Fuck da Police reunion, Iggy Pop and the Stooges have made a new album after god knows how many years

Same Stooges. Different World. Finer Wine -- by BEN RATLIFF /NY Times

THERE are the Stooges, from Ann Arbor, Mich., accidental inventors of punk, in the summer of 1970, on nationwide television. And there’s Iggy Pop, their singer: bare torso and sausage-casing jeans, silver gloves, dog collar, chipped front tooth.

The song is “TV Eye,” and they have gotten wickedly good at their primitive groove — as good as they will ever get. Iggy weaves in and out of the beat: one second borne by the music, one second abstracted from it. Suddenly he does a violent knock-kneed dance and slips into the audience, gone except for his wounded-animal noises.

“There goes Iggy, right into the crowd,” says the host of the special NBC program “Midsummer Rock.” It’s Jack Lescoulie, an announcer on the “Today” show, the Al Roker of his day. In his late 50s he looks like the anti-Stooge: professional, good-natured, well fed, well insured.

After a commercial break we see Iggy crawling on the stage. “Since we broke away for our message, Iggy has been in the crowd and out again three different times,” Mr. Lescoulie says. “They seem to be enjoying it, and so does he.” The camera centers on a scrum of teenagers looking downward. Iggy surfaces, hoists himself up so he’s standing on shoulders, and remains aloft, pointing forward like the prow of a ship. Next he’s scooping something out of a jar, wiping it on himself, flinging it around. “That’s peanut butter,” Mr. Lescoulie says, incredulous.

I’M going to be straight,” Iggy Pop said recently, talking about that film, which circulated for years in certain circles and is now of course available on YouTube . “I was more than a little high.”

He was often more than a little high. But these days Iggy Pop, a k a Jim Osterberg, is ferociously grounded. He swims and practices a form of tai chi, and his only vice, he says, is a few glasses of Bordeaux. Coming up on his 60th birthday, he bears signs of age: creased and ropy, he limps from cartilage lost in his right hip, and can’t hear well over ambient noise.

For the first time in 34 years, however, he and the members of his onetime band are putting out a new record: “The Weirdness,” which will be released by Virgin on March 6. (Careful historians will say 37 years: this is the version of the Stooges that made “Fun House,” around the time of the peanut butter concert — the brothers Ron and Scott Asheton on guitar and drums and Steve Mackay on tenor saxophone.)

In the intervening years they too have changed. As has the world around them.

Once upon a time Iggy and the Stooges defined themselves against the Lescoulies of the world: they were outrageous, truculent, elemental. But these days it seems there are more Iggys than Lescoulies. Everyone’s subversive, everyone’s perverse. What can the Stooges be, if not a band that defines itself against the rest of the world? What happens when they’re old and experienced, and punk attitudes, already in their third generation, have infiltrated so many corners of the culture? How do they climb back into that frame of mind?

BREAKING up” doesn’t exist anymore. A band only has extended periods of downtime.

The Stooges’ downtime was a little more down than others. Ron Asheton used to say that Iggy had become too self-involved for the Stooges to play together again. Scott Asheton pursued Iggy at various points over the last 10 years, and the answer was always no. “I wasn’t going to go backwards,” Iggy explains now. “And I wasn’t going to do anything to what I thought was a great band.”

At some point, however, the incentives just became too powerful: prime gigs at the best rock festivals in the world, both the best-paid and the most creatively run.

Plus, what else was there to do? Scott Asheton, who lives in Florida, had been working in construction. His brother, Ron, had been in a series of bands that hadn’t made a stir, still living in his boyhood home on the west side of Ann Arbor, where the band had its first rehearsals. (All three went to Ann Arbor High together.)

Iggy needed the Ashetons just as much. “We managed to stay in a band together during a protracted period of failure,” he said of those early days, gigging and making records and living in a filthy house. “No rewards. No approval. No money. These are really the only guys I know. That doesn’t mean, ‘Oh, shucks, I like them so much.’ I mean, we lived together.”

Besides, “I’d hit a wall playing alone, in my solo music,” he said. “I was just at wit’s end about what to do — bands, songwriting, everything.”

He invited the Ashetons to work on a few songs with him for his album “Skull Ring” in 2003. A week after they convened, the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival floated the idea of a Stooges reunion show. (They did the show; Iggy wouldn’t say how much they were offered, though he does say that the Stooges now get paid much better than he did for concerts during his solo career.) And the bassist Mike Watt came on board, once of the Minutemen, to take the place of Dave Alexander, who died in 1975.

Before they all headed into the studio, Mr. Watt flew to Florida to go over the new songs, and Iggy gave him a lesson about finding his “inner stupidity.”

They were practicing “She Took My Money.” (“She took my money/And didn’t say thank you/She took my money/And immediately banked it.”) Mr. Watt has a strong melodic style on the bass, but Iggy leaned on him to play with a pick instead of his fingers, and to stay with the backbone of the song, even if it meant sounding as dumb, he explained, as the guy singing the bass notes in a doo-wop group. “Play the content,” Iggy urged. “As soon as one of us isn’t playing that, we don’t have a song.”

It might have seemed like square advice, but Mr. Watt took it in stride. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said the other day. “There wouldn’t be punk without the Stooges. But after punk, things changed. And they come from the ’60s, so there’s a different sensibility there. Iggy just said: ‘Let go, Watt. Let go of ego. Learn from the source.’ ”

Over the 70 or so shows the group has played since 2003, it has developed a routine, including a repertory of 14 songs from the earlier albums “The Stooges” and “Fun House.” At least once Iggy writhes on top of the bass amp; artfully he keeps his pants in danger of falling down; he chants “I am you” during the free-jazz portion of the song “Fun House.”

You can’t be prepared for the power of a Stooges show; it still baffles you, makes you a Lescoulie. Iggy juts his hip out like a bumper, skips and punches the air, dives into the audience. On the final night of the All Tomorrow’s Parties Festival, which the Stooges headlined in Minehead, England, in December, Iggy encouraged about 60 people to dance onstage, endangering the backline of amplifiers. And he practices his extraordinary physical vocabulary, tilting his shoulders and extending his arms above and behind his head. (Not insignificantly, he was a backstroker on the Ann Arbor High swim team.)

Afterward, backstage, Iggy let two glasses of wine last him 40 minutes. He was in a fine mood. “I sang about twice as hard as I usually do,” he marveled. “And I was worrying. A little voice was saying to me, ‘Do you sound too demented?’ You know, you don’t want to overdo it. It happens to any musician. If you want to do really well, sometimes you take it all on yourself. And that ain’t it. You’ve got to tone down to fit into the beauty of the percolation. This is all part of finding the stupidity, you know.”

IN October at Electrical Audio studios in Chicago the overall picture was of scheduled productivity. After the basic tracks for “The Weirdness” had been recorded, each band member was given his own day to make suggestions and additions. I came during Ron Asheton’s day, when he was tracking some extra guitar solos. The day before had been Steve Mackay’s day; Iggy thanked him with a bottle of very nice wine.

Around one another the three original Stooges communicate in shorthand. Iggy Pop, famous as a wildman and credible as a sage, is less well known as an organized type: a note taker, a list maker. He led the discussion on the fine points of each playback. Scott Asheton, a brooding figure who rarely left his chair, voiced a few reservations — “Too much solos sounds too amateurish,” he said at one point — and little else. (He was right, and more solos made it on to the record than probably should have.) Ron Asheton just confidently got his job done. After recording one screaming guitar overdub, he re-entered the control room. “Was I too obtuse?” he asked, feigning an epicene British accent. Nobody answered.

While recording, Iggy swam laps in the hotel pool every day before going to work at noon. During the recording of “Fun House” in 1970, by comparison, he dropped acid before each day’s session.

Still, Ron Asheton says the Iggy Pop of today is not altogether unfamiliar. “He’s more like the Jim I knew in the beginning,” Mr. Asheton said. (To old friends, Iggy is Jim.) “It’s like the better Jim times. When we first started hanging out, he didn’t smoke cigarettes. Jim and I were always more conservative, hesitant to drink, the last ones to smoke marijuana. When we got to Chicago, he had a piece of paper, and it said exactly what’s going to happen on every given day. He asks our opinion; we have a mutual pact that we all have to agree. I love that he deals with the schedules. I know that he needs to do that. He’s clear about what he wants to do.”

The resulting album takes pains to remind you that the Stooges are authentic, that their simplicity and roughness isn’t just a casual disposition, or a consequence of being messed up, but a dogma. But “The Weirdness” sounds nothing like “Fun House.” Gone are the medium and slow tempos, the glorious cosmic drone of old songs like “Dirt” and “Ann”; the band “wants less uncertainties,” in Iggy’s words, and in the process has shed half its old sound. It’s almost all fast and rough — almost a punk album, with the hard riffs and commitment to bashing that one wishes the Rolling Stones still had. The spirit is there, even when, in some cases, the songwriting is not.

Its engineer is Steve Albini, who has become known for his own dogma of simplicity: analog equipment, full-band live takes, no filters and reverb. The Ashetons’ drums and guitars are big, and Iggy, relatively speaking, is small. He pushes his voice, yelping the lyrics, which are typically zen-mundane. Stooges songs used to be about boredom, sex and hanging out. Now they are about boredom, aging, money, sex, greed and hanging out.

The best example is “ATM.” Most of its words have one syllable; it is a smart-stupid rendering of a cash machine as a symbol for money, efficiency, and aging. And it has a provocative aside. “The leaders of rock don’t rock,” he sings at one point. “This bothers me quite a lot.”

He wouldn’t tell me who he was talking about specifically, he said, but he believes that the rock business is too big, run by people who know nothing about it.

Wasn’t that always the case?

“No,” he said, decisively. “The people I met at the top in 1972 tended to be crackpots from the fringes of the lowest parts of the entertainment industry. And they tended to know their stuff. Jac Holzman” — the president of Elektra, the Stooges’ old label — “was a former record-store owner in the Village. The guy who ran the very biggest talent agency in New York had ties to the pinball industry, I guess you could say. They could really screw an artist up, but they weren’t just someone from Legal.”

He started warming to the subject: the real subject of the song, he said, was “a fairly loosely aggregated industry-slash-palace guard that has coalesced around the corpus of something called rock, and that something has grown to have something to do with units of digital information, and filling a parking lot.” He paused. “It’s impressive. It’s brutally compelling, sometimes. But it’s not enjoyable.”

He says he can hear moments of wildness in the old Stooges record that he knows he can’t reach anymore. “But some of that’s youth.”

“And the time period,” said Scott Asheton. “What was goin’ on.”

“So, you know,” Iggy responded. “I don’t worry about it too much. Other people are going to do plenty of yakety-yak on that subject for me. Who needs another comment from me?”

How is it to make a new Stooges record without drugs?

“You know, I don’t feel the difference,” he said, thoughtfully. “You?” he asked Scott Asheton.

“Ah, no,” he replied, turned 180 degrees away, smoking a cigarette.

“I feel just like I did when I was stoned,” Iggy continued. “I feel the same. The thing is, it’s wonderful to know we can’t take them,” he said, and smiled crisply.