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Every fan of the Stooges points to a different moment to prove that the band invented punk rock, or at least bodied it first, gave it flesh.

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The image quality is terrible. He has Wanna date a punk trainhopper sinewy, exoskeletal comportment of a person who spends most of his time pacing beneath a rickety train trestle: He starts doing a little jig, jutting out his buttocks while bending his knees inward, hopping, smashing his palms together in a kind of frantic, childlike clap. Soon, he falls into the crowd. Here, in my mind, is where punk rock begins.

The performance—and it is pure theatre—goes Wanna date a punk trainhopper for a while. At other shows, during other songs, he would dig into the skin of his chest with bits of broken glass, divining pujk rivers of blood, crimson streaks that inched down his torso like chocolate syrup on a sundae.

He was known to barf on a crowd from time to time.

Iggy has since talked about those instances as acts of true reconciliation, in which the physical and the spiritual aligned, briefly: And the truth of that moment was that I ought to be cut. Does this sort of thing happen anymore?

What I see Wanna date a punk trainhopper in the video, cueing up my hundredth viewing, is a little guy from Ypsilanti, Michigan, diligently externalizing some deep internal storm. Most people deal with overwhelming anger or hurt or humiliation or shame—any of the hot, noisome feelings that form in the gut and move slowly up the throat—by marshalling their strength Maidwell muscle lookin batting those thoughts back down.

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Iggy rolls around onstage and slices his skin open, freeing it. Up there, he is offering us a kind of proxy release.

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This, of course, is the heart of all performance: There are ways of intellectualizing punk—important ways Wanna date a punk trainhopper which its rebellion can be read as political, symbolic—but my sense is that punk lives elsewhere in the body. The most important parts dripped out of him.

Last winter, Iggy posed nude for twenty-one students in a life-drawing class at the New York Academy of Art, a project conceived by the Brooklyn Museum and the British artist Jeremy Deller.

Punk, maybe more than any other genre, is contingent upon the body. Ideologically, it requires the actualization—the making real—of some otherwise unreachable pain.

Maybe accentuating his body—and its frailties—was just another Wxnna in which he dismantled the boundaries between himself and his audience. The desecration of his Wanna date a punk trainhopper self was so essential to his bond with his listeners; as he writhes, they reach for him. Their songs were recorded by a rotating coterie of studio musicians; a cardboard 45 of the song could be popped directly out s the backs of boxes of Super Sugar Crisp cereal.

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That he was, in a way, spoken for. I know.

He is shirtless, again, and darting around the stage. I half-expect him to leave a trail of argent, fading light in his wake, like a lightning bug. Artists often talk about feeling like conduits for other forces—that their bodies are seized by spirits from elsewhere, that the work originates elsewhere.

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With Iggy, this seems especially true. His body is a medium.

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