Live Review: Iggy Pop, The Chats

What do you get the Godfather Of Punk for his 72nd birthday? Perhaps a 'Lust For Loaf' special from the pub up the street? A pair of jeans so tight they will require a team of 12 highly trained specialists to get on and off? How about a jam-packed night at Festival Hall with a thousand or so of his closest friends? Yep, that seems to be a fitting gift.

The Chats are tasked with warming up tonight’s audience. Surprisingly, the venue is packed from the jump and The Chats' irreverent brand of self-described “shed rock” is enthusiastically embraced. Fast, noisy and baby-faced, they’re the perfect bowl of chips before the king schnitzel himself.

Violin plays dramatically as punters begin to jostle for position, before ceasing suddenly as the houselights cut. Replacing the violins is the sound of barking dogs, as Iggy Pop struts on to the stage and straight into I Wanna Be Your Dog. The song hits the bloodstream with the crackle of a line of cheap whizz, and the addition of a brass section brings a new dimension to the 50-year-old tune. Doused in distortion and punctuated with knife-sharp keys, the song mirrors Pop’s apparent mission statement for tonight: dirty, sexy and without a single fuck to give. 

“If I hitchhike down your street, will you pick me up? Can I be the passenger?” asks Pop, easing into The Passenger, the song, along with Gimme Danger, allowing the smoother side of his baritone voice to shine. Lust For Life is all shiny bombast, the reach of the song is apparent when even the stony-faced security guard standing immediately under Pop mouths along word for word. We take stock of Pop’s considerable dance moves: the karate arms, the arms-over-head belly pop, the whir of kicks. The pace of the show is relentless, with scarcely a moment to collect oneself between hits as they fly in thick and fast. 

“Fuckin’ nice to fuckin’ see you,” drawls Pop. He peppers his crowd interactions liberally with the word 'fuck', and may indeed have set the record for onstage profanity at least in this writer’s memory. Cussing aside, he genuinely seems thrilled to be on stage and never moreso than when the crowd belts out an impromptu Happy Birthday. “You made my fuckin’ night,” he beams. 

As the temperature climbs to a steaming fug, more and more punters opt for Pop’s preferred shirtless uniform. The heat seems to coax along a certain madness in the crowd, as the mosh pit gets progressively more crowded and seated punters begin to test the limits. “I showed up here 40 years ago, I don’t remember it… People tell me, ‘You were rude to some television host,’” the singer cracks, referring to his infamous 1979 performance and interview on Countdown with Molly Meldrum before launching into Some Weird Sin. Despite admittedly using his body as a laboratory for experiments with hard drugs and alcohol, his voice has not lost a single drop of its considerable power, going from tender to man possessed at the drop of a hat.

Pop is in his element on stage, but finds any excuse to jump off and disappear into the front row. The crowd envelops the diminutive singer during a sleazy, snarling Search & Destroy, before he reappears in the form of a meticulously appointed Iggy Pop doll, holding it aloft as he sings his way from left to right. When he unexpectedly covers The Jean Genie, the roof momentarily flies off. It’s a gorgeous moment, and a highlight for many concertgoers.

The night takes a turn during what is usually the best part of the show. “It’s time to get your dirty asses up here,” demands Pop as rabid fans clamour on to the stage for No Fun. The unwritten rule is that when Pop pulls you up on stage, you dance, sing, leave when you’re asked and be cool about it. Tonight is a clusterfuck. Rather than dance, punters swarm the singer. People begin to fall over and Iggy disappears completely. Reappearing perched on the side of the stage; Pop directs, “I’ll sing when the stage is clear.” Rather than leave the stage, numerous dickheads have to be forcibly dragged off as Real Cool Time begins. It’s an embarrassingly uncool time from the Melbourne crowd. 

Pop returns to the stage in an embroidered satin cape that he drapes across his face like a cartoon villain. A proper Happy Birthday complete with confetti cannons and a sneaky cameo from Henry Rollins follows, and mashes in perfectly with a throbbing Nightclubbing. 

Closing with a cover of Nick Cave’s sinister belter Red Right Hand (“It’s kinda Melbourne”) that manages to rival the original in menace, Pop booms, “It’s been really fucking great doing this with you... I’ll be back sometime, I can’t get enough.” Indeed he can’t seem to get enough, doing laps of the stage and the front row long after his band has left. 

They just don’t make people this brand of cool anymore. Fingers crossed we’ll be welcoming Iggy Pop back for many birthdays to come.