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“Iggy! Iggy! Iggy!”

Forget what I said in the last post about wanting to steal the blood of my South American friends in order to somehow get more energy into my system. I can do better. I must kidnap Iggy Pop.

Tonight (technically last night) I had the honor, the privilege, the radical amazement of seeing Iggy & The Stooges reunited onstage at Shibuya-AX. I was braced for painful scalp prices for the show, as everything I read said it was sold out. Couldn’t find any scalpers so I walked up to a window and some little Shibuya-AX dude was selling tickets. Regular, face-value tickets (7,000 yen — about $70). Either the reports were bullshit or they opened up several tickets the night of the show, cause he had plenty. Ran into a shaggy-haired guy a bit older than me in a Cramps shirt and leather jacket who was losing his mind. “I can’t believe we’re about to see the fucking Stooges!” he kept yelling. Amen, brother.

(Note: Yes, $70 seems steep, but that’s Tokyo. Plus, I got to see Iggy & The Stooges in a place the size of D.C.’s 9:30 Club. Worth. Every. Yen.)

I’ve never seen Iggy Pop in concert before, and it definitely makes me feel old. If you took away a 10-year-old ADD patient’s Ritalin and substituted it with crack you’re still not quite approaching Iggy’s energy. He sprinted onto the stage in just a pair of jeans and boots while gyrating like Mr. Peepers. He’s constantly flopping around, yelling and pumping his fists, swaying side to side and destroying microphone stands (I think he killed about six in the course of the concert). He attacked a speaker and had sex with it, then attacked his guitarist and humped him, too. I can’t remember how many times he jumped onto the crowd.

The Shibuya-AX crowd wasn’t as apeshit as a crowd in the States would have been (well, anywhere in the States except D.C.), but they definitely made up for the overly-polite-to-the-point-of-yawning crowd at the David Bowie show. There was a mad pit going on (more like a giant pogo-fest than a sloppy thrash hole) and people all around were jumping up and down losing their minds. Girls in the balcony were screaming and Iggy kept smiling and waving, assuring everyone “We love you. We’re going to fuck you.” At one point Iggy invited everyone up onstage, then jumped into the middle of the mass and started a pit in front of the drummer.

Iggy, the Ashetons and Mike Watt (Raaar!) played tracks from every Stooges album, including “Dirt,” “1969,” “I Wanna Be Your Dog” (twice … not sure why but both times ruled), “TV Eye,” “No Fun” and “Real Cool Time.” No “Raw Power” or “Search and Destroy,” to my disappointment, but no worries. The new stuff, especially “Little Electric Chair,” was out of control.

The show made the cold-ass, rainy day vanish from my memory. It was one of those nights, like the Bowie night, where the day was kinda blah and I decided to take a chance and go to the show and everything sort of fell together in a most wonderful way. I capped off the night at a little Internet cafe on the top floor of a book/music/movie store in Shibuya, literally sitting behind one of the jumbo TVs you can see from the intersection. (It’s the one right above the Starbucks in “Lost in Translation.”)

I never dreamed I would get a chance to see Iggy & The Stooges live, and the show lived up to everything I imagined. Now if I can just figure out how to kidnap Iggy Pop and steal some of his blood, I’ll be set.