Iggstrapolations

I confess. I watch American Idol. I know it's cheesy. I know it's terminally uncool. I know the TV audience consists of grandmas and 14 year old girls. I know it might be rigged, and people vote multiple times. I suspect that Taylor Hicks is probably the king of the cruise ship circuit by now, and while Kelly Clarkson is a great singer, I'm not sure the music world needed someone whose idea of a good lyric is "You got a piece of me and honestly my life would suck without you." I know all these things. And yet, I watch. And thus it was that on results night last week, I saw this. Ladies and gentlemen, Iggy Pop.

Just in case you are Iggnorant of Mr. Pop's contribution to contemporary music, let me fill you in. He is best known as frontman for his band The Stooges, which disbanded due to Iggy's heroin problem. Nerdy types who like to play spot-the-influence think of him as a godfather of punk, and he is credited with inventing the reckless sport of stage-diving. Pop and David Bowie have been friends and occasional collaborators since the Ziggy Stardust days – China Girl was actually co-written by Iggy. (The two met in the Thin White Duke's bisexual period but whether Bowie and Iggy ever did each other, I cannot say. Iggy – big sigh of relief, ladies – says he is straight). Anyway, for reasons even Google was unable to reveal, Iggy has performed shirtless since at least 1977. Fortunately, he has managed to keep his pants on the whole time.

The Idol performance was deeply disturbing, visually and vocally. He looked like a well-preserved mummy back from a trip to the hair salon for highlights and a Brazilian blow out. My friend Maura and her sister are convinced Mr. Pop has COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) and had an oxygen machine waiting offstage. I kept flashing on the killer doll from that awesome camp classic, Trilogy of Terror.

It was especially entertaining to watch the pint-sized provocateur get right up against the judges' table and do a pelvic thrust in Jennifer Lopez' face – a juxtaposition reminiscent of one of those Medieval Death and the Maiden paintings. Poor J-Lo, who has probably never heard the first few bars of Lust for Life without immediately changing the station, looked as though she wanted to scream for her body guard, or maybe her wimpy husband Mark Anthony (although I suspect Iggy could kick his ass).

The whole thing was, as Maura put it, out of context – waaaaay out of context. But why was the sight of that dehydrated little dude bouncing all over the stage so unnerving? After all, I've seen Lady Gaga perform with a dozen half-naked gay guys in thongs and dog collars. Context does have something to do with it. We think of American Idol as a family show – those aforementioned grandmas and tween age girls, the occasional references to Jesus taking the wheel, the home town crowd rooting for their local hero or heroine (down, Iggy, that's heroine with an e on the end). And then there's the greater context of contemporary pop, which is all about dancing and taut young bodies in revealing outfits. The Iggnoble one is not taut. He is well-exercized and veiny. And probably waxed. Hardly a wild child - more like an old dude.

So why does he persist in singing topless? Call me overly analytical, but I have actually pondered this in detail:

1. He believes the beef jerky look is part of his brand.

2. He can't afford a stylist. Or maybe even a shirt.

3. He is completely deluded and thinks he's still got it, like a male version of Madonna.

4. He has a Peter Pan complex and refuses to grow up. Ever.

5. He's still on heroin and suffers from the sweats if he waits to long between fixes.

6. He's proud of being the only remaining non-tattoed rock star on the planet and wants to flaunt his virgin epidermis.

7. He'll do anything for the money - including TV commercials in the UK and providing the singing voice for one of the babies in the Rugrats movie.

8. He's ACTING. And the guy has worked as an actor before, including cameos in Sid and Nancy and the color of money, and an appearance on the Crypt Keeper. (No, he did not play the C.K.)

9. Irony, baby. Icky's semi-nudity is an in-your-face rebuke of the air-brushed, over-choreographed, auto-tuned slickness that infects so much of today's popular music.

I think I'm going to settle for the last explanation. At least it allows Iggy to keep his dignity - if not his shirt.


Those were the days, my friend...