More than half a century into his career, Iggy Pop now takes many forms. To most he remains the proto-punk showman who used to roll around in broken glass or crowd-surf covered in peanut butter. His early records with the Stooges on the 1960s/70s cusp remain some of the most influential in the canon – documents of devil-may-care nihilism that provided a scuzzy counterweight to the era of peace and love. Others immortalise Iggy in the 70s alongside his buddies David Bowie and Lou Reed, a triad of exalted reprobates.
Nowadays, Pop is a gravelly, erudite voice on BBC 6 Music, as well versed in contemporary sounds as he is in genres far from his own recorded output. He enthuses about Sons of Kemet and the Blessed Madonna. He’s a droll wit and mischievous raconteur, some distance from the “godfather of punk” cliche. (Now 75, he retired from stage-diving some years back.) Having survived decades of decadence, the singer is long sober and maintains his wiry presence with qigong. The film-maker Jim Jarmusch, who has directed Pop in a number of movies, attests to his interest in art and history.
