Post Pop Depression

As parting statements go, Post Pop Depression is solid gold proof of his genius.

Underscored by high-octane tunes, Post Pop Depression runs the gamut from quiet introspection to brash rebellion--and stands tall as some of Pop’s most essential work in years.

Post Pop Depression comes across like a third Pop partnership with Bowie, only more brutal and more elegiacally touched by the shadows of the smiles in Pop's memory. [No. 130, p.56]

This album is a vindication of the instinct that less is more. It’s a magnificent testament to a man who has been scarred and damaged by his journey, but whose lust for life remains gloriously intact.

A cool, sleazy rock record that's unmistakably a group project but also perfectly an Iggy album: sexy, nasty and darkly funny.

Homme’s relative subservience is largely to the record’s benefit--he’s clearly happy to ride shotgun for Pop--and the symbiotic alliance renders Post Pop Depression a beguiling listen, fascinatingly experimental, thematically compelling and a deeply intimate portrait of one of the all-time great rock wildmen coming to terms with the idea of retirement.

Over nine songs and 42 minutes--old-school LP length--they [producer Josh Homme and Dean Fertita] juggle tight and loose, conjuring a ravaged cadaver in a sharp funeral suit.

An album that once again proves Pop never was and never will be an ordinary guy.

It’s a stark, sinewy affair that foregrounds the punk-rock lifer’s voice, a finely weathered instrument, all knowing vibrato and bemused sneering.

As per usual, every song Homme touches ends up being undeniably sexy, but it's unlikely you'll want to take it off and get it on, listening to it. Post Pop Depression isn't the sound of an acclaimed artist seamlessly slipping away, but a wild animal screaming with all his might into the night.

Post Pop Depression doesn't really sound like anything Pop's done before, yet it sounds unmistakably, naturally like an Iggy Pop album, a very good and, at its frequent best, impressively alive one, proving that what Pop really needs is a collaborator who understands how best to frame his unique talents.

Iggy Pop is what it says on the tin and Iggy Pop is what every aspect the music revolves around.

Post Pop Depression is every bit as startling, both in sound, and end-of-days openness. [Apr 2016, p.86]

Grimly compelling. [Apr 2016, p.66]

It's been a hell of a ride, one where the journey is just as much fun as reaching the journey. [12 Mar 2016, p.51]

[A] brilliantly unsettling album. [Apr 2016, p.110]

The album recalls so many of his best old tricks while altering the presentation just enough to give it a necessary freshness.

Most of the music reflects a kind of mid-paced and downcast feel. As the tracks bleed into each other, at times there’s too much stylistic similarity. But any feeling of monotony is cut short by songs like “Vulture” or “German Days,” which mixes playful ’70s guitar-riffs with a dark, flourishing chorus.

For all of Pop's well-earned reputation as a bare-chested banshee in concert, he has an expressive, even sonorous baritone voice, and a pithiness as a lyricist. His words brim with battle-scarred imagery and humor.

While Post Pop Depression is full of life, it’s also checkered with countless allusions to Iggy’s musical mortality.

Thanks in no small part to the significant contribution of Homme, the shirtless rocker has created his best work since his early Bowie collaborations.

A few songs, like “American Valhalla” and “In the Lobby,” are rather dreary, and feel like Homme and Pop just spinning their wheels; they could have used a bit of a Stooges-style kick in the ass. Even on the slower songs, though, Homme and the stripped-down lineup he assembled for the album--fellow Queen of the Stone Age Dean Fertita, and Arctic Monkeys drummer Matt Helders--provide a heavy, rhythmic bedrock and stylistic versatility.

If Post Pop Depression’s refined execution has you missing the more unhinged Iggy of old, rest assured, he’s not going down without a fight.

Iggy Pop's adieu doesn't go out in a blaze of blitzkrieging punk, but rather adopts a subtler, rhythmically diverse attack reminiscent of his earliest solo work and specifically 1977 twofer The Idiot and Lust for Life.

Post Pop Depression is very much a man trying to find the proper context for himself, his considerable legacy, and where his shape fits in the modern world, and perhaps sounding a little lost in the process.

He seems caught in a place between wizened wild child and something kookier, but he’s apparently too content to go whole hog in either direction.

Even though some of these songs are less than the sum of their parts, it’s hard not to warm to a collaboration that comes up with a track as funky and modal as Sunday.

It’s comfortable, casual and--as is Iggy--a little bit weird at times. It’s catchy and has some great stories nestling in there--Post Pop Depression gets its hooks into you gradually with each listen.

It’s never poor, but never quite scales the heights you want. It’s a shrug, and Iggy Pop should never incite shrugging.

It’s hard to say if Homme and Pop are better served by the nine-track length or not. Post Pop Depression doesn’t feel particularly tight or focused, but neither dude is conceptual enough to really justify a larger sprawl.

An album by turns terse, sinuous and playful, streaked with disgust and delight in roughly equal measure.