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| Photo by Mark Seliger |
Published on L'Uomo Vogue:
Theoretically, James Osterberg of Muskegon, Michigan should have already died several times: for the injuries he’s collected on the stage, beating himself with whatever is thrown at him; for the headfirst dives into the audience that sometimes end up on the floor; and for the enormous quantity of drugs consumed during the most turbulent years of his long career as a rock star.
Theoretically, James Osterberg of Muskegon, Michigan should have already died several times: for the injuries he’s collected on the stage, beating himself with whatever is thrown at him; for the headfirst dives into the audience that sometimes end up on the floor; and for the enormous quantity of drugs consumed during the most turbulent years of his long career as a rock star.
This year, the iguana of punk, aka
Iggy Pop, turned 64. He calls for the interview from his home in Miami. The
appointment is for noon and the phone rings at 12 on the dot. “This is Iggy, is
Nicola there?”. “Ciao Iggy, I’m Nicola”. An awkward pause is interrupted by
hearty laughter. “Sorry”, he says, disappointed, “I was expecting a woman”.
