Five Homely Frontmen Who Work Harder Than Their 'Pretty' Peers

I have a theory about frontmen in music, but before I delve too deeply into it, you have to know that this isn't about making fun of people because of the way they look.

In fact, it's quite the opposite — it's to celebrate the efforts of an oft-sidelined group of performers who know that they can't simply skate through life and gigs on natural aesthetic privilege alone, and thus dedicate themselves to offering the greatest production they possibly can, every single time they step out on stage.

And it's that commitment to actual showmanship — you know, generally a pretty crucial part of putting on a show — that sees those not blessed with chiselled jawlines or perfectly symmetrical faces consistently outclass their more "attractive" (eye of the beholder and all that) — and typically lazier — contemporaries, and it's about time we recognised them for it.

iggy pop (the stooges)

The granddaddy of them all. Despite looking like a human suit with nothing in it for the better part of the past 30 years, Iggy Pop is renowned for his high-energy live shows, fuelled by blood and sweat and the tears of Henry Rollins. He's flailed around on the floor like a man possessed, taken a ground-bath in broken glass, whipped out li'l Iggy, trailblazed the now-cliche "vomit just right the fuck in the middle of the stage" move, scaled stage scaffolding, destroyed instruments, been assaulted by bikers — you name it, and it's likely that Iggy Pop has done it in front of a crowd of people.

To be honest, it's kind of an insult that Iggy Azalea thinks she can come along and trademark the "Iggy" name when he's so entertainingly and indelibly dominated it for so goddamn long.

tim harrington (les savy fav)

I saw New York art-rock mainstays Les Savy Fav at Laneway several years ago, and to this day it remains one of the single most amazing gigs I have ever experienced. During the band's delightfully warped festival set, the hirsute, heavyset Harrington stripped down to denim cut-offs and fishnet stockings, painted himself and his bandmates silver, ran roughshod through the crowd, turned a plastic barricade into a surfboard, and stole drummer Harrison Hayne's snare drum while he was still playing it to lead the band offstage in a march at the conclusion of the madness. And that was only for a festival show — imagine the carnage of a full-length headline appearance.

Or, just watch him leave the stage for half a minute during The Sweat Descends to grab a step-ladder and belt it out from on high wearing nothing but his jocks.

samuel t. herring (future islands)

If you saw Future Islands at Splendour In The Grass, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about here. Herring isn't necessarily a bad-looking dude, but he's not exactly the picture of youth and beauty, either; slightly paunchy, hairline receding, with a penchant for dressing up like a Mormon going to knock on people's doors — but the Maryland-bred frontman is nonetheless a revelation to behold. Sensual, sweeping dance moves, vocal acrobatics that come out of nowhere, actually engaging stage banter and crowd rapport — he's constantly doing something worth watching, regardless of the environment, and it makes him impossible not to watch and listen to if he's anywhere within the vicinity of your sightline.

He even got loose for the typically rigid confines of late-night TV earlier this year when the band stopped by on Letterman, which makes for a nice change of pace from the usually sterile performances that kill three-or-so minutes between movie guest B and Paul Schafer cracking shitty jokes.

claudio sanchez (coheed and cambria)

By proxy, Claudio is standing in for all metal-influenced guitarists who bust out regular behind-the-head or otherwise "this isn't how you're supposed to play a guitar"-style solos, but he stands apart purely for the consistency with which he brings a sense of overblown, completely wonderful, melodrama to the band's sci-fi-epic-driven shows. He's not big on the banter, but as far as being a magnetic musical force goes, whether using a double- or single-necked guitar, in front of or behind his body, with a pick or with his teeth, Sanchez routinely crafts ear-melting passages that would bend the mind to watch anyone play like they're supposed to, much less like they've never even seen a guitar before.

little jimmy urine (mindless self indulgence)

James Euringer has problems. That's not meant in a malicious way, it's an open statement of the obvious — if you're going to drink your own piss in front of an audience of hundreds, I feel like it's fair to say that you may have some things you need to talk out with someone. Even if you're "doing it for the Vine", to borrow a phrase about engaging in risky behaviour for apparently little return, it's still just not something that you'd necessarily find on most people's to-do lists. In fact, very little of what Urine does on stage is; indeed, it tends to straddle the line of being straight up shock shlock in some cases.

He once tried to set his pubic hair on fire (don't ask me why "tried" is mentioned as the operative word in every retelling of that story), he's given a fan a haircut on-stage, engaged in full-frontal nudity, a touch of blood-letting, regularly flashed his ass at people and has generally done everything he can to make people unable to look away, no matter how much they goddamn well want to.

He may have mellowed somewhat in his advancing age, but the suits, the hair, the vibrance, the personality are all at the core of his more extreme behaviour, and vital to his ongoing magnetism as a performer.