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a location that Miller - who later became a celebrated Dean of Business Studies at Stanford - still remembers fondly today: ‘A lovely, very fine, very clean college town. The university is the centre of life there, it’s separated enough from Detroit to have its own identity and culture, yet you could still get into Detroit for a major symphony or opera. I really enjoyed living there.’
    The presence of two of the most important industrial leaders in the United States at Tappan Junior High concerts and other Ann Arbor events added a seductive frisson of power and money to the atmosphere - a tingle that surely attracted the 12-year-old Jim Osterberg, who would soon get close to its source.
    For many kids enrolling at Tappan, its wealthy, cosmopolitan atmosphere was intimidating. So were some of the pupils. Rick Miller (no relation to Arjay) was a charismatic boy, a ‘Mr Suave’ who often sported a cigar, and was the idol of many boys and girls. But he also enjoyed making fun of kids, and one of the kids he chose to ridicule was Jim Osterberg. ‘We used to take swimming class at Tappan, and you used to have to stand around naked for some stupid reason,’ says Denny Olmsted, who was a friend of both Rick and Jim. ‘Jim had a big dick, and Rick got hold of Jim’s dick and pulled him around the shower room. We did make fun of Jim for that. He was embarrassed by it.’ For many boys, Jim’s prodigious dick was a source of envy, as was the fact he reached puberty earlier than most of them, but Rick’s bullying turned a source of pride into embarrassment - for a time, at least.
    George Livingston was another popular kid, who lived in an impressive house, designed by his architect father, in Ann Arbor Hills. Livingston and his friend John Mann were experts in stripping down Chryslers, and together won a state prize for troubleshooting Plymouths. ‘George had a lot of bravado and often said what he thought before thinking of the other person,’ says John Mann, who remembers Livingston mocking the Osterbergs’ choice of residence on at least one occasion. ‘Making fun of someone’s zit or their trailer was just the way George was.’ Most kids learned to laugh and move on; for Jim Osterberg, the insult rankled.
    For the future Iggy Pop, Rick Miller and George Livingston would become symbols of the casual cruelty of white, American, middle-class kids - despite the fact that, as far as most of his peers were concerned, Jim Osterberg was in fact the epitome of white, American, middle-class privilege. That impression was symbol ised by his friendship with Kenny Miller, son of Arjay Miller and godson of Robert McNamara. Even for the sophisticated, academic residents of Ann Arbor Hills, the Millers were classy people. And as it turned out, Jim Osterberg had the knack of making friends with classy folk.
    There was always something going on at the Millers’ house on Devonshire, in the heart of Ann Arbor Hills. The dance lessons were what really impressed the neighbours: a private teacher tutored Kenny and his classmates in foxtrots and waltzes in a spacious studio at the back of the house - the kids dressed in formal attire for the lessons, right down to skirts and gloves for the girls. At Christmas, a professional choir entertained the guests; there were tasteful artworks on the walls, while the house itself - all clean red brick and redwood sidings, with balconies overlooking its wooded setting - was a case study in understated, contemporary style. The colour TV in the lounge was the first one most of the Millers’ guests had ever seen, but the Millers never seemed to brag. Chauffeurs would whisk the kids round to golf, football, or a coke and hotdog at the Howard Johnson Hotel on Washtenaw Avenue. On the way back from the hotel one time, one of Kenny’s friends spilt a milkshake in the back of the Lincoln. No one from the family batted an eyelid, but the next day the chauffeur arrived to pick up his charges in a brand new