For just a single day, I would like to be Iggy Pop. The Godfather of Punk. A living legend with an active recording career going back to 1969. I would have done it all many times over and never sold out in the name of money. Not that I would feel a need to talk about any of that, really. I did the drugs and lived the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle, so what.
Maybe I would give my old friend, David Bowie, a call and see if he’d be up for a jam-session. Or maybe a thrown-together club gig in Berlin. And if Bowie didn’t have time to play, I’d just take my guitar and play a while on some sidewalk, somewhere. But no matter what, I would definitely play some music. How could I not?
But for a while, I would just walk around in that gangly body of mine. A body that has seen so much punishment but which still works better than many other bodies of the same vintage. I’d stop at a decent, but not too posh restaurant. Being Iggy, I would be able to do all of that without a million bodyguards or fear of being stalked to death by paparazzi. In spite of the name, he is not a pop-icon who will be featured in the next issue of People magazine, where they will wonder who he is secretly dating. Iggy is a wild one. As in untamed and free from bullshit. I would feel what that would be like. I wish, I was Iggy Pop. Just for a day.
