“I’m not a realistic guy,” Iggy Pop tells me, “but I know everyone needs two things: a bank account and some tamales.”
Thus begins Post Pop Depression II: Electric Croon-aloo. Okay, not really. The album is called Post Pop Depression, but that line—somewhere between Bukowski and Guy Fieri—pretty much sums up the mood of the record and the men behind it. There’s talk of sex and death, sure, but also frank discussions about fear, fake anger, the best French ballads for training your baritone, and the very real possibility of buying a compound in Paraguay.
“I think sometimes just because the word ‘depression’ is there, people go, ‘Oh, it’s so dark,’” Josh Homme sighs. “But it’s a fun record.”
“I’m glad you got that,” Iggy jumps in. “You’re the first guy that caught the fun in the record.”
This is the dynamic: Homme, the desert-dwelling rock whisperer, and Iggy, the leather-lunged iconoclast who’s somehow lived through being both a Stooge and a Sinatra. The former produced the record and wrote parts of it; the latter treated it like a dare. “That’s what I wanted to prove,” Iggy says. “That I could sing. That I had something to say. And that people would listen.”
It’s true—his voice, long weaponized for snarls and shrieks, gets real estate here. “Josh was very kind to me as an arranger,” Iggy says. “He left space. He got me Mark Rankin. The guy who worked with Adele. I sound just like Adele now.”
There’s a pause.
“When you have Auto-Tune,” Iggy deadpans, “you can do anything.”
Homme doesn’t try to polish any of this. “Someone once called me a shepherd of the weird,” he admits. “But really I just enjoy people for who they are and turn that up.”
That includes encouraging Iggy to lean into the most uncomfortable part of the record—an emotionally raw spoken word section that closes “Paraguay” like a barfly’s war cry. “That was Josh’s idea,” Iggy confesses. “He double-dog dared me to talk it twice at the end.”
“You hear it, and it shifts emotionally,” Homme says. “There’s time to traverse it. And those are the moments where you try stuff that’s uncomfortable—because that’s where the good stuff is.”
Iggy agrees. “We’ve had 65 years of screaming in rock. To shock people now, you have to whisper something honest.”
He means it. And yet, as with most things Iggy, it’s also kinda hilarious. When he’s yelling at you on “Paraguay,” it feels like a guy at a dive bar giving one last, unfiltered TED Talk before getting kicked out. “It was genuine,” he says, then pauses. “But it’s funny too. I know that.”
A lot of it is. These two men—one a Godfather of Punk, the other the Rock ’n’ Roll Concierge to the Cool and Complicated—find joy in the darkest corners. “Sex and death, baby,” Iggy shrugs. “Don’t forget tamales and bank accounts. There’s something in between.”
They talk about world events, mental health, fear as currency. “Everybody’s scared,” Iggy says. “Fear eats all the souls at once. I seem to have hit a wave with that one.” Homme nods. “Life is the measure of the fears you face. And some shit is scary.”
They also talk about being funny, about letting go, about chasing the dream of disappearing into the jungle with bodyguards and no Wi-Fi. “I know it’s dumb to think I can just move all my money to Paraguay and be adored by my servants,” Iggy grins. “But I think about it. I do.”
Then he sighs. “Had to settle for Miami.”
And if that isn’t the most Iggy Pop way to end a thought, I don’t know what is.
So, yes, Post Pop Depression is a fun record. It’s also funny, brutal, tender, horny, and haunted. It’s a cry for help disguised as a battlecry. “I have nothing but my name,” Iggy repeats on the album’s most disarming track. At first, it’s a confession. Then, it’s a dare.
That’s the Pop promise. Sing like you mean it. Scream when you need to. Never be afraid to sound dumb. And always leave the party wondering if you just witnessed the end or the beginning.
Possibly both.
Listen to the interview above and then check out the videos below.
