.”)

Sam Treacy (Ann Arbor Sixties political activist): “The Osterbergs were very well regarded folks, blameless people. That their son turned out to be such a tearaway must have come as something of a seismic shock to them – especially to his dad – but Jim was hardly unique in that regard. It was the Fifties heading into the Sixties so the kids of respectable decent folks all over Middle America were turning on and dropping out. Or as my mom used to say, because there were lots of dope smoking sleepovers at our place, turning up and dropping in. One of my friends was taught by Jim’s old man and reckoned that Jim had a tough, tough time of it. Mr Osterberg had great faith in the leather belt, but I don’t mean to imply that he was an asshole … far from it … he was just entirely typical of his generation of American men. Jim’s mother always had him turned out impeccably. I’m not remotely surprised that he’s become something of a clothes horse or dandy in middle age. The Osterbergs were always a dapper family in their own quiet unassuming way.”

Ron Asheton, subsequently the guitarist in The Stooges, remembers Jim Osterberg as just another kid at school. He would see Jim in the school hallway. “Today, he’d probably get his ass beat if he wore his hair like he wore it back then … it was like a regular haircut with little Betty Page bangs, like a teeny Beatle cut. That was pretty radical, but I was the guy who had to really try to hide my hair, ‘cause I had like a Brian Jones haircut, all the way over my eyes, and sideburns. I had to sort of not wash it for a long time, so it didn’t look like it was real long. But he’d see me in the hallway, and I’d be wearing leather vests and turtlenecks and looking way different than his cashmere sweater, chinos, and tasselled penny loafers. So he’d always give me a nod, and it was like, ‘Yeah, this guy … I saw him play with that band at school, man. I wanna be in a band.’ He played good drums, and he got to sing a song, and he’s in the band and everyone was cheering.”

Although Asheton mischievously assigns Jim Osterberg to the cashmere and chinos crowd, Iggy sees things differently and says that the rich kids at school used to put his trailer home down because he was unfortunate enough to fall into a school district where “all the sweater guys, ya know, all the cashmere guys” went. He reckons that mixing with the smoothies helped make a man out of him because their Hush Puppy hostility made him “a star”, made him really brutal.

All the hip or weird Ann Arbor kids, including Jim Osterberg and the two nihilistic outsider Asheton brothers, Ron and Scott, hung out at the Michigan Union cafeteria, which was dubbed “The Jug”. “Everyone was young enough,” Ron Asheton says, “so we’d go in and sit down and we’d be there every afternoon. The security guards would come around once an hour and ask for ID if you didn’t look right. We’d get kicked out. We’d just wait half an hour and we’d come back in, and stay until we were kicked out again. But he (Iggy) kinda started showing up, and that’s how I kinda got to know him – just in the hallway, and then hangin’ out at the Michigan Union cafeteria. He’d see me there, and by that time, he was in college, and was like, ‘Hey, it’s you, how’s it goin’, man?’”

When he was 15 Jim got involved with a band called The Iguanas after winning a local talent contest with school pal Jim McLoughlin. Kids began to call Jim “Iggy” as The Iguanas – Iggy (drums/vocals), McLoughlin (guitar/vocals), Nick Kolokithas (guitar/vocals), Don Swickerath (bass), and Sam Swisher (sax/percussion/backing vocals) – grew in stature. Iggy subsequently denigrated The Iguanas as being the son of a realtor, the son of an insurance salesman, and the son of a clerk. The son of a teacher was trying to get his fellow bourgeois musicians to try out songs by The Kinks, England’s most deviant R&B merchants, instead of semi-surf instrumentals such as The Ventures’ ‘Perfidia’. “I was the only one in the band who was really into music,” he claims. “The rest of The Iguanas weren’t so serious about it. There was a division in the band. They all liked Beatle songs; I liked the Stones, Kinks, and Them.”

This notion that nobody involved in any given venture – other than Iggy – knew what they were doing runs like a river through all of Pop’s pronouncements on important collaborators, with the notable exception of David Bowie who, as the whole world knows, knew exactly what he was doing. On the other hand Pop is the only one out of that provincial college band scene who went on to enjoy some level of global fame, the one who clearly had the Bunsen burner of harsh ambition up his ass from day one. You don’t need to be an asshole to make it in music, but it sure helps.

He was – for sure – not terribly hot on the core inspiration behind The Iguanas; The Beatles’ aesthetic of well-structured dippy songs and social activism. He rightly felt that their easy-going populist approach went against the spirit of the regular-guy, rugged-individualist blue-collar trailer park rock’n’roll which he favoured. “I enjoyed their early records. They lost me with Sgt. Pepper’s, which I think is a really over-rated and depressing album. Once they got into the droopy moustaches, the whole thing kind of lost it for me … Basically, there was a movement by the sons and daughters of the middle class in America and England to take this greasy little lower-class phenomenon and claim it for themselves. We’ll promote it. We’ll lifestyle it. And in a lot of ways that’s been convenient for me. I’ve made a better living at it. But it did take away a lot from the guts and flesh.”

The Iguanas did pretty well locally, clean-cut boys with the somewhat bug-eyed Osterberg on drums. They played mainly frat houses and at various holiday resorts in the area. After graduating from high school in ‘65 Iggy managed to get the group a summer residency at the Ponytail Club in Harbor Springs, a resort in North Michigan. They had to work hard, playing five sets a day, six days a week. According to one biographer, Iggy earned an impressive $55 a week from this gig. “Wow, professional employment far away from home,” he enthused. “Five 45-minute sets a night, 15-minute breaks, six nights a week. I plugged a phonograph into that socket and listened to Out Of Our Heads and Bringing It All Back Home all summer. Started getting wild, grew my hair to my shoulders and dyed it platinum, got arrested and took my first mug shot. Got fired from the Ponytail.”

The Iguanas pressed up 1,000 copies of their own single and released it on their own Forte label. The 45 was sold on the door at their resort gigs. Girls were always good for buying these things, as were faggy guys and the occasionally intelligent one. The release featured a cover of ‘Mona’ by Bo Diddley backed with a Beatles-style original called ‘I Don’t Know Why’ written by Kolokithas. (Iguanas’ demos from this period – including ‘Again And Again’, the first instance of Iggy’s words being put to music – were released on Norton Records in the mid-Nineties.) During the summer of ‘65 they spread their wings and played shows in Chicago, Toledo and Lansing.

When he was 16 Iggy switched from the Ypsilanti public school system to Ann Arbor Pioneer High School. Newall felt that his kid would benefit from the more intellectually competitive environment provided by the upper-middle class cashmere kids there. At Pioneer High he rubbed shoulders and crotches with the fit sons and daughters of lawyers, doctors, professors and the like. It can’t have been easy going for a sensitive adolescent living amongst society’s also-rans in a trailer park. Ann Arbor writer and friend Anne Wehrer, who subsequently wrote the autobiographical I Need More with Iggy, thought that Pop always felt a little embarrassed about the fact that he lived in a trailer. “The kids in Ann Arbor did look down on it,” she recalled. “They were snotty about it.” People who knew him then reckon that he has spent his entire life running away from his lowly roots towards the glamour of showbiz success with all the trimmings.

Iggy, an intrepid social climber from the outset, took note of how the other half lived, now that he was mixing with elite movers and shakers. “These rich kids had sweaters with V-necks made out of materials and things. I’d never seen anything like that before … I was burdened by the fact that whenever I tried to express myself I would be laughed at. I was considered weird. A weird kid. I was also very shy, very unhip, very unglib, and never wore the right clothes.”

At the end of the summer of ‘65 The Iguanas broke up. Being the sons of straight bourgeois types, people who had a stake in society, their mutual attention now turned towards a future in the real world. Iggy, no different from the rest of them, applied for admission to the University of Michigan. Because of his good grades and track record he was accepted right away. After the breakup of The Iguanas he attended the university for one semester with the idea of studying anthropology. He fell in with a smart set who were a kind of cross between contemporary counterculture society and the geeky trenchcoat Mafias of more recent memory.

Anne Wehrer: “He wanted to study anthropology and he went to the University of Michigan but they were taking too long to get to the point. So he went and got the reading list and read all the books instead of taking the courses. He considers rock’n’roll a social anthropology.”

Ron Asheton: “He was in college for a while, at the University of Michigan, then he’d go to the cafeteria and that’s where I’d be hanging out with Dave Alexander and sometimes my brother or any of the other guys like Bill Cheatham – us who were ‘the different ones’, the ones with long hair. It was the only place you felt kind of OK. Out on the street, the frats, the jocks, they’d throw beer cans and shit at you, but you go to the Michigan Union, you’d find people like that. The beatnik people, some of the older professors with the goatees and stuff. ‘Ah yes, young man, what is your philosophy of life?’ And the guy’d be some weirdo fag – aaahhhh! That kinda stuff. But you met a lot of cool people that way. So that’s kinda how our relationship … started to grow.”

When he lost interest in his anthropology classes, Iggy got a regular job at Discount Records, an important Ann Arbor record store and subcultural hub, the cool place with the latest sounds. Robert Scheff, who subsequently toured with Iggy before changing his name to “Blue” Gene Tyranny, was a sales clerk at Discount Records, an outlet intimately involved in the evolution of the local band scene, a place where kids could hang out and have all the new releases played for them by compliant staff.

“Discount Records was one of those really interesting places to work,” Tyranny says. “You could hear all the new music that was coming out, all the new singles, and all kinds of music. It was subsequently bought out by Columbia Records and became more of a conventional rack store. When I was working there, and when Iggy was working there, you could go in and order stuff. People used to just hang out because you could go there all the time and do that.”

Iggy was in charge of the rock’n’roll section, a good sharp salesman. He was the sort of sharp guy you find in provincial record shops all over the world, the sort of guy who’d tell the kids, “We’re getting in the first Stones album but not too many ‘cause they don’t want me to have them here.”

Local big shot blues band – and Discount Records scenesters – The Prime Movers, founded in 1965, heard that Iggy was out of a gig and, since he was one of the most powerful little drummers in town, they set out to recruit him. The core of The Prime Movers was the Erlewine brothers, Michael and Daniel, along with “Blue” Gene Tyranny (still trading as Robert Scheff) and Jack Dawson. The thoughtful sophisticated Michael Erlewine had been hitchhiking with Bob Dylan in 1961. He’d already hung out at shrines associated with the Beat Generation such as Venice West, Greenwich Village, and San Francisco.

Iggy later denigrated them thus: “The Prime Movers was an effete, bohemian, intellectual, blues band of 25-and 26-year-olds. I was 18, which was a big difference at that time.” On another occasion they were described as a “bunch of effete beatniks” playing “ersatz blues”. The fact of the matter is that The Prime Movers were an impressive collection of individuals with strong track records behind them and, as it turned out, interesting lives ahead of them. It would be fair to say that, up until the time he got to know these effete intellectual types, Jim Osterberg was just another good-looking provincial Sixties kid messing around in a frat band on the fringes of real and interesting music. After The Prime Movers he was aware of things like art, politics, and experimentation.

Subsequent MC5 guitarist Wayne Kramer said that if you were black and grew up in Chicago, you knew all about blues bands, but that if you were a white suburban kid from Detroit, blues bands were pretty exotic. “The Prime Movers’ drummer was this guy Iggy Osterberg,” Kramer recalled. “He was really a great drummer; rock steady, no razzle dazzle, no flash, just pure power rock’n’roll beat. Their band was popular because they were so different. Everyone else tried choreography and had steps and did instrumentals, and just were like all the other bands of that era. Around 1965/66 when The Beatles broke, everyone had Beatle haircuts and learned to sing in harmony. The idea that Iggy, who was renowned as one of the best drummers on the scene, had joined this blues band was really exciting.”

“We were influenced by The Paul Butterfield Band from Chicago,” says Prime Movers leader Michael Erlewine. “They’d come to Detroit and we’d both play a place called The Living End. We were playing the music that the older black people liked, and I think they laughed a lot at us too. It really wasn’t much of a scene, we were the first new kind of band that were counterculture, that wasn’t a crappy frat band. When we knew Iggy he was very shy, especially around girls. He had long eye-lashes, he was very effeminate in his appearance, the way he carried himself. Not in a bad way … women went to him.”

Sam Treacy says that it’s hardly surprising that women went for the young drummer, who was known as Horse Dick at school. “Iggy was a very shy guy. A pal of mine was a room-mate with him and he told me that Iggy had a huge dick. Iggy couldn’t get over it. He didn’t know precisely what to do with it. He was not aggressive to women. Women would come and get him and he liked them. But he was not what you would call a regular guy in terms of reaching out and making conquests of any kind. It had to be absolutely safe, they had to be subservient to him, like telling him that they loved him.”

Iggy: “I was working with older, sorta older Beats. We still had Beats left over at that time. It was like 1966 and you have the leftover of the Beats, the beginnings of the people starting to grow their hair but make it clean. In those days if you had long hair it was dirty. That was being a beatnik. They were more interested in, like, shooting up or taking bennies than marijuana. Tea wasn’t that popular. They called it tea, and kinda sneered at it.”

Michael Erlewine: “We studied black music like other people study in college. That is all we did. Our band did not play anything else, and we were content to study the Chicago blues and try to play it … Our band travelled to San Francisco in the Summer of Love where we played at all the main clubs.”

“Blue” Gene Tyranny: “I was always involved in avant-garde music as well as rock’n’roll since I was a young kid. A friend of mine who was a composer went up to Ann Arbor because he got a position in the University of Michigan Music Department. While he was there he met up with these fascinating people who were doing the ground-breaking ONCE Festival. The ONCE group of composers became one of the most generic New Music scenes in the Sixties. There are a number of books being written about ONCE right now, and there are a lot of articles in journals, etc. My pal got in touch with me and told me that I should come to Ann Arbor. I won a BMI Student Composer’s Award that year which gave me enough money to be able to leave Texas, where there was a lot going on that I wanted to leave. I was offered a scholarship to Julliard while I was briefly in New York but I just got on a bus and came to Ann Arbor. I never went to college there but I worked in various places.

“While I was there I started playing in The Prime Movers blues band. We were one of the first white boy blues bands in the style of The Paul Butterfield Blues Band. We did Chicago and Delta blues. We used to play the black club in the small … what might be called the ghetto of Ann Arbor. A couple of streets long! I think we were appreciated by lots of people there. The bar guy liked us because we brought in the college crowd. Iggy was an excellent drummer. Very clean and not obtrusive at all, really tasteful. Also he was pursuing drumming very seriously indeed. Michael Erlewine, who was the leader of The Prime Movers, was actually sort of a mentor for Iggy at that time, really helping him making his decisions and stuff, because he was a younger kid. I think we were all older than him but it was at that time of life when a few years makes all the difference. Although he was the first kid to dye his hair silver at school and things like this, he was very shy, embarrassed to talk about sex around the other guys in the band. Oh, yeah.”

Iggy: “Michigan’s a funny place, and it’s one of the few places where the racism works in a different way. Michigan’s different than most of the other states filled with hillbillies. In Michigan, the hillbillies kind of always dug black people in a weird way; even though they didn’t want to live next door to ’em, there was always an admiration for them, and for a lot of forms of black music. They were just trying to strut their stuff in a certain way. I don’t know of anywhere else that that took place. What it did, that free jazz, it loosened up the music in bands and we all got more crazier.”

The entire Asheton family – by all accounts an idiosyncratic collection of individuals, very much a part of their epoch – were on the fringes of the more collegiate and prosperous scene on which Iggy was now thriving. Garage band refugees Scott and Ron plus sister Kathy who fancied herself as a singer were wannabes on a thriving local band battleground where the main players were The Up, The Prime Movers, and the infamous MC5. As White Panther founder and MC5 manager John Sinclair saw it, the Asheton brothers were “just two dead end kids. Rock ‘n’roll kids without a thought in their minds. Watching goofy shit on TV.”

The Asheton boys were assiduously hanging out, but as yet they’d not placed themselves at the very core of the action. They lived at home with their parents in a part of Ann Arbor called the Division. Their father, a Marine Corps pilot, died when Ron was 15. There was a lot of wacky American Gothic musical hinterland buried deep within the Asheton family. More than a little of the raucous shrill eccentricity of The Stooges came from within the zany family background of the brothers. At one stage it looked like Ron might become a psychedelic accordion player, something along the lines of James Ellroy’s Dick Contino character, rather than an undisputed inventor of punk rock guitar playing.

Ron Asheton: “My great-aunt Ruthie and my great-uncle Dick-Dick were vaudevillian performers … the whole family would get together in the summer and have big ol’ clam bakes and get all sorts of crabs and oysters. Dick-Dick would always sit at the piano and play the accordion and violin along with a pair of trained parakeets. He’d play for me and be drinking his whiskey. While everyone was partying, I’d sit there and was just fascinated. Ruthie would come in and they’d put on a little show. It was just too cool to listen to her live music when you were five years old. She’d play the banjo and then she gave me her old violin, one of the old crummy ones. I started sawing away on it until my ma took it away from me and turned it into a planter. She asked me if I wanted to be involved in music. I said I wanted an accordion ‘cause that’s what Ruthie played so I started taking lessons. I went from a tiny one to a full-sized accordion. I actually ended up doing recitals because my teacher was good and I was anxious to learn. So here’s this little kid playing this huge accordion. I wasn’t really rocking out but I was playing well for a year’s worth of lessons. They had to parade me out for the music schools. I’d play in ensembles and as a soloist. So I wanted to be a TV star instead of being a policeman or a fireman. Also my mother used to sing on Radio Detroit when I was a teenager.”

In I Need More Iggy says: “Scott Asheton – he was the juvenile delinquent. He was this Elvis Presley looking character; a really quite handsome young lad, you know, somewhere between Elvis and Fabian, real rough dude, real badass, good fighter and shit like that. He used to always wear his sleeves rolled up.”

Wayne Kramer thought that Scott Asheton was a pugilist worthy of respect. One night Kramer and MC5 guitarist Fred “Sonic” Smith went to Ann Arbor to check out The Prime Movers. Lanky and dapper Fred Smith had his hair reasonably long at this time so a bunch of local yokels started picking a fight with him and Kramer, slapping Smith across the back of the head and speculating as to whether he was a boy or a girl. Things were getting somewhat out of hand when Scott Asheton, who wanted to be a drummer, saw what was happening. Asheton picked up one of Smith’s assailants and kicked him right across the dancefloor, ordering him to quit hassling the MC5 boys because they were his friends. Scott may have come to their assistance because at that stage Fred “Sonic” Smith was consorting with Scott’s sister Kathy.

English rock writer Nick Kent confirms that the future Rock Action was a handful. When he got to know Scott in the early Seventies, Kent said that the drummer “resembled a hard-core biker type pondering his next act of imminent barbarism”. These Asheton boys obviously existed in a universe on the other side of the tracks from Iggy’s socially aspirant, arty avant-garde pals. The Ashetons’ Marine father had groomed his sons for a life in the military. Ron was a Nazi obsessive. He subsequently wore Nazi gear onstage with The Stooges and in band photo shoots. “I didn’t like what they stood for but I liked what they wore,” he subsequently professed.

“These guys were the laziest, delinquent sort of pig slobs ever born,” Iggy said of his pals. “Really spoiled rotten and babied by their mother. Scotty Asheton – he was a juvenile delinquent. His dad had died, his and Ron’s, so they didn’t have much discipline at home.”

It was from within the Ashetons’ milieu, and not from Iggy’s posse, that the ground breaking outsider stance of The Stooges emerged. Bass player Dave Alexander was the Ashetons’ young weirdo neighbour and their pal.

“David was kinda pink, because he had a really bad complexion,” says Iggy in I Need More. “He used a whole lot of Clearasil, because Clearasil was advertised on Dick Clark for zits … Anyway, he had this orange hair, real long hair, and he used to carry a knife in his pocket. He was about 5’7? and he would wear those stretch Levi’s … they would always be coming down around his hips.”

It was in the company of Dave Alexander that Ron skipped school before travelling, in his teens, all the way to Liverpool to check out the bands and to see the town that gave birth to The Beatles.

Ron Asheton: “The only reason I really got to go was I had a friend who I went to high school and junior high with. His father got a job in Southport, England, working for the Essex Wire Company. So I said, ‘We’re staying with them. They said it’s OK.’ But that wasn’t true; we just showed up on their doorstep one night at 10 in the evening. His mother answered the door and almost had a heart attack. The next day they shipped us right the fuck out, man. The old man took us down to this bed and breakfast place, which wound up being really cool, ‘cause we had total freedom.