Jason Thompson: July, 2001

Fucked in Detroit: The Stooges' Fun House Dissected and Mutilated

Some things you just don't miss out on. Some things you don't forget. I remember reading a lot about the Stooges as a teen and thinking they must have been a bunch of psychotic fucked up madmen. I wasn't far off from that initial thought when I finally got my hands on a copy of Fun House at Tower Records for $6.99. I had been told that the Stooges picked up where the Velvet Underground had left off. But that's not true at all. The Stooges absolutely destroyed what the VU and everyone else did. This shit was beyond the primal pound of "Heroin". This was way darker, way sexier, and way sleazier.

I popped the tape into my car deck and waited. Then the chugging of "Down On The Street" tore through my speakers. There was Iggy Stooge preening all over the place as Ron Asheton rocked his balls off. "Deep in the night I'm lost in love" puked Iggy. This was the kind of music people committed heinous crimes to. A soundtrack for a dark generation that not even a faux hipster like Quentin Tarantino would include in his films. No, he'd be picking soul chestnuts to prop up his kinky sex scenarios with. No way in hell you'd hear Fun House pounding along to a shot of some psycho with a heavy pistol or gleaming knife in the night. A chick bound and gagged in a chair with sweat pouring down her face as that pistol got nearer. "Unh!" screams Iggy. "Unh!" screams the girl as the criminal has his way.

Or another scenario: driving down the interstate at 90 mph in the middle of the night, racing past transfer trucks and doped up kids trying to find their way back home on a suicide race to see how far you can fucking push it. "LOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRD!" screams Iggy as "TV Eye" blares from your shitty stereo. The pavement rushes by as the wind whips through your windows. Adrenaline rushing as fast as your RPMs. Where are you going? Who the fuck cares? Point the car into the guardrail for all you care. The music would just keep throbbing as Iggy would continue to bleed from the self inflicted wounds he gave himself all the while going down on you with his incessant screaming and Scott Asheton's constant pounding. Iggy screams and wraps the mic up in a dirty rag as he screams again and coughs in your ear. Just keep driving.

Oh look out. Stick it deep inside 'cause he's loose, you know. And no one knew what to do with the Stooges. This wasn't made for the radio. Elektra execs freaked and wanted to just put it down the toilet along with Iggy's smack. You can say what you want about the glory of Raw Power, but no, fuck that. That album can't even touch the sonic majesty that is Fun House. For all of today's shock rock and Eminems and whowhatzits and Marilyn Mansons you can't do any better than this. Why can't those clowns figure that out by now? Kids these days need one lethal shot of this record and they'll shut up about all those retarded lyrics that are all the rage with angry parents and various community groups. No one still gives a shit about the Stooges. That's how far they've come. And that's righteous in itself. Something like Fun House can still lay waiting in the back of a record store for some curious kid who read all the shit about it like I did to pick it up and debauch himself aurally.

Yeah, there's "Dirt" and its oozing sexual prank that gobs off in someone's sacred vision. And Steve MacKay's sax just taking over the second half of the LP almost excrutiatingly. "L.A. Blues" goes mad and predates Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music by five years. Snapshots of some girl smacked out on the floor while a drunken party rolls on around her. Littered streets and dirty sheets and no remorse. No remorse. No one to say "no". Distorted vocals that push through your brain as the chemicals and booze take hold. Inhale this, shoot that, smoke this, drink that, breathe a little of this.

It's easy to get lost in the anger and tension of freak out of the sound. No one touches this vinyl. No one steals these master tapes. You found 'em down in the basement under an old drop cloth covered in paint thinner. The stink was as intoxicating as the songs you found under there. You rage on and funk to the orgasmic fuck up of "Fun House" as Iggy pleads "Hey! Let me in! Take it DOOOWWWWWWN! I FEEL ALL RIGHT! Take it DOOOWWWWWWN Unh!" And you feel all right, too. Primal shit existing as electric rock straight out of the Motor City. Damn the singer/songwriters. Damn Lennon and McCartney. Damn the rules you learned and the people you called your friends. One good sniff of that vinyl and you're good as dead. Fuck it all. That's Fun House. That's all there can be when it plays. Just you and the music. Let it play.

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