BRUSHES WITH GREATNESS: In Which I Recount the Times in My Life Wherein I Met the Rich and/or Famous and was Severely Disappointed by Fred Hagemeister

                             Tonight's episode: THE STOOGES

              

                The year was 2003, ridiculously early in the millennium’s oughts. America was still recovering from the World Trade Center tragedy.  Myself? I was in need of a good time; to loosen up so to speak, so when I had the chance to meet one of my favorite bands, The Stooges, of course I said yes.   

Here’s what happened: The records store I worked for was  hosting a reunion of the legendary 60's proto-punk band. The two original members, Scott and Ron Asheton (drums and guitar respectively), had played together that year with singer Iggy Pop on his Skull Ring album. The industry was all abuzz with the news of a Stooges tour to promote the work. Joining the band on bass, to replace the deceased Dave Alexander, would be ex-Minutemen Mike Watt.

As a kid, when I had asked a record store clerk for something heavy, he had kindly crossed my palm with the Stooges' Funhouse album. It became the yardstick by how I measured all rock music since. So when my company asked for volunteers to drive to the NH store and work security for the show, I jumped at the chance. 

I arrived in NH with my co-worker, Paul, and we were told to control the line in front of the store. The store was temporary closed while the stage was set up inside. The crowd itself numbered about 200, and was comprised mainly of fifty-year-olds in leather jackets; the majority telling us in confidence that if the Stooges wanted to “smoke up,” they could provide the fuel. I promised around 20 of them to relay the message to the band.  

The doors reopened at 7pm, allowing the crowd to shamble to the back of the store around the makeshift stage. Inside, I noticed the band’s roadies laughing. Apparently the drum stool, cymbals, and stands were shipped to the store, but someone had forgotten the drums. To their credit, the roadies began micing up a washing machine box they found in the parking lot to substitute for the missing percussion.

 The manager of the store was as frazzled as his hair. He kept quickly running his fingers through it while talking to me. He was a nice guy, a middle-aged dude in a Hawaiian shirt, but that day he looked like a cross between Keith Richards and Wembley from Fraggle Rock.

One incident soured my time with him.  Once the crowd was in, they reopened the store for shoppers. I watched 10 customers wait in line at the register for fifteen minutes with none of the staff coming by. I thought I’d do the right thing, since I worked for the company, and hopped on to ring up the increasingly disgruntled crowd. The store manager ran up when I was through and had a mini-breakdown. His voice changed pitch as he lectured me on assigned cashiers in his store. I walked off leaving the store’s reputation to him, and tried to find something else to do before the show.  

Eventually we volunteers were assigned security areas. We were to scan 360’ around us to deter theft from the crowd who were wedged around the CD bins. Me and a kid from that store were assigned to the center register, a lone ringing station placed in the middle of the store. It was simply a cashier area, bordered by flimsy, waist high, cubicle slats; dead center in the crowd. From us, the band stage was ten feet away. The crowd was getting severely ripped pre-show. Tiny empty nip bottles of every variety were picked up by employees and tossed into our waist bucket. The kid glanced around the mob and said to me, smiling, “You know, if there’s a riot, we’re trapped.  Like, completely dead.”

Then the band appeared and tuned up without Iggy. Members of the audience began to scale the cd racks in order to get a view above the crowd. Besides crushing cds, these drunkards were sitting on flimsy shelves only designed to hold the weight of things like novelty lunchboxes and tie-dyed glitter socks. I signaled that they should come down, and each one did, but not before giving me that look that accused me of being “The Man.” Now I realized how the cop at the door felt. Only one guy gave me a hard time, a photographer atop an especially flimsy display case who kept shaking his head in disbelief that I needed him to return to the ground. I finally told him he could either get down for me, or he could get down for the police officer. He finally slid down, making a big drama about his footing as if I were endangering his life.  

Iggy ran out from the store’s breakroom, and the crowd roared. The frazzled store manager signaled me through a series of wild gesticulations, not unlike an exotic bird’s territorial dance, to leave my area and move closer to the stage.  As I threaded my way through the crowd, I began to embrace my cop-like role, flashing my store nametag to make a pathway. This area had a mirrored ceiling and no cd bins. I looked around at the concertgoers to spot any trouble, but they stared straight at the band. Those who caught my gaze merely smiled and jumped in time to the beat.

Iggy’s beautiful wife sat on a couch near the stage. An Asian woman in a low cut dress, she held a tiny Pomeranian in her lap and a mink stole across her shoulders. I was doing another pass of the crowd, when I noticed that a bunch of the concertgoers weren’t looking at the band, but instead were looking at the mirrored ceiling. I followed their gaze and realized that, from the reflection angle, they were looking down the woman’s ample cleavage. As I made another circuit of the crowd, I happened to turn and catch Iggy’s wife following the crowd’s eyes. She good naturedly laughed, flashed a fake pout, and covered herself with her stole.

The band played all the hits, and it was as amazing as you’d expect. It was doubly amazing as I never in my wildest dreams imagined they would get back together, much less that I’d see them in a tiny record store, upfront, and that Scott Asheton would be playing a cardboard box. But it wasn’t until after the show that my brush with greatness truly happened.

 At the end of the show, we set up a table for the band to sign whatever autograph material people had brought. Paul had a “Skull Ring” promotional poster he wanted signed for our store. We were assigned line duty to make sure no one cut, but everyone remained civil. By the end, all the customers had passed through and now it was the employees turn to enter the line. Paul felt funny asking the band to sign the poster, and he asked me to go. I was the last person in line.

 The Stooges had a British manager who I think his name was Reg, or something.  When there were only two people ahead of me, Iggy said aloud to his manager, “Reg, man, I can’t do this anymore.” Reg tried to persuade him, his Limey accent stating that these people had helped set up the show and they just wanted to say “hello” to the band.

Iggy grudgingly consented as I, the last person, reached him. I was star struck. I’ve never been tongue-tied before in my life, but the memory of first hearing the Stooges as a kid came flooding back. I sputtered out, “Funhouse was a revelation to me, I-.” Iggy cut me off with a, "Yeah, that’s nice,”  quickly signed his name, stood up, threw his marker on the table, did some funky chicken dance move, and said, “Reg, I am done, man. I am outta here!” Then he kicked his chair out from behind him and strode off to the break room. I was stunned.  I looked over, and Ron and Scott Ashton were laughing at their singer. I finally finished my sentence to those guys as they signed. They told me Iggy is always like that as they got up from their folding chairs. Employees were milling around. All the customers had been guided out of the store. Where we were standing, it was just me, my co-worker Paul and the Asheton brothers. I felt bad as no one was really saying anything to them. I  didn't know what to say, so I congratulated them on a good show.

In hindsight, I should have asked them why Mike Watt wasn't at the signing table. It was only years later when the band released The Weirdness with Watt that I noticed he was in none of the band photos either. It seems a cold decision on the band’s part, but on my Funhouse CD there’s a picture of the saxophone player, Steve MacKay, and it says “not a Stooge” underneath, so maybe they’re sensitive about that stuff. Original members only.

Anyway, we’re standing there and Paul is talking to them, and one of the Asheton brothers asks if Paul has “anything to smoke?” Paul explained he doesn’t smoke cigarettes, and there was silence. I asked them if they were talking about marijuana and they said they were. I told them if they went outside, any of the crowd could smoke them up. They just nodded. We hung out and talked about the tour, the drum box, and recording the old albums until the owner of my company and record company reps came over for photo opportunities.

In summation: The guy I thought would be cool was kind of a dick, and the guys that really didn’t have to talk to me were nice enough to spend a good fifteen minutes talking about their reunion and  what a jerk their singer was. To me, Iggy’s action were just surreal, like a desperate move to be the center of attention or avoid the post-show photo session. Overall, the image he conveyed is funny. As if Iggy’s so wild and uncivilized (at what 50?), that he can’t stand the confinement of a folding chair for more than 30 minutes. His blood courses with the raw power of a thousand energized volts! Truly a streetwalking cheetah with a heart full of napalm as the song goes.  
         For years, in interviews, Iggy always portrayed the brothers as barely functioning high school drop outs; stoner cretins with no class, but I'd say the opposite was true.  If anything, after Iggy's tantrum I am surprised the band could function, tour, and record as it did up until Ron Asheton's death in 2009. I got to see the band play again at a large venue months before he passed away, but it paled in comparison to that show. So ends my first: Brush with Greatness!