MC Atzilut (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} mcatzilut) wrote,@ 2007-02-14 02:54:00 |
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| Current location: | Home |
| Current music: | Iggy Pop - Fall in Love With Me |
| Entry tags: | 1970s, music, new year's resolution |
1977: Iggy Pop - Lust for Life
A Review of Lust for Life told in a Two-Act Passion Play.
A Passion Play Review of Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life in Two Acts:
Or, Can You Spot the Moment I Start Doubting
The play opens in a cluttered, fantastic livingroom. It smells like musky sweat and stale marijuana. The music critic: Mordechai “Mordy” Shinefield, sits on the couch in his boxers with a patchwork blanket cloaked over his shoulders. He’s typing intently. There’s a fire burning in his eyes - a snicker at the corner of his mouth. He needs a shower, but first he’ll finish the next sentence. He is played by either Dorothy Parker as actress, resuming her role at the New Yorker, or by Iggy Pop himself, in 1965.
MORDY
Yeah. Lust for Life. Hell, yeah. I feel like there’s sunshine in the room now. This is the kinda of song that makes you want to dance.
(He bops his head a couple times, stands up, begins to dance with himself.)
You want to know about Modern Gods? Try learning Talmud 18 hours a day for a month. You’ll see some Modern Gods. Or you’ll get sick. Oh - Modern Guy. Yeah, I’m that too.
(We hear the word ‘striptease’ come over the stereo. He starts singing a competing song.)
Cause I’m... too sexy for that chair. Too sexy for that chair. Too sexy... beware!
(He throws up devil horns. The phone rings as Sixteen comes on. Ushers hand out pamphlets to the audience reminding them that Stevie Nicks also sang about being sixteen. As the audience, you nod in appreciation to the forethought of the director.)
CALLER ON THE PHONE (DAVID BOWIE. ALTERNATIVELY: GOD.)
You aren’t sixteen anymore.
(The speaker skips because it’s old and crappy. You don’t notice though, because it’s a halting, stuttering song anyway. You assume this is apart of the production.)
I didn’t do that. Do you actually know any sixteen year olds? Have you ever actually ever been sixteen?
MORDY
No. Maybe once. I can’t remember.
DAVID BOWIE (OR: GOD. ALTERNATIVELY: LESTER BANGS)
I remember when I produced this next song. It’s about what I want. Do you know what I want? I want to suck the life out of tangerines and live forever. I want my body, naked, greased and on permanent display at some German museum. I’d like to spit in the face of a fascist and then take him out for a beer. Have you ever felt like that?
MORDY
God, yes. I’ve wanted to do a ton. I get these trips where I want everything - like I want to consume everything. Every album. Every song. Every artist. Every writer - music critic - dancer – dancers are like music critics. Just swallow it. And then I do, and I choke, cough it up. Write about the cud. Rechew it.
(He hangs up the phone. The next song, The Passenger, starts.)
I am the passenger and I ride and I ride. I see the stars come out of the sky. I’m actually typing this as I read this. As an aside, to the audience - the real, real audience. So if you feel like you’re going on a ride, you know, as you read this, that’s because that was actually ACTUALLY playing in the background while I wrote this monologue. Everything looks good.
(He begins to tell a story. The audience is allowed to take a break and a smoke while he tells this story. The story is delivered passionately, with gesticulation and other empty gestures.)
I once heard an image, in Yeshiva. Someone said that if you turn enough pages, you’ll get papercuts all over your hands. And I wanted to use that in a piece of fiction for a long time. But I couldn’t figure out how to do it. Finally, I started writing just by talking about the papercuts, and how I couldn’t find a story for them. And this story came out. About this boy who watched another boy tear his fingers to bits from papercuts. But the first boy, though he condemned the second, was actually quite jealous. So to earn similar scars, he smashed his hand against a shower wall.
La, la, la, la, la. La, la. La, la.
IGGY POP (THE REAL ONE)
You want somethin, asshole?
MORDY
Yes.
IGGY POP
Try living. Sleep less. Rock out, baby. Try some la, la, las. Yeah. Don’t be too afraid to fuck shit up just for kicks.
(Iggy Pop disappears. The next song starts. Tonight. Dusk falls upon the set. All the lights go out. But you hear the shuffling of feet on the floor. Extrapolation begins.)
MORDY
Here’s the real deal about reviews. The prefix ‘re’ means ‘to do again.’ So you’re viewing the art objects a second time when you review it. But what would an actual view look like? Perhaps you could set a video camera up and catch someone listening to a song for the first time. You could then study his facial expressions, the way he blinks or nods his head. Or, maybe something like this...
(Here he’s referencing the play itself. A ‘metacomment.’)
...Where the view is being recorded as the piece of art is being experienced. That way the art becomes a soundtrack, but also an inspiration, an interruption, and takes possession of the work. Maybe I’m not writing this play as I perform it. Maybe Iggy Pop is writing it by sending his voice through my limbs and typing the letters out.
(Suddenly the music stops. Something is wrong with the stereo system. Mordy tries to fix it. )
At this moment, I consider whether that last paragraph was heresy. I also start to doubt whether this is a valuable exercise, and if anyone will ever find it interesting. This moment is, in fact, the moment when doubt creeps in. A successful transverse of this moment will require the music restarting, and Iggy Pop returning to save the day.
INTERMISSION
(The same room as before, but something seems different. Success is now playing on the stereo, and Mordy is typing in a standing position. He looks tired. Every now and then he eyes his bedroom. There’s a conspicuously placed copy of Best Music Writing 2006 on his table. In the background, a Television showing a Scrubs episode is playing. The episode appears to be the one where Michael J. Fox plays an exceptionally gifted doctor with OCD. It is the bar scene in that particular episode, where he is telling J.D. (Played by Zach Braff) that mentors are for pussies. J.D. seems distressed by this news.
MORDY
Here comes success. Here comes success. Here comes success. I’m gonna do the twist.
(He actually does the twist.)
We’re back in action! Woo! Power restored! Let’s blast off, baby! On success! And the money keeps rolling in from every place! Money! It’s a Gas! Let’s do anything, baby! Let’s do a primordial dance around a Totem Pole. Let’s rock the world. Let’s throw shit around!
(He ends as the song ends. Turn Blue turns on.)
MOMENT OF REFLECTION
(Anthropomorphized, Moment of Reflection begins to speak.)
In a Passion Play, the protagonist tends to be crucified. Wrong religion, though. Perhaps the protagonist of this play will merely hit a rock and have to walk through a desert for forty years.
MOMENT OF CONCERN
(Anthropomorphized, Moment of Concern begins to speak.)
If all the characters sound the same, that’s because this is - contrary to expectations - actually a one-man play. That man is you. You sound like this. This is what you sound like. Can’t you see? Stepping on our hearts? Your critique is invalid! Jesus!
JESUS
Stop it.
MOMENT OF CONCERN
Make me.
JESUS (WHO MAY ACTUALLY, NOW THAT YOU THINK ABOUT IT, BE DAVID BOWIE)
I’ll take away your toys.
MOMENT OF CONCERN
There’s someone I really love. But he’s not around. Make it so ugly. SO DAMN UGLY. We’ll put out the lights on them! We’ll make it dark! We’ll put out the lights!
(Spontaneously all the lights go back on! You can see and no longer require the narrator to describe the scene to you. Neighborhood Threat turns on. You can scarcely tell though, because it seems to blend into the last song.)
MORDY
I have an idea. I’ll write a play. A gonzo, frantic, self-referential, Beckett-inspired, angry, happy play. That play will review an album. An album from 1977. This will be completely awesome. Because no one expects a review from 1977 in 2007. 30 years ago, and I’m finally getting around to it. It’ll be like backstabbing someone in an alley. The surprise! The blood! I’m a Neighborhood Threat! Most will flee. Others will simply be. Others will appreciate, deprecate and reciprocate simultaneously. Some idiot will call this post-modern. Another will call it jejune. Another may simply state that the premise would be more effective without me referencing it within the text.
And then I’ll leap from a wall and bite into your neck! Blood will gush just like you sweat! I’m a neighborhood threat!
I blame my environment! I blame ILX! I blame Rolling Stone! I blame Bob Dylan! I blame Cameron Crowe! I blame my upbringing! I was never taught right from wrooooooooooong. SAVE ME! (What’s wrong with saving yourself?)
(Ahem. Fall in Love with Me turns ON. Even as Mordy continues to rant.)
Love me! Love me! Love me! I’m trying my best to rip out my heart and offer it to you. Here it is. I’m through being self-conscious. I swear, I’m crying for your acknowledgment. I’m crying to be known! Hug me! Hold me! Even when I say no. Give me praise. Be my mentor. Be my lover. Be my destroyer. I’m being my fictitious self and my real self at the same time.
(This is the part where the authentic author comes through...)
Fall in love with me. There’s so much love in these veins. Coursing through - it’s what makes me open my eyes in the morning. I love my wife. I love my family. I love my friends. I love authors. I love musicians. I love music. I love every-god-damn-thing in this hurt, horrific, alienating, loveful world. I wish you would, fall in love with me.
I only write this for your praise! Don’t deny me! And I’ll destroy you! And love me! And mosh! And suffer! And laugh. And love me! And love me! And love me!
(The album ends. As does the play. You can go home now. The spectacle is over.)
FINITE
Or, Can You Spot the Moment I Start Doubting
The play opens in a cluttered, fantastic livingroom. It smells like musky sweat and stale marijuana. The music critic: Mordechai “Mordy” Shinefield, sits on the couch in his boxers with a patchwork blanket cloaked over his shoulders. He’s typing intently. There’s a fire burning in his eyes - a snicker at the corner of his mouth. He needs a shower, but first he’ll finish the next sentence. He is played by either Dorothy Parker as actress, resuming her role at the New Yorker, or by Iggy Pop himself, in 1965.
MORDY
Yeah. Lust for Life. Hell, yeah. I feel like there’s sunshine in the room now. This is the kinda of song that makes you want to dance.
(He bops his head a couple times, stands up, begins to dance with himself.)
You want to know about Modern Gods? Try learning Talmud 18 hours a day for a month. You’ll see some Modern Gods. Or you’ll get sick. Oh - Modern Guy. Yeah, I’m that too.
(We hear the word ‘striptease’ come over the stereo. He starts singing a competing song.)
Cause I’m... too sexy for that chair. Too sexy for that chair. Too sexy... beware!
(He throws up devil horns. The phone rings as Sixteen comes on. Ushers hand out pamphlets to the audience reminding them that Stevie Nicks also sang about being sixteen. As the audience, you nod in appreciation to the forethought of the director.)
CALLER ON THE PHONE (DAVID BOWIE. ALTERNATIVELY: GOD.)
You aren’t sixteen anymore.
(The speaker skips because it’s old and crappy. You don’t notice though, because it’s a halting, stuttering song anyway. You assume this is apart of the production.)
I didn’t do that. Do you actually know any sixteen year olds? Have you ever actually ever been sixteen?
MORDY
No. Maybe once. I can’t remember.
DAVID BOWIE (OR: GOD. ALTERNATIVELY: LESTER BANGS)
I remember when I produced this next song. It’s about what I want. Do you know what I want? I want to suck the life out of tangerines and live forever. I want my body, naked, greased and on permanent display at some German museum. I’d like to spit in the face of a fascist and then take him out for a beer. Have you ever felt like that?
MORDY
God, yes. I’ve wanted to do a ton. I get these trips where I want everything - like I want to consume everything. Every album. Every song. Every artist. Every writer - music critic - dancer – dancers are like music critics. Just swallow it. And then I do, and I choke, cough it up. Write about the cud. Rechew it.
(He hangs up the phone. The next song, The Passenger, starts.)
I am the passenger and I ride and I ride. I see the stars come out of the sky. I’m actually typing this as I read this. As an aside, to the audience - the real, real audience. So if you feel like you’re going on a ride, you know, as you read this, that’s because that was actually ACTUALLY playing in the background while I wrote this monologue. Everything looks good.
(He begins to tell a story. The audience is allowed to take a break and a smoke while he tells this story. The story is delivered passionately, with gesticulation and other empty gestures.)
I once heard an image, in Yeshiva. Someone said that if you turn enough pages, you’ll get papercuts all over your hands. And I wanted to use that in a piece of fiction for a long time. But I couldn’t figure out how to do it. Finally, I started writing just by talking about the papercuts, and how I couldn’t find a story for them. And this story came out. About this boy who watched another boy tear his fingers to bits from papercuts. But the first boy, though he condemned the second, was actually quite jealous. So to earn similar scars, he smashed his hand against a shower wall.
La, la, la, la, la. La, la. La, la.
IGGY POP (THE REAL ONE)
You want somethin, asshole?
MORDY
Yes.
IGGY POP
Try living. Sleep less. Rock out, baby. Try some la, la, las. Yeah. Don’t be too afraid to fuck shit up just for kicks.
(Iggy Pop disappears. The next song starts. Tonight. Dusk falls upon the set. All the lights go out. But you hear the shuffling of feet on the floor. Extrapolation begins.)
MORDY
Here’s the real deal about reviews. The prefix ‘re’ means ‘to do again.’ So you’re viewing the art objects a second time when you review it. But what would an actual view look like? Perhaps you could set a video camera up and catch someone listening to a song for the first time. You could then study his facial expressions, the way he blinks or nods his head. Or, maybe something like this...
(Here he’s referencing the play itself. A ‘metacomment.’)
...Where the view is being recorded as the piece of art is being experienced. That way the art becomes a soundtrack, but also an inspiration, an interruption, and takes possession of the work. Maybe I’m not writing this play as I perform it. Maybe Iggy Pop is writing it by sending his voice through my limbs and typing the letters out.
(Suddenly the music stops. Something is wrong with the stereo system. Mordy tries to fix it. )
At this moment, I consider whether that last paragraph was heresy. I also start to doubt whether this is a valuable exercise, and if anyone will ever find it interesting. This moment is, in fact, the moment when doubt creeps in. A successful transverse of this moment will require the music restarting, and Iggy Pop returning to save the day.
INTERMISSION
(The same room as before, but something seems different. Success is now playing on the stereo, and Mordy is typing in a standing position. He looks tired. Every now and then he eyes his bedroom. There’s a conspicuously placed copy of Best Music Writing 2006 on his table. In the background, a Television showing a Scrubs episode is playing. The episode appears to be the one where Michael J. Fox plays an exceptionally gifted doctor with OCD. It is the bar scene in that particular episode, where he is telling J.D. (Played by Zach Braff) that mentors are for pussies. J.D. seems distressed by this news.
MORDY
Here comes success. Here comes success. Here comes success. I’m gonna do the twist.
(He actually does the twist.)
We’re back in action! Woo! Power restored! Let’s blast off, baby! On success! And the money keeps rolling in from every place! Money! It’s a Gas! Let’s do anything, baby! Let’s do a primordial dance around a Totem Pole. Let’s rock the world. Let’s throw shit around!
(He ends as the song ends. Turn Blue turns on.)
MOMENT OF REFLECTION
(Anthropomorphized, Moment of Reflection begins to speak.)
In a Passion Play, the protagonist tends to be crucified. Wrong religion, though. Perhaps the protagonist of this play will merely hit a rock and have to walk through a desert for forty years.
MOMENT OF CONCERN
(Anthropomorphized, Moment of Concern begins to speak.)
If all the characters sound the same, that’s because this is - contrary to expectations - actually a one-man play. That man is you. You sound like this. This is what you sound like. Can’t you see? Stepping on our hearts? Your critique is invalid! Jesus!
JESUS
Stop it.
MOMENT OF CONCERN
Make me.
JESUS (WHO MAY ACTUALLY, NOW THAT YOU THINK ABOUT IT, BE DAVID BOWIE)
I’ll take away your toys.
MOMENT OF CONCERN
There’s someone I really love. But he’s not around. Make it so ugly. SO DAMN UGLY. We’ll put out the lights on them! We’ll make it dark! We’ll put out the lights!
(Spontaneously all the lights go back on! You can see and no longer require the narrator to describe the scene to you. Neighborhood Threat turns on. You can scarcely tell though, because it seems to blend into the last song.)
MORDY
I have an idea. I’ll write a play. A gonzo, frantic, self-referential, Beckett-inspired, angry, happy play. That play will review an album. An album from 1977. This will be completely awesome. Because no one expects a review from 1977 in 2007. 30 years ago, and I’m finally getting around to it. It’ll be like backstabbing someone in an alley. The surprise! The blood! I’m a Neighborhood Threat! Most will flee. Others will simply be. Others will appreciate, deprecate and reciprocate simultaneously. Some idiot will call this post-modern. Another will call it jejune. Another may simply state that the premise would be more effective without me referencing it within the text.
And then I’ll leap from a wall and bite into your neck! Blood will gush just like you sweat! I’m a neighborhood threat!
I blame my environment! I blame ILX! I blame Rolling Stone! I blame Bob Dylan! I blame Cameron Crowe! I blame my upbringing! I was never taught right from wrooooooooooong. SAVE ME! (What’s wrong with saving yourself?)
(Ahem. Fall in Love with Me turns ON. Even as Mordy continues to rant.)
Love me! Love me! Love me! I’m trying my best to rip out my heart and offer it to you. Here it is. I’m through being self-conscious. I swear, I’m crying for your acknowledgment. I’m crying to be known! Hug me! Hold me! Even when I say no. Give me praise. Be my mentor. Be my lover. Be my destroyer. I’m being my fictitious self and my real self at the same time.
(This is the part where the authentic author comes through...)
Fall in love with me. There’s so much love in these veins. Coursing through - it’s what makes me open my eyes in the morning. I love my wife. I love my family. I love my friends. I love authors. I love musicians. I love music. I love every-god-damn-thing in this hurt, horrific, alienating, loveful world. I wish you would, fall in love with me.
I only write this for your praise! Don’t deny me! And I’ll destroy you! And love me! And mosh! And suffer! And laugh. And love me! And love me! And love me!
(The album ends. As does the play. You can go home now. The spectacle is over.)
FINITE
