![]() Clive and Columbia's promotion men willing. "Penetration" closes off the side, the Stooges at their most sensual, lapping at the old in-out in a hypnotic manner than might even hae a crack at the singles games. Soundtrack music for a chicken run, and will it be your sleeve that gets caught on the door handle? Hmmmm.Ĭut to "Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell," first called "Hard to Beat" and the original title ditched in favor of Funhouse's "1970." If it didn't seem like such a relic of the past, the Grande Ballroom would have to be resurrected for this one, high-tailing it all the way from Iggy's opening Awright! through James' hot-wired guitar to a lavish, lovingly extended coda which'll probably be Iggy's cue to trot around the audience when they ultimately bring it onstage. The record opens with "Search and Destroy," Vietnamese images ricocheting off the hollow explosions of Scott's snare, Iggy secure in his role of GI pawn as "the world's most forgotten boy," looking for "love in the middle of a fire fight." Meaning you're handed a job and you do it, right? Yes, but then "Gimme Danger" slithers along, letting you know through its obsequiously mellow acoustic guitar and slippery violin-like lead that maybe he actually likes walking that tightrope between heaven and the snakepit below, where the false step can't be recalled and the only satisfaction lies in calling your opponent's bluff and watching him fold from there. Iggy similarly benefits, double and even triple-tracked, his voice covering a range of frequencies only an (I wanna be your) dog could properly appreciate, arch-punk over tattling sniveler over chewed microphone. For the first time, the Stooges have used the recording studio as more than a recapturing of their live show,and with David Bowie helping out in the mix, there is an ongoing swirl of sound that virtually drags you into the speakers, guitars rising and falling, drums edging forward and then toppling back into the morass. Ron Asheton has switched over to bass, joining brother Scott in the rhythm section, while James Williamson has taken charge of lead the power trio that this brings off has to be heard to be believed. Even the "love" songs here, Iggy crooning in a voice achingly close to Jim Morrison's seem somehow perverse, covered with spittle and leer: "Gimme Danger, little stranger," preferably with the lights turned low, so "I can feeeel your disease." Hovering around the same kind of rough, unfinished quality reminiscent of the Velvet's White Light/White Heat, the record seems caught in jagged pinpoints, at times harsh, at others abrupt. Raw Power is the pot of quicksand at the end of the rainbow, and if that doesn't sound attractive, then you've been living on borrowed time for far too long. ![]() There are no compromises, no attempts to soothe or play games into a fable wider audience. Well, we all have our little lapses, don't we? With Raw Power, the Stooges return with a vengeance, exhibiting all the ferocity that characterized them at their livid best, offering a taste of the TV eye to anyone with nerve enough to put their money where their lower jaw flaps. At their last performance in New York, the nightly highlight centered around Iggy chocking and throwing up onstage, only to encore quoting Renfield from Dracula: "Flies," and whose mad orbs could say it any better, "big juicy flies.and spiders." The band shuffled personnel like a deck of cards, their record company exhibited a classic loss of faith, drugs and depression took inevitable tolls. For awhile, it didn't look as if they were ever going to get close again. They haven't appeared on record since the Funhouse of two plus years ago. Others tiptoe around the edges, make little running stars and half-hearted passes, but when you're talking about the O mind, the very central eye of the universe that opens up like a huge, gaping, suckling maw, step aside for the Stooges. ![]() Nobody dies it better, nobody does it worse, nobody does it, period.
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