An ART KILLS Production | Outta Time | funhausenatgmaildotcom | Absolutely No Rights Reserved
I've had two encounters with Iggy Pop. While the first was cast in the red neon of what the popular imagination would consider true iggy-ness, both events were equally momentous for me (of course, are you kidding?), and he was more generous than he needed to be. His signature to the left is evidence of the second, from a letter to me dated Feb. 26, 1994. Funny, in this forum it just doesn't feel right displaying the complete letter, though it's certainly innocent enough. I was working at an Atlanta club called The Masquerade at the time, doing their flyers and print ads and such, and Iggy was scheduled to play. I think it was the American Caesar tour. For some time, one of my enduring rock 'n roll fantasies was to play drums in Iggy's band. So, I put together a cassette of different things I'd done up to that point, and put it in a manila envelope with a letter stating my love for his music and my, uhhhh, availability. The night of the show, stripped of any nerve to get backstage and do it myself, I asked one of the security guys I knew to give the package to Iggy. Then I watched the show, the third of four times I've seen him perform. As always, he was a fucking live wire, the true, living King of Rock 'n Roll. Later, the security guy claimed he'd given the envelope to Iggy, though I didn't really believe him. Well, sure enough, about two weeks after that, Iggy's response arrived in the mail. Unbelievable. I mean, seriously, how many legends would do something like that? He actually took the time to politely write me back. My note had mentioned meeting him on the Tampa stop of his 1982 Zombie Birdhouse tour, one of the most gonzo evenings of my life, and in response he recalled the wildness of his Tampa memories, though he made it clear that such wanton dissipation was behind him. He signed off by writing that while he had a drummer right then, he'd listen to the tape and keep me in mind. I have a little wooden, memento-keepsake box a friend got me at Graceland long ago, with gaudy, glued cutouts of Elvis circa his jumpsuit Vegas days sloppily emblazoned on it. There the Iggy letter sits, safely tucked away, half buried in miscellaneous detritus from various life phases, always ready to give me a smile.