An ART KILLS Production | Outta Time | funhausenatgmaildotcom | Absolutely No Rights Reserved
Death was a meta-presence throughout creating Funhausen. Original Stooges bassist Dave Alexander died in 1975 (basically drank himself to death, only 27), and a heart attack took the incomparable Ron Asheton out in 2009. Then, shortly after I had started working on the project, there was a night in March 2014 when I had just finished doing my best to isolate and reshuffle a Scott Asheton beat. As I was shutting everything down, my wife called out that she had just read that he had also passed away. Talk about eerie. I had barely gotten started, and another one down. As months passed and I continued to struggle with Funhausen, characterized by two steps forward, six steps back, I became more and more consumed with the fear that Iggy would die before it was done. In 2015, saxophonist Steve Mackay died, and the spookiness magnified. Thankfully, obviously more for his sake than for mine, Iggy's still with us as of this writing. What did happen, though, was that just when I started working on the last track, "LA Blooze," Bowie died. One of my artistic touchstones since I was 15. I loved him, or to be more accurate, I loved my personal image of him, my personal Bowie. I've known true grief in my life, and weirdly, I felt it for several weeks afterwards. I love my mythical picture of Iggy Pop just as much, and the historical connection between Bowie and Iggy, my fascination with that connection and what came of it, and the fact that Iggy now stood alone all blended into an inspiration to shape "LA Blooze" into a type of lament. A fucking tall order, and one that I had to finally abandon. Instead, I settled for working with the few snippets of Iggy's vocal that I could grab that weren't over the top, and made the kinda Steve Reichean, gamelanish piece that "LA Blooze" became. Unlike the effect of "LA Blues" on Fun House, my version closes out the Funhausen collection on a relatively controlled, calmer note compared to the other tracks, though it is a skittery motherfucker. The one shred of my original intention that remains is that it feels like Funhausen's last words.