Screaming a swansong: Iggy Pop live in London

This comes as a somewhat guilty admission from one adverse to the tiresome, lazy attitude that "music was just better in the old days", as espoused ad nauseum by greying musos in pubs and Facebook threads everywhere. But after seeing such a consummate display of showmanship and, well, raw power, one can only conclude that a large swathe of this generation's music scene should really buck their ideas up.

That such a genuinely thrilling performance took place at the Royal Albert Hall, a (nominally) seated venue more commonly associated with top hats and contra-bassoons than hell-for-leather proto-punk riotry is almost as much of a miracle as Iggy himself. Despite having survived an appetite for recreational substances so prodigious it'd make Keith Richards nod with respect, he's reached his late-sixties with his trademark primal energy undimmed. He prances topless across the stage like a dissolute Rudolf Nureyev, spends a good percentage of the show swaggering through the audience or crowd-surfing above them, embraces the dozens of fans who embrace or fling themselves towards him, and generally lives up to his reputation as the platonic ideal of a rock 'n roll frontman.

He's such a confident performer, he's able to throw out perhaps his greatest hit, "Lust For Life" in the first five minutes of the show. For although the show draws a fair amount from his creative peak in the mid-70’s, the meat of it derives from the fantastic “Post Pop Depression”, his critically-acclaimed collaboration with Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme. His most vital work in decades, it’s far from the doomy, moody sludge-rock one might expect from a Stooges-meets-QOTSA crossover. “Gardenia’s” punk-funk bassline and shimmering guitars has more than a touch of Bowie about it – Iggy even sounds a bit like his former flatmate and collaborator - whilst “America Valhalla” walks a deliciously thin line between delicacy and menace.

The whole thing is tied together by a brutally tight backing band, led by Homme and featuring Arctic Monkeys’ Matt Helders on drums. There’s a tendency for louder acts at the Albert Hall to sound somewhat leaden, but that’s not an issue tonight- every single note is honed to perfection, the band flitting between ferocity and grace with the ease of the truly professional. Whilst Iggy is clearly and rightly the star attraction, the rest of the performers are no slouches on the style front- all clad in snazzy red jackets, they shimmer, star-jump and shred as required, most memorably on the main-set closing double-whammy of “The Passenger” (anarchic) and “China Girl” (poignant). For a group who haven’t toured together that long, the extent to which everything meshes together is quite astounding.

If this really is a swansong for Iggy, as many suspect, it’s a magnificently triumphant note to bow out on. Peerlessly dynamic, dazzingly executed and unashamedly in-your-face, tonight will surely live in memory as one of the highest points of a truly exceptional career.