Iggy Pop: London, Shepherds Bush Empire

HE WALKS through the cones of striped, sick-white lights, shirt off, a graceful, sinewy man with an impossible six-pack and road-map veins. He sits down on the edge of the stage, feet dangling over the pit - they're playing that dark, David Lynchy music from the start of Avenue B — and murmurs, "It was in the winter of my fiftieth year when it hit me, I was really alone".