Slammin’ backbeats to the midsection, punishing and relentless guitar riffs that fry the eardrums to a crisp, and lyrics that call for revolution of mind and soul even as they forever extol rock’s eternal truths – summertime, cars, women, pain – are collective evidence in 2003 that Iggy Pop’s roadmap hasn’t changed all that much since the Stooges were first unleashed upon the world a few years back.
A few years back? Iggy (or Mr. Pop, as the New York Times refers to him) lives in that rarefied zone inhabited by the true avatars of rock who...
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