Iggy Pop (6 page)

McLaughlin liked and respected Osterberg, but was convinced that such obscenity could never win over an audience. Normally, the drummer got so carried away he didn’t even notice his screamed vocals weren’t audible. Neither did it bother his audience of apprentice teenyboppers, whose ecstatic response encouraged him to try another brief vocal spot, singing the jingle of a then-popular sugar-laden cereal, Sugar Crisp. As their drummer imitated the TV commercial’s wacky cartoon bear singing ‘Can’t get enough of that Sugar Crisp’, Jim’s fellow Iguanas were astonished to see that the resort’s female population had brought boxes of the sugary puffed-wheat concoction to the club, and were throwing it onto the stage as if at some cute performing monkey.

By the middle of that summer, McLaughlin, Swickerath and Kolokithas noticed that on their weekends off, when they would return to Ann Arbor to see their parents, or girlfriends, Jim invariably remained in their chalet at Harbor Springs, where by now he had been given his own room in a vain effort to stem the tide of mouldy peanut bars and rotting apple cores that accumulated behind the communal sofa. Much of the time, Osterberg stayed indoors, playing two LPs over and over - Dylan’s
Bringing It All Back Home
, and
The Rolling Stones Now
. ‘Not a day went by that I didn’t listen to those things for hours.’ But his bandmates had no knowledge about what else he got up to during his weekends off until, one weekday evening, he invited the others up to an imposing mansion overlooking the bay. Ushered into a large dining room, Swickerath and Kolokithas were astonished to be greeted by a distinguished-looking businessman, who was introduced by Osterberg as ‘Mr Reynolds - he owns the Reynolds Aluminum Company’. The friendly industrial magnate chatted to the assembled Iguanas, telling them what a fan his daughter was of their music, before handing each of them a chisel and asking them to inscribe their names into a huge aluminium table that dominated the room. Soon it transpired that Jim hung out with the daughters of the Wrigley’s Chewing Gum family too, while on other weekends he had worked his charm on Chuck Bowbeer, owner of the Depot House, an arty coffee bar based in a railway carriage, and persuaded him to host Jim’s poetry readings. They never knew whether Jim invited girls other than Lynn Klavitter back to their quarters, but McLaughlin, who at one point had shared a bed with Jim in their tiny chalet, decided to change the arrangement after noticing some fresh stains on the sheets. ‘Sorry about that,’ Osterberg informed him with typical bluster when McLaughlin complained. ‘It was either that or fatherhood.’

Osterberg worked his magic on visiting musicians too. When famed bouffant-haired girl group the Shangri-Las came to town, most of the Iguanas were in a cold funk at the prospect of backing such legends. ‘I was terrified,’ says McLaughlin, ‘but Jim said, this is going to be great, screw the practical side, man, we’re on with the Shangri-Las.’ After an hour of practice in the afternoon with the band’s ‘greasy lead-guitar-player slash manager slash roadie-guy’ they hit the stage, with McLaughlin babbling, ‘Which one is the candy store one, what are the chords, this is going to be a disaster!’ But: ‘Jim was perfect. He had the confidence, he knew no one would notice if we made any mistakes. And they didn’t.’

McLaughlin and band disliked the Shangri-Las’ brunette back-up singers, but they suspected Jim had something going with the blonde one. He had a knack of getting on with whatever band they worked with, whether it was Bobby Goldsboro - ‘so nervous he was shaking, then onstage he was totally relaxed’ - or the Four Tops, despite the fact that, according to Nick Kolokithas, Osterberg had spent much of his time off teaching Nick’s parrot Zorba the Greek to shriek the phrases ‘fuck Sally’ and ‘niggers’, terms which the diligently schooled bird mastered just in time for the Four Tops’ visit to the Iguanas’ chalet. Kolokithas admired Osterberg’s drumming, but wasn’t a fan of his animal husbandry, not least Jim’s habit of running his fingers along the bars of Zorba’s cage to create a metallic clang, waking the bird from its slumbers.

Not for the last time, however, nature wreaked its revenge. One fateful day Kolokithas heard unearthly shrieks coming from the living room, ran to investigate and discovered Osterberg and Zorba locked in a deathly embrace, the parrot’s beak firmly clamped on Jim’s finger as the drummer leapt about the room, attempting to shake him off. Finally, Zorba fluttered away, happy to have had vengeance. Nick never discovered who it was who’d unlocked the door to the parrot’s cage. Frankly, there were too many suspects.

Basking in the adulation of the town’s youth, the Iguanas all felt like celebrities, and would often get pestered for autographs on the main drag. But the authorities started to take notice too. There were complaints from the Harbor Springs Council of Churches over the obscene lyrics of ‘Louie Louie’. When the Kingsmen - who took a paternal interest in the young musicians - played the Ponytail, they mentioned how they liked to run around town in their underwear. This planted a seed in Osterberg’s mind; shortly afterwards, the band protested against the gruelling work regime imposed by Jim Douglas by playing in their pyjamas. Osterberg talked Swickerath into a night-time pyjama-clad roar through the town on Don’s motorbike, but when he turned up for the jape clad in a trench coat, it became apparent that Jim Osterberg’s night-time wear was his birthday suit. After a quick blast through Main Street, during which Osterberg enjoyed a naked streak through the idyllic Michigan moonlight, the two sped back to their chalet opposite the Ponytail.

By the end of the summer, the restrictions imposed by Jim Douglas, who was stingy with both pay and perks, were starting to grate. Although they took some satisfaction in petty insubordination - Don Swickerath found a secret passage beneath the Ponytail which allowed him to steal ice cream from under the unsuspecting club owner’s nose - they were all relieved when their contract came to an end, and they moved to Chuck Bowbeer’s Depot House for a couple more shows. The proprietor was taken with both drummer and band, and boasted of his connections at Columbia and other labels. Encouraged by this news, and the growing fan base, they booked into United sound recorders in Detroit to record their cover of Bo Diddley’s ‘Mona’. The B-side of the proposed single provoked some of the band’s first internal arguments. Jim wanted to use his own song ‘Again And Again’ - a dark, almost gothic affair, with shouted, Dylanesque lyrics (‘I walk through a field of bleak death’) underpinned by Kolokithas’s doomy guitar chords - but the rest of the band opted for Nick’s more conventional, Beatles-y ‘I Don’t Know Why’. ‘We didn’t get what Jim was trying to do,’ concedes McLaughlin. ‘He wanted to do more Dylan material, but we only liked his songs once they were covered by the Byrds.’

The Iguanas returned to Ann Arbor in September, with several more high-profile shows lined up and, for most of them, an imminent return to college. Swickerath and Kolokithas already attended the Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti; Jim Osterberg had secured a place to study anthropology at the more prestigious University of Michigan, set in gorgeous Victorian buildings in the heart of Ann Arbor. Michigan had a generous entry policy for local students, who could secure a place with a B+ average, and qualify for Michigan Higher Education Assistance Authority grants towards books and tuition. There had never been any doubt among Jim’s peers that he was destined for the university; as McLaughlin put it, ‘He could be wild, but he would knuckle down to it when necessary. For instance, can you imagine how much discipline you needed to write poetry?’

In the heady days of early 1965, the Iguanas had been one of the hippest bands around Ann Arbor. But as summer gave way to autumn, their major-chord, British-invasion sound was sounding trite and last season. Michigan’s musical climate was changing fast. Local bands like Johnny and the Hurricanes, who’d enjoyed big instrumental hits in the late 1950s, had sounded cheesy on record but they were notoriously tough-sounding on stage; other Detroit acts like Billy Lee could hold their own with Detroit’s black soul outfits; Billy Lee even recorded an R&B single for the gospel label Carrie, before recruiting a band called the Rivieras and later choosing a new name - Mitch Ryder - from a phone book.

Other local entrepreneurs were schooling their own talent. Jeep Holland was nurturing Ann Arbor High student Scott Morgan in the Rationals - the band would hit big with their single ‘Respect’ in 1966, attracting the attention of Detroit’s future first lady of soul, Aretha Franklin. Meanwhile, Dave Leone and Ed ‘Punch’ Andrews had opened a pioneering club in Harper Woods called the Hideout, to showcase the Fugitives, a tough rock ’n’ roll act based around the arrogant but fiendishly talented Quackenbush brothers, who would draw crowds of 700, twice a week. Other aspiring promoters, such as Pete Andrews, opened up venues like Mothers Teenage Nightclub, which he ran at Ann Arbor Armoury, and would pull huge greaser and frat crowds.

As the Michigan music scene exploded, one crucial concert electrified many of its key players. On 24 October the newly electric Dylan played Detroit’s Cobo Hall, fresh off a European tour that had seen him taunted as ‘Judas’, only to respond with some of his toughest, angriest speed-freak music to date. The Detroit audience was just as ill-prepared for Dylan’s electrified assault as were the cardigan-clad English folkies, and when Dylan hit the stage for his electric set, dolled up in a four-button flannel suit and Beatle boots with a black Stratocaster, all hell broke loose. Osterberg was in the crowd with Jim McLaughlin, and watched as Dylan walked onto the stage with his back to the band. After guitarist Robbie Robertson counted them in, the band kicked into life, and Dylan executed a perfect jump turn, ‘Just like a classic high-school greaser band,’ remembers Osterberg fondly. ‘I knew that move from the greaser bands around Ann Arbor, beetle-browed guys with pom padours leading these really tight bands.’ Dylan’s rocker cool increased Osterberg’s identification with his hero, but even as Dylan and the Hawks rocked through ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ and ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’, cries of ‘Sell out!’ rippled through the crowd. Osterberg was transfixed; both by the music, and the way Dylan was way ahead of the audience and seemingly didn’t give a damn about their reaction. ‘It made such a huge impression on Jim,’ says Jim McLaughlin. ‘He was really shaken. It wasn’t just the music, it was the way the crowd booed him. And how Dylan had taken all this abuse, and didn’t seem affected.’

One Ann Arbor band boasted a special affinity with this revolutionary, controversial music. The Prime Movers had formed that summer, and were led by Michael and Dan Erlewine, together with pianist Bob Sheff. Michael Erlewine was a confident, ambitious, self-styled intellectual - ‘I was forceful, a bit of an asshole’ - who had hit the road with Dylan in the mid-1960s, a beat scholar who had already experimented with marijuana and acid; guitarist Dan was a skilled musician (a guitar-playing ‘machine’ according to the Iguanas), who was friends with Chicago’s Butterfield Blues Band - the musicians who had backed Dylan’s first excursions into electric music. Sheff was an intriguing, eclectic musician who epitomised the new artistic atmosphere blossoming in Ann Arbor. Born in San Antonio, Texas, he’d won a BMI Student Composers Award and been offered a scholarship at Juilliard, but rejected its stuffy academic ambience and caught a bus to Ann Arbor. Intellectual, gay, schooled in Texas and Delta blues, he had already performed in, and in some cases premiered, works by John Cage, La Monte Young and Yoko Ono, and was soon a key member of the Once Group, an avant-garde multimedia art collective, led by architecture lecturer Joe Wehrer, with architect Harold Borkin, film-maker George Manupelli, painter Milton Cohen and composers Robert Ashley and Gordon Mumma.

With their talk of the Beats, vanguard art and Hegelian philosophy, and a purist blues set list drawn from songs by Little Walter and Junior Wells, the Prime Movers saw themselves as a bunch of intellectual heavyweights compared to British-invasion bands like the Iguanas: ‘We didn’t care for them much,’ proclaims Michael Erlewine. And they let the Iguanas’ drummer know it, every time they bumped into him at Discount Records, or clubs like Mothers; like Jeep Holland they teased Osterberg, calling him Iguana, or Iggy for short. ‘It was derogatory at first - Iguana,’ says Erlewine. ‘Then when we became friends it became Iggy.’ By November 1965, when the Prime Movers’ first drummer Spider Wynn left the band, Michael Erlewine had no problem in persuading Osterberg to leave the Iguanas and team up with his pioneering outfit. Jim played a big University of Michigan freshman orientation dance with the Iguanas before informing McLaughlin and the others that he was leaving. Although he had once been Osterberg’s closest friend, McLaughlin was not surprised: ‘Jim was hard to get to know - he kept himself to himself. Over the years I guess our conversations had been limited to music and the band. He didn’t give me much information about why he was leaving, but it wasn’t a shock. I knew he was getting bored and frustrated with our conventional sound and approach.’

In the Iguanas, Jim had definitely been a leader. In the Prime Movers, he was ‘very much a follower,’ says Michael Erlewine. But his year with the band was crucial for two reasons. First, it would teach him about commitment. Second, it would give him a name.

The Iguanas had been an intimate, cosy outfit, all clanging chords and major-key optimism. But by the end of 1965 their music was comparatively archaic; the Prime Movers’ cynical, bohemian attitude was in tune with the zeitgeist, as music got heavier and druggier. This attitude encompassed more than just music, for the Prime Movers’ social circle included witty, intellectual quick-thinkers like David ‘Panther’ White - who arrived from Shaker Heights, Cleveland that autumn - and Lynn Goldsmith, later to be a celebrated photographer. Panther was a natural comic with a wicked, freewheeling Lenny Bruce-style wit, who made prize-winning art films and would soon, with his friend Jesse Crawford, become involved with the White Panther party and MC5 operation. Ron Asheton, Jim’s old high-school acquaintance, started hanging out with the Prime Movers too, auditioning on bass guitar and surviving for a couple of gigs before being demoted to roadie and general helper. Ron and others observed that Iggy ‘was in total competition with Panther’, but Panther was usually prepared to go further than the Prime Movers’ new drummer, such as the time he told Dan Erlewine he had scored some especially fine weed and handed him a pipe. Panther, Ron and the rest of the band watched Dan take a deep toke and then freak out: ‘It was DMT - a terrible fuckin’ drug, it’s like peaking on acid, inside about five seconds,’ says Ron. ‘Panther was one guy who wouldn’t take shit from anybody.’ It was Panther who ensured the Iggy name became a permanent fixture. The drummer didn’t complain about being saddled with the name of his uncool former group; it could have been worse. Ron Asheton, who had a spotty teenage complexion, was given the name Javalina - a midget warthog found in Texas, an animal which, according to naturalists, you can smell before you can see.