Iggy Pop

You can always rely on Iggy Pop to produce at least one classic rock ’n’ roll moment per gig and tonight it comes as him and his ridiculously rock ‘n’ roll sidekicks beat the crap out of ‘Search & Destroy’.

Spotting a certain Dundalk family group in one of the Muppet boxes, Mr. Osterberg struts to the side of the stage and starts screaming, “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?” Nervous laughter turns to sphincter-relaxing fear when Ig starts whirling his microphone, lasso-style, in front of their faces. At one point it actually bounces off the side of the box, just inches from Jim’s fizzog. The band tough it out until the end of the song and then retire to a safer vantage point. A clever piece of theatre or genuine animosity? No one knows for certain but judging by the body language, I’ll plump for the latter.

He may have celebrated his 55th birthday in April, but Iggy remains one of the hardest working frontmen in the biz. Stalking round the stage like a centaur on angel dust – the man has the weirdest posture – he doesn’t let up until everybody in the audience is as drenched in sweat as he is.

Though recent albums like American Caesar and Beat ‘Em Up have plenty of light and shade, tonight’s set is a straightforward run through his louder moments. Which is both a blessing and a curse. While no one can deny their brute force appeal, songs like ‘Raw Power’, ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’ and ‘Cold Metal’ suffer from what shall henceforth be known as ‘Tequila Slammer Syndrome’. One or two are a glorious jolt to the system, but ten of the buggers are just unnecessary overload. ‘Real Wild Child’ stands-out because 1) It’s not performed at 1000mph, 2) It has a hook you can singalong to and 3) There’s not a half-hour heavy metal guitar solo.

Such qualms put me into a minority of one, with the mosh-pit reminiscent of the Battle of Clontarf at its hairiest. Unlike Iggy, I must be slowing down a bit in my old age.