Iggy Pop Quotes

I'm not ashamed to dress "like a woman" because I don't think it's shameful to be a woman.

Iggy Pop looks right at me as he sings the line: 'America takes drugs in psychic defence'; only he changes 'America' to 'Scatlin', and defines us mair accurately in a single sentence than all the others have ever done.

They say that death kills you, But death doesn't kill you. Boredom and indifference kill you.

I like music that's more offensive. I like it to sound like nails on a blackboard, get me wild.

I think that all the years of exposure to amps and electricity has altered my body chemistry.

I'm deeper than the shit I'm in and I don't really give a damn.

Well, I don't use the toilet much to pee in. I almost always pee in the yard or the garden, because I like to pee on my estate.

I have a hot memory, but I know I've forgotten many things, too, just squashed things in favor of survival.

As society has changed, what had formerly been unacceptable has become colourful.

Nihilism is best done by professionals.

I've probably been spit on more that any person alive outside of, I would say, a member of the prison system.

But the reason I decided to go to New York was because I had seen Iggy Pop and I thought I had seen God. And because I had sent to Interview magazine for Rene Ricard's first book of poetry, The Blue Book. I had never sent for anything before but something told me to do this. I had read that book over and over again like a Bible. I realized that a book can reach out and embrace you like an arm and make you walk away from everything you thought you understood.

And then I notice the music flooding out of every part of the apartment at once — the couch, the walls, even the floor — and I know Bennies alone in Lou’s studio, pouring music down around us. A minute ago it was “Don’t Let Me Down”. Then it was Blondie’s “Heart of Glass”. Now it’s Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger”. Listening, I think, You will never know how much I understand you.

I was nervous for her, tell you the truth. There were so many men in the scene that were…into young girls. Thirty-something rock stars sleeping with teenagers. Not saying it was okay, just saying that’s how it was. How old was Lori Mattix when she was with Jimmy Page? Fourteen? And Iggy Pop and Sable Starr? He sang about it, man. He was bragging about it.

It is very important what not to do.

Sophie removed the tiny marble from her pocket. As soon as the light hit the glass, Iggy zipped off her shoulder and snatched the cache in his tiny paws. “Give that back!” Sophie shouted as he flitted to the top of the waterfall. Iggy’s eyes narrowed and he dragged his teeth along the cache with a cringe-worthy scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaape. Edaline snapped her fingers and the cache popped back into Sophie’s palm. When Iggy dove to steal it back, Edaline snapped again, bringing his cage from Havenfield and dropping it right in his flight path. The startled imp crashed inside, and Edaline slammed the cage shut behind him. “Well,” Mr. Forkle said, clutching his chest. “Perhaps we should send that infernal creature home, before it does any permanent damage.” “Aw, we can’t send him away,” Biana said. “He looks so sad. Can’t he stay here?” “You want to keep him?” Dex asked. “You don’t think he’s gross and stinky?” “Uh, I grew up with two older brothers—and Keefe. I’m an expert on gross and stinky—and troublemakers,

I never believed that U2 wanted to save the whales. I don't believe that The Beastie Boys are ready to lay it down for Tibet.

I was watching Iggy Pop videos on Youtube and trying to research miniature horse suicides.

I give Iggy credit for deconstructing the very idea of entertainment.

Dave knocked on the door. “Iggy is in the bar,” he said. I drew my eyes back on and, as nonchalantly as I could manage, slipped down to the bar. “Hey! This is great,” he said, looking like Alfred E. Neuman and shaking my hand. He seemed as happy to meet me as I was him, as he introduced me to his girlfriend, Esther. In accordance with everybody else who’d met him, I found out that you either got Jim Osterberg, the straight-A Midwestern bookworm, or Iggy Pop, the drug-crazed, platinum-blond lunatic. The guy in the bar that night was Jim Osterberg.

Maybe we should be looking at how we live, and how our minds weren’t made for the lives we lead. Human brains – in terms of cognition and emotion and consciousness – are essentially the same as they were at the time of Shakespeare or Jesus or Cleopatra or the Stone Age. They are not evolving with the pace of change. Neolithic humans never had to face emails or breaking news or pop-up ads or Iggy Azalea videos or a self-service checkout at a strip-lit Tesco Metro on a busy Saturday night. Maybe instead of worrying about upgrading technology and slowly allowing ourselves to be cyborgs we should have a little peek at how we could upgrade our ability to cope with all this change.

Status seekers, I never cared Once I found out they never dared To seize the world and shake it upside down And every stinking bum should wear a crown

I couldn’t go on saying, “Let’s get a couple of grams of blow (cocaine) and write a song. Let’s get stoned before the gig. Let’s get stoned after the gig. I’m in town, where are the girls?” I was living the classic wild style, and that was no longer working for me. I’m not AA or anything. My ethic is that I work hard, do what I do under my own power, and at the end of the day, like everybody else in the world, I do what I can get away with. —Iggy Pop, rock singer

We don’t do this because we can win. We don’t do this because nobody else will. We don’t do this because it’s the right thing to do. We do it because: Fuck them. Fuck people who use their power to dick over whoever they can get away with dicking over. It doesn’t matter if that guy’s a high school teacher, or a Wall Street broker, or a cop, or a demon inside the shell of a store brand Iggy Pop. You have to punch him in the face because he deserves to be punched in the fucking face. End of story.

IGGY POP: The first time I heard the Velvet Underground and Nico record was at a party on the University of Michigan campus. I just hated the sound. You know, “HOW COULD ANYBODY MAKE A RECORD THAT SOUNDS LIKE SUCH A PIECE OF SHIT? THIS IS DISGUSTING! ALL THESE PEOPLE MAKE ME FUCKING SICK! FUCKING DISGUSTING HIPPIE VERMIN! FUCKING BEATNIKS, I WANNA KILL THEM ALL! THIS JUST SOUNDS LIKE TRASH!” Then about six months later it hit me. “Oh my god! WOW! This is just a fucking great record!” That record became very key for me, not just for what it said, and for how great it was,

No, I don't really think there's a "golden age" of anything. I think now is pretty fucking amazing. I'm probably the least nostalgic person. I don't think there was a golden time for music. There's always been people making great music standing here on Earth and saying, "This is where I stand, and this is what I've got to say, and this is how I feel about it." The industry of music has always been lousy. The stuff on the top, the stuff that rises, it's always been bad, right from when we first started getting into music. You just have to dig deeper. You have to look inward and outward. And then, when you make music, you can't just copy people. You can't just say, "This is how this was done, I'll do the same." You have to find what makes it good and kind of drag that kicking and screaming into your own world. Music is like a time capsule with no bearing. It doesn't really carry a message from the time when it was made. 1930s blues music doesn't really give you a sense of what it was like to live in America in 1930. It relates to your heartbeat now and where you are and what you're doing. I've said this in other interviews, but when I listen to Iggy Pop singing "Search And Destroy," it has no reference to Vietnam in my world. How could it? I'm from a small town in the middle of England. That's how music works. Looking back in music isn't even really looking back. Music's traveled to where you are.

Depression is not sadness, not even a state of mind, it is a (neuro)philosophical (dis)position. Beyond Pop’s bipolar oscillation between evanescent thrill and frustrated hedonism, beyond Jagger’s Miltonian Mephistopheleanism, beyond Iggy’s negated carny, beyond Roxy’s lounge lizard reptilian melancholy, beyond the pleasure principle altogether, Joy Division were the most Schopenhauerian of rock groups, so much so that they barely belonged to rock at all. Since they had so thoroughly stripped out rock’s libidinal motor – it would be better to say that they were, libidinally as well as sonically, anti-rock. Or perhaps, as they thought, they were the truth of rock, rock divested of all illusions. (The depressive is always confident of one thing: that he is without illusions.) What makes Joy Division so Schopenhauerian is the disjunction between Curtis’s detachment and the urgency of the music, its implacable drive standing in for the dumb insatiability of the life-Will, the Beckettian ‘I must go on’ not experienced by the depressive as some redemptive positivity, but as the ultimate horror, the life-Will paradoxically assuming all the loathsome properties of the undead (whatever you do, you can’t extinguish it, it keeps coming back).

We don’t do this because we can win. We don’t do this because nobody else will. We don’t do this because it’s the right thing to do, or it’s the only thing we can do. We do it because: Fuck them. Fuck people who use their power to dick over whoever they can get away with dicking over. It doesn’t matter if that guy’s a high school teacher, or a Wall Street broker, or a cop, or a demon inside the shell of a store-brand Iggy Pop. You have to punch him in the face because he deserves to be punched in the fucking face. End of story.

А вот еще сильное ощущение. Помню, однажды во втором классе я почему–то опоздал на школьный автобус, и пришлось маме везти меня в школу. Ей надо было на работу, а школа еще не открылась, так что я минут 15 стоял с портфельчиком и ждал. И там же стояли двое пятиклассников, одетых, как враги Джеймса Дина из фильма «Бунтарь без причины». Стояли болтали — настоящие хулиганы — и тут я услышал это слово: «shit». Раньше я никогда его не слышал. Однако почему–то мгновенно понял, что оно означает. Я был: поражен. Очень сильное впечатление — очень.

He’s right, of course. I knew it even with the fight kicking around in my belly and that anger bubbling in the back of my throat. I couldn’t take Gus alone, much less four of him. But fucking Randall—he should know that’s not the point. We don’t do this because we can win. We don’t do this because nobody else will. We don’t do this because it’s the right thing to do, or it’s the only thing we can do. We do it because: Fuck them. Fuck people who use their power to dick over whoever they can get away with dicking over. It doesn’t matter if that guy’s a high school teacher, or a Wall Street broker, or a cop, or a demon inside the shell of a store-brand Iggy Pop. You have to punch him in the face because he deserves to be punched in the fucking face. End of story.

Maybe we should be looking at how we live, and how our minds weren’t made for the lives we lead. Human brains—in terms of cognition and emotion and consciousness—are essentially the same as they were at the time of Shakespeare or Jesus or Cleopatra or the Stone Age. They are not evolving with the pace of change. Neolithic humans never had to face emails or breaking news or pop-up ads or Iggy Azalea videos or a self-service checkout at a strip-lit Tesco Metro on a busy Saturday night. Maybe instead of worrying about upgrading technology and slowly allowing ourselves to be cyborgs we should have a little peek at how we could upgrade our ability to cope with all this change.

dear laurence, thankyou for your gorgeous and charming letter, you brighten up my dim life. i read the whole fucking thing, dear. of course, i'd love to see you in your black dress and your white socks too. but most of all i want to see you take a deep breath and do whatever you must to survive and find something to be that you can love. you're obviously a bright fucking chick, w/ a big heart too and i want to wish you a (belated) HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY 21st b'day and happy spirit. i was very miserable and fighting hard on my 21st b'day, too. people booed me on the stage, and i was staying in someone else's house and i was scared. it's been a long road since then, but pressure never ends in this life. 'perforation problems' by the way means to me also the holes that will always exist in any story we try to make of our lives. so hang on, my love, and grow big and strong and take your hits and keep going. all my love to a really beautiful girl. that's you laurence. iggy pop

St. Aubyn, who reveals himself to be an inspired parodist, gives us passages, for example, from wot u starin at, a knockoff of Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting : “Death Boy’s trousers were round his ankies. The only vein in his body that hadna been driven into hiding was in his cock. “I told yuz nivir ivir to talk to uz when Aym trackin a vein,” snarled Death Boy. “That way I needna fucking talk ta ya at all,” said Wanker, slumped in the corner, weirdly fascinated by the sour stench of his own vomit, rising off of his soiled Iggy Pop tee-shirt.

wee clusters of muscle coming up on my arms and shoulders. It would be cool to have that sleek, feline, Iggy Pop look; muscular and defined but still slim and lithe. Seeker shows me how to be systematic

No You Can't Meet Iggy

Yet Bowie was just hitting his golden years, rushing out his five best albums from 1976 to 1980, the best five-album run of anyone in the seventies (or since): Station to Station, Low, “Heroes,” Lodger, and Scary Monsters. In this time span, he also made the two albums that brought back Iggy Pop from the dead—The Idiot, prized by Bowie freaks as a rare showcase for his eccentric lead guitar, and Lust for Life—and his finest live album, Stage, from the 1978 tour, absurdly turning the ambient instrumentals from Low and “Heroes” into arena rock. As he put it at the time, “I’m using myself as a canvas and trying to paint the truth of our time on it. The white face, the baggy pants—they’re Pierrot, the eternal clown putting across the great sadness of 1976.