Yes, Iggy and the Stooges were unbelievable Friday night — probably the most entertaining act I’ve seen in 20 years of Musicfests. But the hyperkinetic, snake-lean, F-bomb-dropping Iggy — who clambered daringly up the scaffolding on the side of the stage like King Kong; walked stiffly offstage with his arms in front of him before the first of two encores, like Frankenstein; swaggered between dance moves with a hip-replacement-surgery-candidate pimp roll seemingly inspired by John Wayne; and threatened to swing out over the crowd on a rope hanging from the top of the stage, like Tarzan — wasn’t the only exhibitionist onstage. About half-way through the show, during the Stooges classic “No Fun,” Iggy asked the security behemoths to allow some of the crowd to join him onstage. Some twenty-plus dancers clambered over the barricade and onto the Cellular South Stage, mostly aggressive shirt-discarding frat boy types (the song at this point could have been re-titled “No Babes”). At stage left, one young man stood out. This apparently inebriated Will Ferrell-waistline individual kept pointing exaggeratedly at his crotch; then he switched to an easy-to-identify one-handed pumping pantomime. Normally, I’d roll my eyes at such a typically asinine display, but this guy was SO INTO IT he actually was hilarious. Then, he began to undo his belt buckle and unsnap his pants. My friends and I looked at each other: Surely he’s not about to do what we think he’s gonna do, is he? But he did: Hoisted out the whole package, and waved it gleefully at the crowd, for quite a few seconds. The stage was frantic with activity, so the many police officers present either didn’t see him or chose to ignore his Jim Morrisonesque antics. The guy’s performance was so idiotic and “shocking” it actually enhanced the show, and the crowd howled with delight and disgust. Sadly, it seems likely that the Beale Street Weenie-Wagger doesn’t even remember his moment of triumph this morning. But there’s hope: Thanks to the wonders of the Internet and video-sharing, the guy could find himself immortalized.

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.

Check him out in all his writhing, sinewy glory. The man moves like a snake.

He’s still out there, rocking out, tossing out F bombs, lauding the “unusually groovy and rhythmic Memphis dancers,” calling Memphis “the coolest f–king city in the f–king world.” Shucks, Iggy, I bet you say that to all the cities.