Each week, we take a look at some obscure or overlooked entries in the catalogs of music’s big names. MAGNET’s Bryan Bierman focuses on an album that, for whatever reason, slipped through the cracks in favor of its more popular siblings. Whether it’s new to you or just needs a revisit, we’ll highlight the Hidden Gems that reveal the bigger picture of our favorite artists.
“Parental Warning: This Is An Iggy Pop Record”: There was a time when reading this would have harpooned fear straight into the hearts of any red-blooded American mom or dad unlucky enough to know who Iggy Pop was, or what they imagined he stood for. Every incessant nightmare or despair held by the baby boomers—from Charles Manson to Mad magazine—were projected onto Iggy and his Stooges during their seven-year life span, and they responded by spewing it right back, in a torrent of heroin and glitter, blood and peanut butter. As Dictators guitarist Scott Kempner described, “This was living and being born and coming for your fucking children in the middle of the night right in front of you.”
But to parents reading that same warning in 1993? The same Iggy Pop who played Johnny Depp’s goofy backwoods uncle? The same Iggy Pop who recorded an ode to campy horror villain Freddy Krueger? The same Iggy Pop who sang that love song to the gal from the B-52’s? Really, how bad could it be?
Swinging between these two ends of the spectrum was somewhat deliberate, but mostly a by-product of Jim “Iggy” Osterberg’s wild personal, and career, path. After the Stooges disbanded for the second time, in 1974, Pop was left a broke junkie who spent the next two years floating from couch-to-couch in L.A., trying to get clean, finally winding up in a mental hospital. He soon moved to Germany with his old pal, and fellow addict, David Bowie to sober up—a period in which both men would arguably create their best work. 1977 saw the release of Pop’s first two solo albums, The Idiot and Lust For Life, which received rave reviews and have since become classics. Along with a newfound respect as an artist, he shed his image as a drug-crazed madman (which countless up-and-coming punk bands simultaneously attempted to imitate).
Unfortunately, this artistic upswing didn’t last, and after 1979’s great New Values, Pop spent the next few years with a reinvigorated heroin addiction while making mostly terrible records, ranging from watered-down new wave (Soldier) to clunky synth-pop (Party). Though these didn’t sell well, Pop lived off of royalties from songs he penned with Bowie, who had recently turned them into worldwide hits. Pop cleaned himself up, started an acting career, even scoring commercial success with the Bowie-driven Blah Blah Blah in ’86, which he followed with the overproduced hard rock of Instinct.
Hardly anything from Pop’s ‘80s work stands out with the same vigor that he once had. Although they may have started with interesting and experimental intentions, the records were cold and neutered, unfit for a man of his talent. With a now un-hazed perspective, Pop seemed aware of this, and in 1990 recorded his “comeback,” Brick By Brick, with help from producer Don Was. The songs were focused, showing a lyrical maturity not before seen, though the production was a tad too slick. However, the formula worked, and with the help of a hit pop single (the aforementioned “Candy,” a duet with Kate Pierson of the B-52’s), the record became the biggest hit of his career.
But still, something was missing. In a 2010 interview, Pop explained, “I peaked commercially. I’d done pretty well with Brick By Brick and Blah Blah Blah, and I’d lined up a lot of apples in a certain way, but that sort of professionalism—that professional West Coast type of American career that I was beginning to put together—just was a drag … I didn’t wanna do “Candy” live onstage; I thought, ‘Maybe I’ll get some kid who can play “Raw Power.”‘ And the next thing I knew, from 1990 on … Stooge-ism and amateurism started slipping back into my life.”
In September 1992, Pop headed down to New Orleans to begin recording his follow-up, American Caesar. Instead of searching for a polished sound with a big-name producer, this time he would cut the songs fast and loose, with Daniel Lanois-protégé Malcolm Burn behind the boards. And unlike his previous albums, which used a rotating array of guests and session musicians, Pop put together a raw three-piece band (Hal Cragin on bass, Larry Mullins on drums and guitarist Eric Schermerhorn), which he described as “similar to what I started with, three lost souls who didn’t fit anywhere.”
Though it’s directed in different forms, the one major theme that occurs throughout American Caesar is anger. Whether he’s lashing out at the American political landscape, racism, subpar guitar playing, his lover or himself, Pop certainly had a lot on his mind at the time, and even more than any other artist, he is a man whose work thrives on pain and madness. The “Stooge-ism” that slipped back into his life came from the same depths that described “a streetwalking cheetah, with a heart full of napalm,” decades earlier. Pop hadn’t been this acerbic in years, and he had a lot of time, and baggage, to make up for.
On single “Wild America,” Pop laments about the excess of the American way of life, including his participation in it, repeatedly echoing Mr. Kurtz’s command to “exterminate the brutes.” His band is tighter and harder than it had been since his Lust For Life days, pounding and screeching as one. At the song’s climax, Pop’s primal screams cut through the wall of noise: “They’re so goddamn spoiled … And they want more and more! More power! More freedom!” The satire continues on “Caesar,” a one-man play set to Schermerhorn’s hypnotic guitar riff, which compares the U.S. to the Roman Empire. Inspired by Edward Gibbon’s 18th-century tome Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire, Pop creates a strange, and darkly, funny portrayal of a heartless American leader—“Who are these Christians? What is this strange religion? I’ve heard it said they turn the other cheek. Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha! Throw them to the lions!” For listeners expecting an album of strictly Stooges-like rockers (though, there are plenty), “Caesar” is an experimental curveball.
The record also holds a lot of soul-bearing songs, which emphasize Pop’s mature songwriting, as well as his sadness and despair—simply reading the track listing (“Jealousy,” “Hate,” “Sickness”) makes this apparent. On “Fuckin’ Alone,” he pines for happiness from an unknown girl he sees on the street, but soon realizes only one’s self can create happiness: “There’s something here they gotta face, everybody in this place; it’s the same for everyone.” (The song also seems to have greatly inspired “We’re Going To Be Friends,” by fellow Detroit rocker the White Stripes.) And on “Social Life,” Pop croons about his disappointment with success and fame. It’s a familiar topic, but the bleak wit of the lyrics and the purity of his vocals show the man in a much different light.
Despite a few weak spots (cutting a few of the 17 tracks could have streamlined it), American Caesar is one of Pop’s best works, a mix of great songs and performances, which show off his wide range of talents. Unfortunately, the album sold moderately, and it often gets lost amongst a back catalog of mediocre records. Although it’s inspired by the Stooges’ vision of rock ‘n’ roll, the record doesn’t try to retread their ferocious brilliance. And instead of exploiting nostalgia of his legacy, Pop adds to it.
