In 1972, the Stooges were
near the point of collapse when David Bowie's management team, MainMan, took a
chance on the band at Bowie's behest. By this point, guitarist Ron Asheton and
bassist Dave Alexander had been edged out of the picture, and James Williamson
had signed on as Iggy's new guitar mangler; Ron Asheton re-joined the band
shortly before recording commenced on Raw Power, but was forced to play second
fiddle to Williamson as bassist. By most accounts, tensions were high during
the recording of Raw Power, and the album sounds like the work of a band on its
last legs -- though rather than grinding to a halt, Iggy & the Stooges
appeared ready to explode like an ammunition dump. From a technical standpoint,
Williamson was a more gifted guitar player than Asheton (not that that was ever
the point), but his sheets of metallic fuzz were still more basic (and
punishing) than what anyone was used to in 1973, while Ron Asheton played his
bass like a weapon of revenge, and his brother Scott Asheton remained a
powerhouse behind the drums. But the most remarkable change came from the
singer; Raw Power revealed Iggy as a howling, smirking, lunatic genius. Whether
quietly brooding ("Gimme Danger") or inviting the apocalypse
("Search and Destroy"), Iggy had never sounded quite so focused as he
did here, and his lyrics displayed an intensity that was more than a bit
disquieting. In many ways, almost all Raw Power has in common with the two
Stooges albums that preceded it is its primal sound, but while the Stooges once
sounded like the wildest (and weirdest) gang in town, Raw Power found them
heavily armed and ready to destroy the world -- that is, if they didn't destroy
themselves first.
The Ig. Nobody does it better,
nobody does it worse and nobody does it, period. Others tiptoe around the
edges, make little running starts and half-hearted passes; but when you're
talking about the O mind, the very central eye of the universe that opens up
like a huge, gaping, suckling maw, step aside for the Stooges.
They hadn't appeared on
record since the Funhouse of two
plus years before. For a while, it didn't look as if they were ever going to
get close again. The band shuffled personnel like a deck of cards, their record
company exhibited a classic loss of faith, drugs and depression took inevitable
tolls. At their last performance in New York, the nightly highlight centred
around Iggy choking and throwing up onstage, only to encore quoting Renfield
from Dracula: "Flies," and whose
mad orbs could say it any better, "big juicy flies ... and
spiders...."
Well, we all have our
little lapses, don't we? With Raw Power, the
Stooges return with a vengeance, exhibiting all the ferocity that characterized
them at their livid best, offering a taste of the TV eye to anyone with nerve
enough to put their money where their lower jaw flaps. There are no
compromises, no attempts to soothe or play games in the hopes of expanding into
a fabled wider audience. Raw Power is the
pot of quicksand at the end of the rainbow, and if that doesn't sound
attractive, then you've been living on borrowed time for far too long.
It's not an easy album, by
any means. Hovering around the same kind of rough, unfinished quality
reminiscent of the Velvets' White Light/White Heat,
the record seems caught in jagged pinpoints, at times harsh, at others abrupt.
Even the "love" songs here, Iggy crooning in a voice achingly close
to Jim Morrison's, seem somehow perverse, covered with spittle and leer:
"Gimme Danger, little stranger," preferably with the lights turned
low, so "I can feeeel your disease."
The band is a
motherhumper. Ron Asheton has switched over to bass, joining brother Scott in
the rhythm section, while James Williamson has taken charge of lead; the power
trio that this brings off has to be heard to be believed. For the first time,
the Stooges have used the recording studio as more than a recapturing of their
live show, and with David Bowie helping out in the mix, there is an ongoing
swirl of sound that virtually drags you into the speakers, guitars rising and
falling, drums edging forward and then toppling back into the morass. Iggy
similarly benefits, double and even triple-tracked, his voice covering a range
of frequencies only an (I wanna be your) dog could properly appreciate,
arch-punk over tattling sniveler over chewed microphone.
Given material, it's the
only way. The record opens with "Search And Destroy," Vietnamese
images ricocheting off the hollow explosions of Scott's snare, Iggy secure in
his role of GI pawn as "the world's most forgotten boy," looking for
"love in the middle of a fire fight." Meaning you're handed a job and
you do it, right? Yes, but then "Gimme Danger" slithers along,
letting you know through its obsequiously mellow acoustic guitar and slippery
violin-like lead that maybe he actually likes walking
that tightrope between heaven and the snakepit below, where the false step
can't be recalled and the only satisfaction lies in calling your opponent's
bluff and watching him fold from there. Soundtrack music for a chicken run, and
will it be your sleeve that gets caught on the door handle? Hmmmm ...
Cut to "Your Pretty
Face Is Going to Hell," first called "Hard To Beat" and the
original title ditched in favour of Funhouse's "1970." If it didn't seem
like such a relic of the past, the Grande Ballroom would have to be resurrected
for this one, high-tailing it all the way from Iggy's opening Awright! through James' hot-wired
guitar to a lavish, lovingly extended coda which will probably be Iggy's cue to
trot around the audience when they ultimately bring it onstage.
"Penetration" closes off the side, the Stooges at their most sensual,
lapping at the old in-out in a hypnotic manner that might even have a crack at
the singles games, Clive and Columbia's promotion men willing.
"Raw Power"
flips the record over, and the title track is a sure sign that things aren't
about to cool down. "Raw Power is a boilin' soul/Got a son called rock 'n'
roll," and when was the last time you heard anything like that? "I
Need Somebody" builds from a vague "St. James Infirmary"
resemblance to neatly counterpoint "Gimme Danger," Iggy on his best behaviour
here, while "Shake Appeal" is the throwaway, basically a
half-developed riff boosted by a nice performance, great guitar break, and some
on-the-beam handclaps. Leaving the remains for "Death Trip" to finish
off, the only logical follow-up to "L.A. Blues" and all that came
after, crawl on your belly down the long line of bespattered history as the world
shudders to its final apocryphal release.
I never drink ... wine.
