Stooges - Funhouse (1970)

 

I grew up with an instinctive dislike of the sixties, informed mainly by my having been told that the sixties were amazing to an at least weekly schedule; because even at the tail end of the seventies, we hadn't quite got over it, and punk rock just meant we were apparently  in need of reminders. I still feel that this instinctive dislike is partially justified by most of the stuff routinely squirted in our faces by the nostalgia machine, but I've otherwise mellowed. Clearly it wasn't all Tom Jones and the Beach Boys.

The Stooges, for example, represent a massive oversight on my part. I knew of their having existed and I liked the sound of them; the Pistols covered No Fun; my bestest pal Carl was always very much a fan; and, going back to school days, there was a copy of Metallic KO in the collection of my friend's big brother, Martin - and we all thought Martin was the most amazing person in the universe. I'd more or less duplicated Martin's record collection in its entirety by the time I was forty, such was his influence on my formative listening choices, and yet still no Stooges. It was probably the blind spot.

Anyway, a few months ago I was browsing the records in my local Barnes & Noble, mainly because it's strange and exciting to have record stores back, even blandly corporate ones full of tasteful purchases by which you tick off all the boxes on the list of one hundred vinyls you must own. Funhouse was the only record which I'd consider hearing that I didn't already have, bringing with it the realisation of how weird it was that I should be this old and only now buying my first Stooges. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Naturally, it exceeds expectations - as I kind of expected it too, if you see what I mean. The Stooges were the opposite of everything I've ever disliked about the sixties, and continue to dislike as I see the same garbage all around in the American present. It's a dirty jazz-blues noise with howling and madness and the biggest tunes ever, something which could only have been born from places you'll drive straight through without stopping. Some of these tracks just keep going forever, on and on, grinding away like they're trying to escape from themselves - and they still don't sound like jams. It isn't cool. It isn't poetry readings. It isn't members of the Velvet Underground stood around pouting, admiring the abstracts in some New York gallery and describing everything as really interesting while trying not to fall over. You know that American dream we keep hearing about? Well, this ain't it, and that's why it's wonderful. You'll never hear any of these songs smoothed out and autotuned by diva-style entertainment creatives on America's Got Marketing Strategies.

This is what music rock should sound like when it's doing what it's supposed to do, and shame on anyone who loses sight of that; and shame on me for failing to take the hint until now.