Iggy Pop
Post Pop Depression

The iguana's voice seems to come out of the bottom of an ashtray "I have nothing but my name... I am nothing but my name," he melancholically intones during a moment of deep reflection, preparing for the moment when Iggy Pop will have to return to being Jim Osterberg.

Jekyll/Hyde, the charismatic, caring, and cultured Jim and the frantic alter ego Iggy. What will become of me after all these years of service? What happens then if in the end you seem useless to everyone? Can you come to terms with that? A foreshadowing of the downfall that will occur when he inevitably has to hang his vocal cords on the hook.

The torments of an artist you might say, or the torments of a man who has more past behind him than future ahead?

It seems that Iggy, at 69 years old (at the time of publication), has moved away from the brutal vision of rock and kamikaze concerts with multiple fractures and rivers of blood and has rather reached a stage of deep reflection. A man who has plumbed the depths of depravity but has emerged with undeniable nobility.

It's hard to fully comprehend both the heights and depths of his experience, as the extremes are simply beyond the realm of understanding for most people.

Is there an age limit for going shirtless in public? "There is no age, and people can kiss my ass. Naked."

Not retiring then? "Not thinking about it, I'm not a wreck. I'm not afraid of time passing. Energy doesn't dissolve, it hardens with me. I want to keep working, reacting to the changing world and being a witness to the beauty of our planet."

What would you say to young Iggy? "I'd tell him not to grow up."

That Iggy is still alive today, not to mention that he is still able to perform with undiminished energy, is a wonder. That at almost 70 years old, he's created an album that, eight springs after its release, sounds fresher and deadlier vital than at the first listen is a comfort for those starting to press their footprints on Sunset Boulevard.

An album that captures the avant-rock thrill of Iggy's collaborations with Bowie, more in exploratory spirit than expressly in sound. A sound that, despite being produced by Josh Homme, is certainly not the psych-punk explosion of the "Queens of the Stone Age," but channels Iggy's legacy into modern sound through hypnotic and powerful grooves. But more than for the sonic payoff (nothing new but at sidereal levels), the work is appreciated for its lyric writing.

It's an album obsessed with two things: sex and death. "Your hourglass ass / And your strong back / Your devilish slanted eyes / And the trench down your spine," ("Gardenia"). Death is "a hard pill to swallow" ("American Valhalla") "Time is so tight, it's closing in" ("Break Into Your Heart"). In "TV Eye" he hints that a lustful life can lead to a six-foot ditch: "Hope I don’t lose my life tonight" he sings, emphasizing the last word with a desperately terrified scream.

Aware of the emptiness of success: "When you get to the bottom, you're close to the top / shit turns into chocolate drops" ("Chocolate Drops") and with a final jab reserved for the "system" "Take your damn laptop / and shove it up that lousy dirty mouth / in your shit-heel gizzard / fucking fake shit piece, double face and three times" with the only possible solution, escape to "Paraguay": "Fear eats away all souls at once / I'm tired of it / And I dream of leaving for a new life / Where there's not so fucking much knowledge / I don't want any of this information / I don't want you / No, not anymore, I've had enough of you."

As the title suggests and as the lyrics confirm, the post-pop depression is shrouded in a haze of melancholy. The patriarch of punk and one of rock's greatest provocateurs is aware of the imminent end and seeks to exorcise it by stretching his artistic life to the extreme, with the only consolation being the hope that his art can make him immortal. "I believe that every means of communication is a tool to have a piece of immortality. That actually doesn’t exist, because one day some barbarian will decide to destroy all the digital archives. But until that moment, this is the way to stretch out your fate a little."

The problem with life is that at some point it stops. It can't be replicated. Because in the end, time passes for everyone, even for The Passenger. In the meantime, the prophet of punk has become an old and wise philosopher. And honestly, I find absolutely nothing strange about that.