My 5-year-old daughter, Violet, was out of bed Monday night, ostensibly to get a drink of water but mainly to find out why Dad had the TV at a decidedly pre-bedtime volume.
I was watching Iggy & the Stooges perform at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony.
Iggy Pop had doffed his shirt during Stooges guitarist James Williamson's acceptance speech and was prowling in front of the tables peopled by the celebrity celebrants.
"Can that man who's not wearing his shirt do anything he wants to?" Violet asked, showing a good grasp of what Iggy is all about.
"Pretty much, honey," I said.
What I wanted Iggy to do was walk on the tabletops from the front of the room to the back, smashing champagne flutes, kicking plates and silverware and turning this oh-so-dainty little tea party into a rock 'n' roll riot.
He didn't. But he could have. He could have done it for his own band, which was ignored by rock's royal court, lorded over by Hall of Fame chieftain Jann Wenner. He could have done it for the six times the Stooges were shot down by the Hall's nominating committee. He could have done it for all of the bands the hall has ignored in favor of The Eagles, Billy Joel and other limp-pop purveyors. He could've done it for the MC5 or The New York Dolls. Or Cheap Trick or Black Flag. Or for Screamin' Jay Hawkins, for the love of God.
In the end, Iggy made the assembled dignitaries deal with "I Wanna Be Your Dog" and "Search and Destroy," the sort of real rock 'n' roll the Hall tries to nullify.
Good on you, Ig.
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