Iggy Pop Read online

  The recordings were running well behind schedule when three guests showed up at the studio. One of them came to play guitar. Two arrived for moral support. Ivan Kral had received a phone call from a friend at Arista who told him that Iggy was looking for a guitarist. David Bowie and Coco Schwab had simply come to help their friend.

  According to Jim Osterberg’s account, David Bowie breezed into the isolated studio looking like the Scarlet Pimpernel, complete with cape. Not everyone else remembers the theatrical garb, but all of them remember a drama in which, when the curtain whisked away for the final denouement, several of the key actors had met their end.

  It seems that David’s original plan was simply to dispel the air of gloom surrounding the recording. To do so, he seemed to take as a model Iggy’s hilarious monologues that had so captivated the musicians working on Low. After a few scattered conversations, which charmed most of those present - Steve New was particularly starstruck, gazing at David like an adoring puppy, while a couple of members of Simple Minds had also dropped by to share the excitement - he gathered a small audience round him in the control room after dinner. Everyone listened in rapt attention as David chatted and joked, sipping from a glass of red wine, before embarking on a long, enthralling yarn about a character named Johnny Bindon.

  Bindon was a one-time gangster who’d made his living as an actor and at one point worked as a bodyguard for Led Zeppelin. David recounted event after event of his shocking, bizarre life, such as the time he worked as an enforcer for the Kray Twins and cut a gangster’s head off in a pub, or the story of how he won a police bravery medal for rescuing a drowning man when it was he who’d thrown the victim into the Thames in the first place. The best part was how Bindon had the biggest cock in London - an attribute that was particularly appreciated by Princess Margaret, who’d invite him to stay over with her on the island of Mustique, or call him over for ‘love trysts’ at Kensington Palace.

  All of the musicians sat around laughing at the incredible tale - all of them, that is, apart from James Williamson, who sat there glowering. They started chatting about how being a criminal could be cool, better than being a musician, particularly if you had royal connections. Soon ideas were being scattered around as Iggy picked up the story, improvising a rap about Bindon and Princess Margaret. Fired up with enthusiasm, they trooped into the studio.

  Suddenly, the sessions were coming alive. James Williamson had kept invoking all these rules about how you make a hit record, but now Bowie was showing how it really should be done: throwing out the rule book and creating a stimulating environment. He was a creative playmaster, taking charge in an unassuming ‘Mind if I have a go?’ manner. It was touching to watch; David and Jim had obviously been through a lot together, and here David was, revelling in Iggy’s creativity ‘in that way that properly creative people do - where somebody’s talent isn’t a threat to you, it’s something to be delighted in,’ says Andrews. James Williamson, meanwhile, seethed at what he saw as the intruder’s pretentious posturing, and retaliated for having his session hijacked by flicking a switch on the control board that sent piercing howls of feedback through David’s headphones. Despite Williamson’s efforts, they soon crafted a song, with a stripped-down synthesiser backing, chugging drums, an ‘I wanna be a criminal’ chorus and lyrics based on a hilarious spiel from Iggy, along the lines of ‘I wish I was Johnny Bindon with the biggest fuckin’ dick in London and a private income . . .’ Sadly, that line never made it into the final version of ‘Play It Safe’.

  For the first time, thought Andrews, it felt like they were making a record to be proud of, and he was privately speculating about how cool it would be to have Bowie stay on and produce the album, when a loud argument broke out between Iggy and James. James was trying to explain how his job was to produce an album that would get on the radio, and that rude lyrics about Princess Margaret were guaranteed to get the record banned. And at some point, he uttered the phrase, ‘Save it for the dining room, Jim!’

  ‘Fuck you about the dining room, James,’ was the reply. ‘And I don’t think you belong on this project.’

  Bowie, meanwhile, looked into the distance in a ‘This is all nothing to do with me’ manner, before everyone shuffled away, embarrassed, and then went to bed. By lunchtime the next day, James Williamson, David Bowie and the enigmatic Coco Schwab were all gone. ‘It was like a stage play where all the lights go dark,’ says Andrews, ‘and when the lights come up again there are three fewer people left around the table. And the feeling is, what’s gonna happen now?’

  What happened now is termed ‘a salvage job’. Charles Levison arrived in Wales to counsel his troubled artist. Tarquin Gotch drove down in his company Ford Granada and also called in to see Simple Minds, whose sessions too had hit problems. Simple Minds insulted him to his face, as was customary etiquette with one’s A&R man in that era, broke into the Granada and splattered farm-fresh eggs and cowpats all over the seats. (Ironically, Gotch would later nursemaid Simple Minds’ first worldwide hit, when he included ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ in the music for John Hughes’ hit movie The Breakfast Club.) Meanwhile, Peter Davies rushed around with an ‘I’m the next guy to be sacked’ look on his face. Rockfield engineer Pat Moran helped finish the recording; Iggy seemed to suffer a loss of confidence, repeatedly failing to nail the vocals, even attempting takes in the farmyard in search of the right vibe. Ivan Kral added some searing guitar solos, augmenting Steve New’s effects-laden New Wave guitars. There were odd moments of inspiration, when Iggy threw out existing vocal melodies and reworked the songs from scratch, but the sessions dragged on and on, the tedium relieved only by an argument between Iggy and Steve New, who’d declined the invitation to join his live band. Barry Andrews was so bored that he would drive down to the local girls’ school and stand outside, desperate to see some young, happy faces. Finally, the recordings were deemed complete, although the mix was postponed until later. Julie Hooker was so fraught with worry about the project that she didn’t even consider whether the album was any good. ‘Just the fact it was finished was a relief.’

  There were a couple more minor twists in the troubled saga of Soldier, an album that, like a classic Hollywood turkey, was crammed with collaborators and co-writers, none of whom would take responsibility for the awful mess. The first twist came in New York a few months later, when Ivan Kral was hanging with Iggy at the Mudd Club. A serious-looking David Bowie came up to him and chatted about how it was all going before saying, ‘Ivan, you know there is great respect among the British people for royalty and the British crown. Even though that was a great take, can you do me a favour and not release “Play It Safe”?’

  When the album was mixed by Thom Panunzio over the Christmas holiday, the mentions of Johnny Bindon and Princess Margaret that had provoked the final split between Jim Osterberg and his friend James Williamson were completely excised. Even more bizarrely, the rousing guitar parts played by Steve New disappeared too, making the album sound lumpy and disjointed. Glen Matlock had contributed his favourite recent composition, ‘Ambition’, to the album, and as far as he was concerned the bizarre mix was an act of sabotage by Iggy, performed in revenge for New’s refusal to tour with him. ‘I was really annoyed about “Ambition”,’ declares Matlock: ‘[Iggy] mixed out Steve’s part ’cause he bore a grudge. But he mixed out the hook to my song. And that’s why I didn’t want to bother with him any more.’

  It’s hard to know how much difference a better mix could have made, for Soldier was Iggy’s first truly uninspired studio album. There were some intriguing, quirky lyrics and a ragbag of interesting ideas, none of which threatened to gel into a coherent whole. Nakedly exposed in the absence of New’s electric guitar, Kruger’s drums and Matlock’s plodding bass seem to be playing different songs; there are tom-tom fills on songs like ‘Ambition’ that sound like an irate child tossing a drum kit down a stairwell. The wit and intelligence of Jim Osterberg is gone, to be replaced by empty manic babbling, in a kind of ‘D
on’t like this idea? Here’s another crazy one!’ desperation. Worst of all, the magnificent, proud voice of Iggy Pop seems to have completely disappeared, to be replaced by either a thin yelp, as on ‘Loco Mosquito’ or ‘Dog Food’, or else, as on ‘I’m A Conservative’, an exaggerated warble that sounds like the mooing of a cow. Only Barry Andrews’ cheeky, chirruping keyboards betray any semblance of musical invention, scattered all over the record like chocolate chips on a cowpat.

  The reviews were kind, as befitted an artist of Iggy’s status, bandying around words like ‘quirky’ and ‘interesting’. Radio play was, naturally, notable by its absence, while the album struggled to number 62 in the UK charts (in the typically perverse manner of the music business, Clive Davis elected to release Soldier immediately in the US, where it briefly appeared at number 125). But the most telling assessment of Soldier came from Barry Andrews who, again in typical music-business fashion, had to buy his own copy of the album that spring. ‘I was flattered, there were so many of my keyboards on it,’ he says. ‘Then, quite quickly, I realised it had none of the virtues of a good Iggy Pop record.’ For years afterwards, when friends discovered he’d played on an Iggy album and excitedly asked him which one, he would reply, ‘The one that came after the good ones.’

  For a moment I don’t recognise James Williamson, the famed and feared Dark Lord of the Stooges. It’s not the grey hair, or the sport jacket over a blue shirt, or his low-key demeanour, it’s more a general sense that this organised, efficient-looking businessman could surely not be the person responsible for the ruthlessly aggressive guitar riffs or the revolver-waving antics that so many people remember.

  We had been warned, though, for this is the Dum Dum Boy who, Iggy told us, ‘has gone straight’, as if it’s the ultimate indictment. Yet, as we sit in a San Jose hotel in February 2006, in the heart of Silicon Valley, where he now works, incongruously discussing the horrendous, relentless train of disasters that assailed his band, James Williamson’s career move seems like an eminently sensible act of self-preservation. For all his legendary ruthlessness, it became obvious that Williamson, a smart and ambitious kid whom his bandmates described as ‘a wild, on the street speed-shooting guitar-playing maniac’, was nowhere near as cutthroat as the business, or the singer, that employed him. For all the toughness he put on from the moment his illiberal stepfather sent him to a juvenile home, James always judged himself by results. Which, in his terms, seemed to be a failed band, and a best friend who betrayed him. ‘Maybe the Ashetons already knew it, but I found out that Jim was very ambitious - that he didn’t care how he had to do it. And when he threw me under the bus for the sake of his career at MainMan, I guess it showed me I had to develop my own independence.’

  It seems to be the consciousness of his own vulnerability that contributed to James’s intimidating demeanour. Called back in by his friend Jim for one last production job, James knew it was ‘a terrible idea’. But when he’s asked about his antics in the studio, waving around a revolver, he winces, looking terribly hurt that anyone would have felt threatened by what they surely knew was only a replica air pistol, before observing, ‘I guess I have a very different internal view of myself than apparently my external effect is.’

  Of all the ironies in the Stooges’ history, perhaps the most supreme one is that James Williamson, a man whose work was revered by generations of guitar players, simply didn’t believe he was that good. It’s somehow sad when you realise this; then, as you have a reassuringly normal conversation with James, talking about family, Japanese food or the buildings in the area, you realise how liberating it can be, turning your back on the narcissism, selfishness and childish behaviour of the music business. And how, of all the masks we can wear, that of being normal and efficient can be the best protection of all.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Long, Long Road

  The first trial of Iggy Pop had been the last stand of the Stooges: nine months of disasters interspersed with the odd inspiring performance, followed by humiliation, oblivion and then a year of sleeping rough. But even in those dark times, the music had been something he could cling to.

  The second trial of Iggy Pop would last a full four years. Over this period there was a certain amount of love and support to nurture him, there was just enough money to survive, and there was always the prospect of respect or acclaim, somewhere like Paris, or Helsinki, or Sydney. But none of these luxuries could quite erase the consciousness that, this time around, the music was simply Not Very Good. Only one thing numbed that consciousness: alcohol, but the alcohol made the music worse still. This simple equation defined a downward spiral, suffused with a new emotion, fear. And again, madness awaited.

  Almost immediately after Jim returned from his long, tortuous sessions in Wales, he drove to London with his band to rehearse for an American tour to promote New Values, which was finally being released in the US. It seemed a ludicrous predicament, being rushed into recording a new album before its predecessor was even released in its biggest market, but if it bothered him he didn’t show it. Meeting his latest guitarist, Brian James, the formidable British player, who was an adherent of James Williamson’s tough guitar style, Jim seemed the epitome of professionalism: conscientious, abstaining from alcohol or cigarettes in order to get his voice in trim, polite but always specific about what he wanted. The only surprise about meeting Jim was the subtle, Bowie-esque Cockney accent he seemed to have picked up in London. Fortunately, Brian James had been schooled in what to expect by his friend Nick Kent, who told him about how to deal with Jim, and how to deal with Iggy. ‘He told me, Jim is like a scholar, he’s the one talks about interesting things. Then, at the drop of a hat, he’s Iggy, and he’s an animal.’ Brian soon realised Iggy had always had a close relationship with his guitar players, and had developed a range of techniques to handle them, sometimes treating them with intimate affection, at other times catching them off their guard to generate aggression that he could tap into.

  For the first few days of rehearsal, Jim drank only water. Around five days in, he had a large mirror placed in the rehearsal studio near London Bridge, to practise his moves. On the last couple of days he started drinking Brian James’s Scotch whisky and walking around stark naked. And then they were off.

  Brian James had played with the Damned for two frenetic years, but his three months with Iggy would be among the most gruelling experiences he’d ever encounter. ‘A total blur, fly into town, check in the hotel, soundcheck, play, back to the hotel, wake up, fly. It was like being in a bubble, every hotel a Holiday Inn, and you never know where you are, or even what time it is.’ This was the bubble that would envelop Iggy for the next four years.

  Ivan Kral, the tour ’s other new recruit, would share that bubble for two of those years. After arriving at Rockfield Studios for the closing days of the Soldier sessions, he’d spent an evening being interrogated by David and Coco, who asked about every aspect of his life. This was one of David’s classic gambits; he liked to find how people ticked, and of course if he got to ask the questions he could maintain his own privacy. But Ivan thought there was a specific motive to David’s questioning. ‘I felt that David wanted to dump Jim on me. It was like, “I’m trying to help him, but he always screws up, so maybe, Ivan, you could be his buddy and spend time with him.”’

  A talented musician with European good looks, Kral had been a key member of the Patti Smith Group but had ultimately become frustrated by Patti’s lack of hunger for the big time. He would become Iggy’s key musical collaborator over this period, playing both keyboards and guitar, becoming so close that Kral’s own mother would describe him and Jim as being like brothers. Yet while Ivan remembers that he and Jim had ‘great times’ together, like all of Iggy’s future collaborators he knew he was strictly an employee. ‘I knew how far I could go . . . I knew there were certain discussions where I would have to let him win. You just kind of smile and let them be the centre of attention.’ This would be the crucial difference between
Iggy and the musician with whom he did his best post-Stooges work, namely David Bowie - a man who could truly charm his musicians, and hence get the most out of them. Brian James, too, liked Jim and enjoyed their chats, but was also conscious of that hierarchy. After a year of dealing with the Sales brothers, Iggy never seemed to want to get close to his fellow musicians again. It was consequently that much easier for them to look on, believing the tales of his invincibility, as Jim’s life began to spin out of control once more.

  Meanwhile, on the periphery now that he’d moved out of Berlin, David Bowie seemed to keep a kindly eye on what was going on, sending his driver, Stuey - famous among Bowie fans for his role in The Man Who Fell To Earth movie - to ferry the band around, and apparently turning up to counsel Jim whenever possible.

  The New Values US tour, much like Iggy’s last outing with the Sonic’s Rendezvous Band, mostly relied on superior meat-and-two-veg rock ’n’ roll, veering from crazed, Raw Power material like ‘Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell’, to messy, enthusiastic versions of some of the songs from the as-yet unreleased Soldier. More unexpected was a very nearly transcendent version of Sinatra’s quintessential torch song, ‘One For My Baby’. The song’s loneliness, bar-room setting, and consciousness that there was a long, long road stretching ahead was scarily appropriate, even if the audience didn’t always appreciate it. Glen Matlock had engineered the introduction of one of his favourite songs, ‘China Girl’, into the set, the first time Iggy had played it since sacking Hunt and Tony Sales. The more sophisticated air these songs added was somewhat undercut, though, by Iggy’s use of a loose cap on one of his front teeth as part of his stage act. At key points in the action he’d pull off the cap and leer at the audience with the malevolent gap-toothed grin of a pantomime villain, the perfect accompaniment to the piratical assault of the music.