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August 11th 1997 -
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Metal Machine Music
In four parts
Lou
Reed's Metal Machine Music in that weird pantheon of
albums, like Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica and
SkipSpence's Oar, that are heard about more than they are
actually heard. At the time of its initial release in 1975, it was
widely and almost immediately dismissed as a joke, punk cut-up
Reed pulling a fast one on his label and getting them, on the
heels of his huge pop success with "Walk On The Wild Side", to
shell out for a record that was so unlistenable it would alienate
the casual music fans who were doot-doot-dooting along with the
"colored girls" in between back-to-back blocks of Uriah Heep and
the J. Geils Band. You can almost imagine a gaunt Reed sucking on
a cigarette and snidely chuckling, "Can you believe I actually got
them to pay for this piece of shit?"
A funny thing, though, in the years
since its release, Metal MAchine Music has actually grown in
stature. It's become touchstone for bands like Sonic Youth and
Nine Inch Nails, has been placed at the forefront of the fuck-you
New York No Wave scene, and has been classified alongside musique
concrete composers like Stockhausen. There are no lyrics to react
to, no melodies to dismiss as pedestrain. It's junk guitars placed
in front of jacked-up amplifiers, so close that the resulting
feedback vibrates the strings -- thus causing the guitars to play
themselves. Think of it as a kind of sonic Jackson Pollock: if
order emerges from the chaos, it's haphazard, thus making its
beauty that much more surprising and engaging. In truth, the way
you feel about it may vary depending on the day you listen to it.
Those feedback squalls are like straight, clean lines shooting up
into the air, rigid as steel bamboo, tangling the higher they get
towards heaven. Tones come and go, a deafening drill-like sound
bores through the center then vanishes. The ear-splitting
upper-register notes collect in a far corner then dissipate. You
get lost inside these notes the same way you'd get lost inside a
metal-pressing plant after midnight. It's four sides of the same
basic thing, but each stray squiggle of sound -- unplanned and
unforced -- adds kind of character and distinction.
Or, it could just be really
fucking aggravating.
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