The Stooges' Loose

I've given myself the task of writing about one song a week for 2024 because, well, I think it'd be fun.

The Stooges' Loose

I know I said no more birthdays, but it turned out a bunch of my favorite artists are spring babies, so happy birthday, Iggy.

I know this pleasure too well: when you're in a situation where you hate your job and your coworkers, and you find yourself deep in the night working the office's graveyard shift, there is no greater joy, almost to the point that you miss it, than blasting The Stooges' "Funhouse" so violently loud that the crash of Scott Asheton's cymbals in the intro coincide with the walls of the building falling down; that, or the head-banging, or Iggy's howls, will cause you to hallucinate. Even then, you want to pump up the volume even more, timing it just when Iggy croons "I took a raaaaaaah-curd of pretty muuuu-zak, / now I'm puuuuuuttin' it to you straight from Hell," because you want to do the exact same thing. But that's not loud enough: the volume has to go even higher as he sings, "I stick it, deep inside, / I stick it, deep inside, / CUZ I'M LOOSE!" Your ears are ringing at this point and you can't discern anything in the flash of lights, but you know you want to play the record again, even louder than before. Because "Funhouse" is the closest music will be to a drug, and "Loose" will make you see Messianic visions. So much so that, when you finally do enter the night air, you're craving to listen to "Loose" again, and find yourself sticking your phone's stereo into your ear on the street.

There are angrier songs. There are more violent songs. There are more blood-pumping songs. But there's something about "Loose" anathema to life. It's at once fantasy, orgy, and sad; it's Lear-ian madness surely, one which Pop would descend and not come out of for decades. It's the type of escape you desire when you're really, really pissed off at your life and you're lost on what to do about it. Thankfully, Iggy chased the dragon so we don't have to.

But let's not talk about Iggy Pop all too much yet, as he is just one part of the music. That funky, fiery riff - and there's no other adjective proper for it, fiery is adequate in depicting the rampage down Hell's boulevards - is courtesy of Ron Asheton, the same guitar losing its mind in the second verse by the time Iggy moans "I feel fiiiiiiiiiine to be dancin', baby", doubling up on itself, staring at its belly as if it's going to swallow itself whole in cannibalistic urge; before "'Cause it's love, yeah, I do believe," it grinds into new heights as the flames flicker higher. The best part of the song to reach eardrum-bursting heights is Asheton's solo starting around the 1:50 mark where the guitar is played so aggressively it sounds like the riff could cut rock. As notes start spilling out, this is the right time to start throwing things around and to yell "HOOOOOOOH" with Pop.

No matter how loud you play "Loose" though, you'll always notice the muscular rhythm section, comprised of Scott on drums and Dave Alexander on bass. On subsequent listens you find Dave is kind of an incredible bassist, dogging Ron as the shadow to his flashy guitar playing. Just before the solo begins he gives Ron's guitar so much body that the theatrics don't seem fragile and showy; if Ron's guitar is rage-induced, Dave provides the menace behind the beast, as one feels when staring eye to eye with a growling tiger whose body is brimming with violence. (Bassists need more love.)

The bass is an interesting instrument. It's almost a mirror to the audience: it can appear weak or powerful depending on how much the listener glares at it. Dave is barely noticeable in the first verse, but as Iggy gathers himself for the next assault - err, maybe not the right word in these #MeToo days - in the second verse, crying "I feel fine, I'm a shaking leaf", the bass grows closer in perspective to the audience, symbolizing the simmering anger about to boil over - which it does, in the expanded bridge preceding the solo.

Which is also the point Iggy just starts straight-up screaming, launching into that nightmarish - it's certainly haunted my dreams - "AHHH YAAAA YAAAA OWWWWW!" Pop's performance is Howling Wolf geeked out of his mind, no longer the skulking back door man; he has transformed by his lust and fury into a red-blooded hellhound, taking rhymes of pretty music into his arms and down into Hell. When Pop gives himself a chance to breathe, after that spine-tingling "NOW I'M PUUUTTIN' IT TO YA STRAIGHT FROM HYYYYYYYELL!", the music slows down, the guitar a spinning wheel left from the car crash; he moans again, "And I'll stick it / deep inside, / and I'll stick it..." Scott comes back again on those heaven-crashing cymbals, Iggy volleys "HOH!" ending in "'CUZ I'M LOOSE! / CUZ I'M LOOSE! / CUZ I'M LOOSE!" Hard cut. (Transition into the "LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORD-DE!" of "T.V. Eye".)

Iggy has always been a kind of avatar for degeneracy - I mean, a lot of musicians are degenerate perverts, but Iggy seemed to take energy from it. He needed no exorcism. This is the guy who wanted to be your dog, who wanted to learn dances, brand new dances, who wanted to show a sweet sixteen an explosion (eww, but we have to confront the fact); he had no need to brag about how much he enjoyed life, or how great he felt - he hadn't, because he rarely did - because he merely was. I think I kinda love that aspect of honesty from Iggy, to the point of admiration, even when I find details about it that horrify me. He's an American treasure, for embodying that ideal of not caring who watches while he dances. And rock is stupid anyway.

But "Funhouse" is the only time where he was an avatar for rage, the kind of lust that needs no object to fuel itself, it is. I think The Stooges facilitated this immensely, as, when the band began, Pop was just kinda having fun. Drug usage aside, The Stooges trying to play as loud as possible and jam as much as possible is simply the joy of a bunch of young men hanging out with each other, as the lead singer smears hamburger meat and peanut butter on his chest. You know, trying to outdo themselves. We're lucky Bowie, his famous collaborator, gave him reason to reflect on his demons; there was real concern he might have ended up like Alexander. But we'll always have "Funhouse", this great, amazing, inimitable album.