[b]Iggy Pop
Sex may be a little more factual than love. You know whether it’s good or bad. You know whether you liked it or not. You’re not going to change your mind about it ten years later.[/b]
Sounds reasonable to me.
Onstage I’ve been hit by a grapefruit, beercans, eggs, spit, money, cigarette butts, Mandies, Quaaludes, joints, bras, panties, and a fist.
Mandies?
I’m not a singer, a walking instrument like Aretha Franklin. When you get an Iggy Pop record, you don’t get “Iggy Sings.”
Sounds like he is though.
But point taken.
I became Iggy because I had a sadistic boss at a record store. I’d been in a band called the Iguanas. And when this boss wanted to embarrass and demean me, he’d say, ‘Iggy, get me a coffee, light.’
And it might actually be true.
How am I going to listen to that horrible noise I make without a gram of coke and a couple of double Jack Daniels?
You won’t hear me complaining.
My parents wanted to light my artistic candle. But over time, the definition of ‘the arts’ began to stretch. And as I got older, they suddenly realized, Oh, my God, we’re the parents of Iggy Pop.
Imagine then the parents of Tiny Tim. Or, sure, maybe, yours.