Somehow, Iggy Pop is proof that punk is like a cockroach after a nuclear apocalypse—scorched, scrappy, and annoyingly impossible to kill. While everyone else is sipping green smoothies and practicing hot yoga, Iggy’s out there laughing in the face of cholesterol, probably fueled by a strict diet of raw electricity and a hatred for sleeves. Sure, the world might be falling apart, but as long as Iggy’s out there still howling into a mic with a manic grin, punk rock will never truly bite the dust.