Iggy Pop’s ‘Post Pop Depression Tour;’ Going Down Kicking and Screaming

Last week I took my mom to see Iggy Pop’s “Post Pop Depression Tour” at the Greek Theater. She introduced me to his music in middle school, and I’ve been cranking it ever since. Some of my fondest memories from high school were driving to my baseball games with three of my closest friends, jamming out to “No Fun,” “The Passenger,” and “Search and Destroy.” When I saw that he and Josh Homme, another musician I discovered in my formative years, were collaborating on an album before heading out on tour, I knew I had to be there, and I knew there was only one person I should take. Looking around the crowd I saw people of all ages, as young as 12 to as old as 70, a testament to the longevity and impact of his career. His music is the type to be passed down from one generation of contrarians to the next — a raw, unbridled attitude that transcends age and time. At one point or another, we’ve all felt like we needed to kick, scream and lash out at the world, at the very air around us. It’s a feeling that may dwindle but never dies, it just gets easier to stuff down. But god damnit, if we weren’t going to lash out for ourselves, we could always count on Iggy to do it for us. He literally bled for his fans.

But that was a long time ago. Iggy Pop is 69 now, part of the generation of musicians that is now slowly leaving this earth behind. In fact, Pop celebrated his most recent birthday on the same day Prince passed away. He is, quite literally, of a dying breed, a group of musicians that made a living pushing boundaries, of breaking the rules before anybody thought it was cool to do so. Lou Reed, David Bowie, The Ramones, Prince — these were guys willing to stick out like sore thumbs, to be ridiculed and dismissed, but they all persevered by being authentically unapologetic. Their energy attracted people to watch them on tiny stages in tiny venues until they could no longer be ignored. They were about expressing themselves through music. Whether that music was good or bad was secondary to fuckin’ living, man. It wasn’t about empires, or brands, or even being the best. It was simply about being.

Iggy came out swinging, opening the set with “Lust for Life,” determined to prove he still has just that. The pounding drums of the prelude began before the curtains rose, and the audience erupted. Homme and the backing band were revealed, donning matching red sharkskin suits, exuding the type of cool only possible while playing an instrument on stage. The entire audience, cheering, rose to their feet as stage lights swept across their faces before Iggy, all 5’1” of him, came bounding out onto the stage. His entrance and its reception felt like a WWE event, a beloved character making a surprise return from retirement.

The crowd stood for the entirety of the nearly two hour set. The black blazer Iggy wore onto stage was gone after the second song, revealing the beaten and ragged torso that has come to be his signature. His body seemed to be stuck in that cocked-hip fashion that makes it appear as if one leg is significantly shorter than the other. His skin sagged and wobbled, but it wasn’t sad or tired, but invigorating. He did nothing to hide his age, showed no shame in it, but kicked and punched in spite of it. He fucking owned it. About his budding geriatric breasts he even remarked “yes, they’re real.” He was a diminutive demon, wreaking havoc on the stage, lashing out and at life, love and time itself; and it was so damn contagious. If watching a 69 year old, shirtless man, sprint back and forth on stage while intermittently diving into the crowd doesn’t instill your own lust for life, you might want to check your pulse.

He never mentioned his dying peers because he didn’t have to. The end of the road, so to speak, is the backdrop for this entire endeavor. But the gleam in his eye said ‘I know we’re losing people, but god damnit, we’re still here, and we’re going to make the most of it.’ He swore — “fucking thanks for fucking coming… Fuck!” — he laughed, he lived entirely in the moment. And he seemed to get a kick out of watching his two gigantic security guards sprint towards him any time he ventured out into the crowd. He was going to give us what we wanted even if it killed him. But something tells me that if someone told Iggy Pop he would die on stage, he would respond with ‘tell me something I don’t know.’

The band absolutely brought the noise. Along with Mr. Homme there were fellow Queens of the Stone Age members Dean Fertita on guitar and keyboards and Troy Van Leeuwin on guitar, as well as Arctic Monkeys drummer Matt Helders and Matt Sweeney from Chavez on bass. Though I found the new album slightly underwhelming, seeing it performed live was an experience to be had. The chemistry between the elder statesman and his younger backing band was amazing, and the unmistakable gratitude that radiated out of Iggy, towards both the crowd and the band, created a warm and fuzzy feeling that I wasn’t expecting to experience. You could tell it took some convincing on Homme’s part to get Iggy on board, but once he did, Iggy could not be more thankful. Their interactions resembled those between generations playing against each other in professional sports: the younger athletes excited about playing against their idols, while the older are honored that they’re remembered at all, but both beyond happy that they can still partake in the activity that they love, together.

That energy continued to build the entire show. By the time the whole crowd was singing along to “The Passenger,” the house lights up so that Iggy could see his minions, my eyes were brimming with tears which threatened to be shook loose by the chills traveling up and down my spine. His encore lasted four songs, and he ended the show with the incredibly fitting “Success.” Together, for one night, in this amphitheater nestled in the hills of Los Feliz, we had all found it. For one more night, Iggy Pop reminded me that sometimes the best way to get away from the noise is to turn up the fucking volume.