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Rating: Never judge a musician by their birth certificate.
I wake up on Monday with two thoughts in my mind:
1) Today is my day off and I can slack off.
2) Tonight Iggy Pop and the Stooges are playing and these Japanese idiots have sold ALL the tickets in advance! IT'S NOT POSSIBLE!
Since my friend Matteo and I are both in the Saint Thomas party, we venture towards Shibuya AX, sure we'll ruin our livers both due to the inclement weather (rain and wind with temperatures around 5 degrees), and the unaffordable prices of the scalpers (if there are any here in Tokyo). But even the most screwed-up day can eventually hold some joy. In fact, as soon as we arrive, we discover there are still tickets for sale. Like being struck by lightning on the road to Damascus, we incredulously rush to the ticket office and purchase them with smiles.
While waiting for the gates to open (6 PM), we witness a notable variety of characters parading: from the drunk rockabilly cursing at the security, to the aging punk with a child in a stroller in tow, to the studded biker, all the way to the trendy Japanese fan, so maniacally retro that it makes your hands itch. I'm pleasantly surprised by the presence of middle-aged Japanese gentlemen who have clearly just left the office and are still in suit and tie. I don't think the same could happen in Europe.
Inside, on stage, we are greeted by a nice American flag with the words: Welcome, good evening and fuck you."Well, I'll take note of that," as Troisi would say.
Then, right on time, and without any fireworks entrance, our guys pick up their instruments and kick off without a word with Loose. Suddenly time stops, and it feels like being back in 1970, the exact same sound of Funhouse, it seems impossible that they can still play like this. Naturally, Iggy is the focal point of the show: he writhes, screams like a madman, engages in wild stage diving over the astonished front rows, mimics imaginary coitus on a tower of Marshall amps, and throws microphone stands everywhere, nearly hitting Ron Asheton. During the first half-hour, in which Loose, Down on the Street, I Wanna Be Your Dog, and TV Eye are played, the venue turns into a hellish whirlpool, and the temperature reaches sauna levels, so much so that Iggy yells to open the doors.
The setlist includes almost all of the first album and all of Funhouse, complete with saxophonist. His unexpected entrance at the end of 1970 sends the crowd into a frenzy, and me especially. The pinnacle of the concert is, in my opinion, the wild improvisation of L.A. Blues, of which I will always remember the image of Iggy, shaken by tremors, screaming: "I'm fucking freakin' out!"
After an hour and a half, and after the encore of I Wanna Be Your Dog, the lights come on, and without much waiting, Matteo and I find ourselves outside under Tokyo's leaden sky, exhausted and incredulous at such energy. I watch many of the attendees leave, spiritually and physically rejuvenated, sure that miracles in the musical field can happen and that a birth certificate can sometimes be just a number on a document. I conclude by inviting all those who can to go see them on July 10th in Turin. I assure you that you will look at your record collection with different eyes, and some of your CDs will take a nice flight out the window.
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