![]() ![]() The only problem was when somewhere down the pike the chain of command got a little ahead of itself and thought a complete remix was in order and so rectifying took a slippery backseat to re-writing history - and worst of all it was upon an album where there was absolutely NOTHING to rectify in the first place. But once news sprung up that it was not only getting a long-overdue reissue-remaster dusting off, but that Iggy himself was going to oversee and rectify matters, all seemed well and right with the world once more and anticipation reigned throughout the land. When Columbia first issued it on CD it was horrible, sounded about as flat as two-week old roadkill and screamed default mastering properties, if any, were used during its transferring from analogue to digital. Which is reprehensible on so many levels, I don’t know where to begin but at the beginning. “Raw Power” is a completely deranged and outrageous album, and almost as outrageous is its current state of representation in digital format. The third time I played it, I knew there was something wrong with music: Namely, with 99% of my record collection and 99.9% of all the records I had ever heard: past, present AND future. The second time I played it, I knew there was something wrong with my immediate surroundings. ![]() The first time I ever played “Raw Power” I thought there was something wrong with my stereo. Charged up with the flight or fight hardwiring cutting through a sea of adrenaline in an jagged amphetamine torpedo, roiling in sweaty psychic ditches and dive-bombing relentlessly in infernal heat doused in cold sweat exhilarating, blind fearless terror unfolding into fevered desire, nighttime lust and fucking in summer cars parked and otherwise in an heaving over/Mother load of defiant primal thrust’n’parry pieced together from shattered Ann Arbor dreams, London ennui and Hollywood Hills hijinks in mansions festooned with broken glass in the pool, “Raw Power” walks, talks, smells, barks out and makes all the above moves as it prowls and gatecrashes the edge of oblivion, lands feet first and tears at the air, claws at your face then teeters for eight cruelly streamlined tracks of bared-fang physicality before promptly sweeping back into the eye of the hurricane from whence it came and vanishing forever in a coiled whiplash of release and an ever-cresting penetration. ![]()
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