World’s Greatest Grandpa (Underground Garage Fest, Randall's Island)

Iggy Pop and the Stooges.  Iggy Pop and the Mudderfuggin Stooges.

I can die happy, now:  I have seen Pop and the Asheton brothers play “I Wanna Be Your Dog.”  Twice, actually; I’m not sure whether the band hadn’t rehearsed enough songs, or have gone senile and had forgotten that they’d already done that one, but they went through it twice in one set.  I don’t care.  I’m not complaining.

Well, they didn’t play “Search and Destroy.”  But “1969,” “1970,” “No Fun,” “Fun House...”  Songs I never thought I’d see done by the originals.  And the song selection, of course, didn’t matter near as much as the attack, and it was just short of a full-frontal assault.

Iggy, who kept his jeans on, had the energy of a coked-up eight three year-old.  It was as much a seizure as a performance; it was the best day ever at church, the speaker-in-tongues managing to possess a field-full of garagegoers.  During “T. V. Eye,” he charged – charged! – one of the onstage cameras, mounted it and started humping its matte box.  Later he ordered the crowd to bum rush the stage, y’all.  “Take over!” he implored, pulling kids up out of the audience while security fought to keep ‘em in.  About thirty kids stayed up there for a couple songs; while introducing/thanking the band (which included replacement bassist Mike Watt) he included, “You – what’s your name?  Scott?  Scott, everybody!”

It was the best of rock and roll.  It was energy, pure fervor.  “I am you!” Iggy screamed, and y’know, he was and we were.

I didn’t make it to Randall’s Island – for a couple reasons – until around 5PM.  So I missed more than thirty bands, all of whom played ten to fifteen minutes each.  These guys haven’t heard of that whole “second stage” thing, I suppose; in all, the turn-around time between sets was real quick, made long only by awful banter.

I got there just in time to hear Nancy Sinatra – that’s right, kids – kick into “These Boots Were Made For Walkin’.”  Big Star – yup – opened with “In the Street,” hoping folks would be thrilled to hear the guys responsible for the theme to That 70s Show.  Folks weren’t, and “Way Out West” and “Feel” went by without generating much interest or energy.  Bo Diddley – yessir – tragically, rapped.  The Pretty Things – huh? – put the day’s anachronism front and center with lyrics like “Everyone’s talkin’ about LSD.”  That’s nice, pop; time for yer meds.

While Unbilled Special Guest Hurricane Charley never showed, bands were rushed offstage and playlists squashed, just in case they evacuated the island.  While this turned out to be a pretty good thing – the concert was, as you might imagine, running long and didn’t end until after 10pm (I didn’t get back to Jersey until about 2am) – it resulted in some minor tragedy.  The Raveonettes, who came all the way from Denmark just for this gig, got to play two measly songs; but they’re young, and I’ll see them elsewhere.

The headliners – Stooges, Strokes, and New York Dolls – all got to play hour-long sets.  That gave the Strokes enough time to firmly establish their unworthiness.  They were obviously on the bill as kiddie bait, but their little-rich-boy-rock was as dull and uninspired as ever; there were endless between-song layabouts, during which the Raveonettes could’ve fit in another three or four songs, easy.

The Dolls – well, they weren’t pretty back then, either.  If you can picture Buster Poindexter in a belly shirt... oops, they did it again.  The band was a lot tighter than almost anyone expected them to be, and hell, man, it was The New York Dolls.  “Personality Crisis” and “Pills” rocked; late guitarist Johnny Thunder’s “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory” was a moving tribute to bassist Arthur Kane, who died just a month ago.

The crowd was great, a mix of young and old, drunk and sober.  There were clearly more than a few nostalgia trippers; but more of the folks I talked to were here because, like me, they never thought they’d see The Stooges, The Dolls – not to mention Nancy Sinatra – in their lifetime.

And now we have.  Long live rock n’ roll.

(A buddy of mine, a few years younger than myself, kept annoying, “So this is music from your day, right?”  Man, I was born in ‘71; those Stooges songs “1969,” “1970” – you do the math.)

links: digg this    del.icio.us    reddit