Wanting to avoid a lawsuit, then-19-year-old musician Ron Asheton called Stooge ringleader Moe Howard, asking if it would be alright to name his band the Stooges. “I don’t give a fuck what you call them,” growled the kiddie-TV favorite, “so long as it’s not the Three Stooges.” That’s just one of the many delightful anecdotes contained in Jim Jarmusch’s sprightly love letter to Iggy Pop’s bad behavior. His eyes are a milkier shade of blue, but at age 69, Pop — rock’s originator of the washboard abs — is far from pooped. Neither is Jarmusch, whose use of stock footage and snippets of old movies provides perfect backup for the personification of punk nihilism. It’s true that he’s a victim of his own lack of professionalism, but listening to Pop deride record producers who committed cultural treason by pushing shit songs created by committees in corporate boardrooms should be music to anyone’s ears. (2016) — Scott Marks
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