When Iggy Pop takes the stage, he is all animal. A writhing salamander in tight blue jeans. A salamander on crack.

Whatever human is left in him is decidedly cro-magnon, tribal, with his battle scared chest, stringy blond hair and face locked in a grotesquely contorted mask. In performance, he’s utterly compelling.

Before he and the reunited Stooges took the Cellular South stage Friday night, I remembered his scene in “Coffee and Cigarettes,” the Jim Jarmusch film that put him in a cafe booth with Tom Waits.

Iggy is the submissive one, uncomfortable in his skin, nervous, searching for conversation.
This is not the case when Iggy becomes rock’s dancing, foul-mouthed Peter Pan.

The Stooges are consummate players, reserved behind their instruments. Iggy Pop is singer and designated showman. The Anthony Kiedis of his generation. The original what-I-got-you-got-to-give-it-to-your-mama.

The poor man is blessed with a mike stand that was never meant to stay upright and a microphone that appears to have been crash-tested by NASA.

“Thanks for showin’ up,” he says, feigning indifference.

Really, Iggy loves his audience. He climbs down off the stage and gets into their faces.

The Stooges covered the hits: “I Wanna Be Your Dog, “TV Eye,” “No Fun,” etc.

Eventually, he announced that he was “sick of this formal s—. I’m sick of these f—— barriers!” and told the crowd to join him up on stage.

The look on the securtiy guards’ faces were priceless as people steeplechased over the rails, probably 30 to 40 made it. Shirts came off. One guy exposed himself below the belt. Three-6 Mafia had nothing on Iggy.

He thanked his “unusually rhythmic and groovy Memphian dancers” for making it an awesome show. And it was.

The band may have been among Memphis and May’s “oldies,” but anyone who saw them perform Friday has to admit… they rocked harder, longer and more incredibly than some of those guys still in the spring of their careers.