In fact, aside from one poster in the Palms itself, the only hoopla I can find about Pop’s local stop is a two-page spread in a tourist rag. While massive animated billboards for Adele, Rod, Usher, Miranda, Donny, 50 Cent, Wiz Khalifa, Elle King, Keith Urban, Weezer and more blanket the neon-soaked Strip, Iggy’s craggy mug is nowhere to be found. Despite being the godfather of punk, Pop remains the world’s forgotten boy in Vegas. “I ggy Pop?!” responds the casino doorman with a mix of shock and awe after asking how I’m spending my Sin City Saturday night.But this night? A fucking dream come true. To put it another way: Life is no fucking dream. “Man, I’m so glad I got to see this with you,” he says, even though we met less than two hours ago and don’t know each other’s names. The tipsy guy next to me - who has both hands clamped to the sides of his head as if it might explode with amazement and joy - turns and grabs me in a combination bro hug / handshake. Pop eases into the last verse of The Stooges’ classic I Wanna Be Your Dog and the musicians follow his lead, slowly cranking the song up to a thundering finale.

“Oh yes, I need you,” he stresses, pointing at the crowd as his ironically named band of Losers chug away behind him. L AS VEGAS - “Wise people say that this life is a dream,” Iggy Pop reflects in his unmistakable signature baritone, pausing mid-song to survey the worshipful fans at his feet in The Palms’ Pearl Theatre.

Play On by Avery Cockburn