By LA Weekly
By Henry Rollins
By Weekly Photographers
By Shea Serrano
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Dan Weiss
By Erica E. Phillips
By Kai Flanders
Fun House is a drugged-out, sexualized violence ride — the perfect soundtrack for youth who had been kicked to America’s curb, disowned, names forgotten and left to hang out and pick up on a whole other kind of blues. Nixon’s Christmas bombings on Hanoi were less than two years off and youth were being hoovered off the streets of America and fed into the Southeast Asian dream killing machine. Meanwhile, the Stooges were working through their nihilistic proclivities in the studio and onstage. This album is as brutal as a hyena with its jaws clamped on the throat of an impala. Brutal, yes, but at the same time, completely natural.
The Stooges could not play any other way than how they did on Fun House. That Fun House is ultimate gear is not up for debate. It is a perfect album, timeless, peerless.
I love these albums. As I wrote to you tonight, I played songs from them and got my kicks. No matter what, there will always be music. No matter how bad it gets, there will always be Fela, the Clash and Thelonious Monk. We’ve got Funkadelic, therefore we have nothing to fear.
I reckon we’re going to be OK.
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