In Defense of ‘Lulu’

Some music is hated.

There is music that is bad – meritless, unoriginal, unlistenable claptrap bad – but there exists much bad music that is beloved.

But some music is genuinely hated.

Like this “Lulu” album thing I’ve been reading about. It is a brand spanking new collaboration between Lou Reed and Metallica. A concept album, no less. A double-length concept album about self-loathing, self-abuse, and assorted miseries.

For the past month or so, the internet has been abuzz about “Lulu.” “Lulu” is hated. It was hated before anyone’d heard a note of it. It is hated on principle. It is hated viscerally. When somebody gets indigestion or loses the big account at work, they blame “Lulu.” They blame “Lulu,” and then they come back home and they get on Amazon and they kick it in the teeth a few more times.

“Lulu” has transformed negative record reviewing into a full-contact competitive sport.

“Metallica finally found a way to keep people from illegally downloading their music,” someone over here says.

“Lulu is a complete failure on every tangible and intangible level of its existence,” says this review.

“Reed mutter[s] the title over and over as if he was rudely woken up and shoved in front of a live microphone,” says this one over here.

And Pitchfork – oh, dear hipster Pitchfork – says “Lulu” has one too many good moments to be the worst album of all time, thus failing even as a failure.

Yeah, I’ve listened to “Lulu.” I even bought “Lulu.” Paid money for it. Online, of course: There was no way I was going to be seen walking up to a cash register with that thing.

Now, I should tell you, I am a fan of Lou Reed. I have listened to Lou Reed all of my life.

I am a fan of how unlikable he is. How difficult. Inconsistent.

I am a fan of his ugly imagery.

I am even fan of his clunky lyrics. My favorite Lou Reed album ever begins with the line, “Life’s like a mayonnaise soda.” That’s pretty clunky!

But as best as I can discern, when it comes to “Lulu,” the criticism centers around only about four things:

     1.     The awkward mismatch between Lou Reed and Metallica;

     2.     The songs (both lyrics and melodies);

     3.     The musicianship; and

     4.     The vocals.

Other than that, there does not seem to be much trouble with “Lulu,” really. Just those four minor things.

Damn you to Hell, Hal Willner.

Me, I blame Hal Willner. He produced “Lulu.” Hal Willner is a terrible producer. Just awful.

For years now, Hal Willner has produced novelty projects that look great on paper but sound awful in execution.

Like this: The last time Hal Willner produced a Lou Reed album, it turned out to be a concept album about Edgar Allen Poe that included actor Steve Buscemi doing a sleazy lounge act. And it sounds even worse than what you’d imagine.

The typical Hal Willner production uses this sort of reasoning: “Hey! Wouldn’t it be weird if we released an album of Leonard Cohen singing Limp Bizkit songs?”

So Hal Willner projects are bad. They are bad, but they are not normally hated.

Hal Willner projects really ought to be hated. I mean, divine justice and all that jazz…

The thing is, on “Lulu,” Lou Reed himself does okay. I mean, he does as well as can be expected. Maybe even better than can be expected. The guy is one hundred and seventy-four years old. I have seen surprisingly compelling evidence that Lou Reed’s major organ systems dissolved back in 1971. It seems probable that he is a zombie.

But despite that, Lou Reed bolts past the starting gate on “Lulu” in full clunky Lou Reed mode, moaning, “I would cut my legs and tits off / When I think of Boris Karloff.”

That’s pretty clunky! That’s Lou Reed!

In other places, “Lulu” distinguishes itself as the queasy Beatnik feel-bad album of the season. Like on “Dragon,” where he keeps repeating something about a “Kotex jukebox.” Or on “Pumping Blood,” where he whines, “I will swallow your sharpest cutter / Like a colored man’s dick.”

Oh. Yeah. I forgot to mention before: “Lulu” is mostly sung in first person from the perspective of a woman. Awkward…

I would imagine all this makes “Lulu” look pretty awful to anyone who did not already think “Lulu” was pretty awful. And don’t get me wrong: “Lulu” is pretty awful. But what’s with all this hatred? Can’t we all just get along?

The real problem with “Lulu” – other than Hal Willner and the Kotex jukebox thing and Lou Reed’s zombie state and the first person feminine perspective and the aimless songs averaging about nine minutes a piece – is Metallica. And it’s not even Metallica so much as it is James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich, specifically.

James and Lars are running around right now – even as I type these words – bragging to the music press that “Lulu” is chock full of first studio takes. I believe them. It sounds like first studio takes. Hetfield’s backing vocals on “Lulu” make Lou Reed’s voice sound like Pavarotti or Edith Piaf or Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan in comparison. And Lars Ulrich is in beginner-league drumfills-a-go-go mode every time the album lurches into ad-libbed abstractness, which is quite a lot.

Lou Reed at the age of 12. 

Mostly, though, it comes down to this: Lou Reed is not for everyone. In fact, Lou Reed might not be for anyone. His discography is best appreciated in theory and not actually experienced, like a secret Venus de Milo sculpted from bovine excrement.

But right now, we’re seeing Metallica fans – all 200 million of them – bitching about a Lou Reed collaboration.

And that is a bit like JK Rowling and William Burroughs writing a novel together and then unleashing Rowling fans to complain about how many ellipses there are… and erotic hangings… and Johnny waking up in Ali’s body… It’s like a hypothetical David Lynch-directed “Twilight” movie being attacked by 14-year old girls for having a non-linear plot.

So I stand alone. Over here.

Yes, me. Right here. When it comes to “Lulu,” I will stand alone. I will spit into the wind. I will defy your conventional wisdom.

I will read the reviews… Listen to the album again…

And I will remain defiant.

Against all odds and against all logic and against good taste and better judgment, I will defiantly award Lou Reed and Metallica’s “Lulu” album an insane TWO WHOLE STARS (out of a possible five).

And that’s a solid D grade.

Yeah, I said it.

Don’t be a hater. 

The Idiot’s Guide to Lesbians in My Soup

Thank you. From all of us here. I mean, all of us here thank you. We oh-most-so-sincerely thank you, thank you, and also thank you!

I mean, the management, staff, and the board of directors of this here “Lesbians in My Soup” thing do.  And by that, I mean we’re the ones doing the thanking. Of you, the thanked. And buddy, just how thankin’ great does that make you feel, huh?

But now it’s over. Season One, I mean. Season One is caput, finito, finished. It’s dead and it’s done and it won’t be coming home again anytime soon. Don’t bother leaving a light on.

Season One’s done but Two still ain’t here…

So while we’re waiting… Something has come to our attention. Confusion. Yours, not ours. The confusion, I mean. Of you, the confused.

Top 4 Reasons I Am Against Gay Marriage

I am against gay marriage. I think it is an abomination.

I am against gay marriage. It should not be legal and it should not be accepted.

I am against gay marriage. Please don’t tell my wife.

It is June of 2011 and I am watching the t.v. And on the t.v. I am watching are lots and lots of New York queers and they are happy and they are smiling and they are dancing in the streets.

You might even say they are gay gays, if you go for that sort of thin wordplay.

This guy with a mic and a camera, he works for some t.v. station in N.Y.C., and he asks one of the queers why everybody looks so damn happy. Why everybody is smiling. Dancing in the streets.

And this queer – er, excuse me, this gay gay – he says, “We won! We can finally get married in the State of New York!”

He says, “Now, we are exactly like everybody else!”

Ha! That’s right. Exactly like everybody else, he says.

Have I mentioned I am against gay marriage?

*          *          *          *          *

"Birth, school, work, death: Here we come!"

I have never really felt that “gay pride” thing I hear so much about. I am not proud of the people I sleep with. Some of them, I am downright embarrassed about. I avoid them on the street, refuse eye contact, and under no circumstances will I be throwing a parade to bring attention to my folly.

And the majority of any group you can name tend to be… idiots. It’s not their fault, really. It’s just the law of averages.

And if there were ever to be some magical line of demarcation whereby the idiots stand on that side… over there… and the non-idiots stand on this side… over here… it seems doubtful to me that this hypothetical dividing line would have anything to do with the genitalia of anybody’s sex partners.

I mean, why would it?

But hey, “we” won! We won, goddamn it!

We beat the system and can now be just exactly like everyone else.

The corrupt system did not want us to conform to it, but boy, did we show the system. We civilized ourselves. Domesticated ourselves. Trivialized ourselves.

Take that, system!

And now we get to go to PTA meetings and watch “Everybody Loves Raymond”! We get Capri pants and opposable thumbs. Matchbox 20 records and sports utility vehicles and this high blood pressure medication I’ve been hearing so much about. Who knows? Someday soon, we might even get to vote Republican. What a win that will be!

Sky’s the limit, buddy.

It only took a couple decades for Christians to change from a persecuted minority in the Roman Empire to the persecuting majority. And President Obama and Colin Powell, Nancy Pelosi and Condoleezza Rice, these days, they can smoke them cigars in the back room and order an execution or the bombing of a third world nation just as smoothly as any old white male ever could back in the day.

So maybe I should sit back and look forward to gays and lesbians pulling that ladder up after ourselves. To clamping down on the next group that tries to organize a civil rights movement. God knows, nothin’ in this world says “I am a part of the system” like finding your very own minority to persecute.

But wait. I am against gay marriage, and I promised you my top four reasons for why that is.

I promised you something up top, and I always carry through on my promises.

So I am against the legalization and widespread acceptance of gay marriage and here’s why:

Number 4:       The Family Research Council, the Catholic Church, and Rick Santorum all assure me that marriage is the cornerstone of our civilization’s whole system of morality and property and law, and I believe them.

Number 3:       Anything that starts to become acceptable to my grandmother in Michigan immediately gets boring. Witness the career arches of Johnny Depp and Robert DeNiro, Metallica and Bowie and Adrianna Oopsy.

Number 2:       I am against gay marriage because I am against joining the gang of thugs whose traditional raison d'être has been to beat the shit out of me.

And the Number 1 reason I oppose the legalization of gay marriage:          I am against gay marriage because when you see rats swimming away from a ship, you do not fight to get on board that ship.

And I just can’t say it any more plainly than that. 

Interview with a Bigamist

So it’s me and my wife and her husband and his husband (who is also my husband) and we’re sitting ‘round a table in some restaurant with some people from some newspaper from Austin.

Wait… I should probably back up.

So it’s me and my wife and her husband and his husband (who is also my husband) and we’re sitting ‘round a table in my living room with a reporter from some newspaper from Austin.

For two hundred days now, we’ve been living this Double Bigamy (All the Way). And for two hundred days now, no one has noticed. But here we are on day two hundred and one and someone has noticed. She’s standing in my living room, and she’s a real live journalist with real official press credentials you could check and one of those high tech audio recorders and everything you’d expect. The whole nine yards.

I’m told this is just the “pre-interview,” and I don’t even know what a pre-interview is. Pre-interviews are something in heaven and earth that are not dreamt of in my philosophy.

This real live journalist, she is excited. You can see it on her face, in the way she’s thinking out loud, her eyes darting around for new information. She is excited. By the time she sees the kids, I half expect her to shriek or to clap or to do a little dance or whatever it is journalists do when they realize they’ve just struck journalism gold.

“What a strange and wonderful family!” she says.

“This is really compelling,” she says. “Dana, you’re this gorgeous up-and-coming attorney at a major Houston law firm. And Anthony here, this handsome, incredibly well-spoken professor at a local college. And Aesop, a physician’s assistant and musician!”

“And these beautiful kids!” she says.

Although I cannot be certain, I believe I am physically in the room while she is saying this. In my, you know, bodily form. Visible to all with eyes to see.

It is clear I’m the fourth wheel on a tricycle here. And I’m seventh if you count the beautiful children. And I’m ninth if you count the reporter and the photographer. Heaven forbid anyone else shows up. I might be forced to sit outside to make room. I’m the fourth wheel, even though this was all my idea, and anyway, without me, it’s just plain old boring bigamy and not Double Bigamy (All theWay) at all.

The real interview is scheduled for some restaurant two nights later and I get ready with a few shots of Maker’s Mark. And two dozen Robitussin pills. And some codeine cough medicine. And whatever else I can find in my sock drawer.

Gorgeous up-and-coming attorney Dana, who is my wife, is putting on her makeup. Handsome, well-spoken Anthony, who is my brother and my wife’s husband, is tying his tie. And physician’s assistant/musician Aesop, who is my wife’s husband and my husband’s husband, is combing his hair.

I’m lining up a couple more shots of Maker’s Mark.

By the time we hit the restaurant, I look like this:

And the real interview – not the pre-interview – has started and the camera is snapping pictures, but I am busy watching a particularly aggressive French fry on my plate attack the weaker French fries. That little fucker shows no mercy!

And I point it out to the kids but I’m not sure I’m even speaking English because they don’t understand my words. The aggressive French fry – and I’ve named him Maximilian – is launching an offensive on my coffee but the coffee in this place isn’t strong enough to defend itself. It is a massacre.

And just before I pass out, Maximilian tells me not to worry. Maximilian has it all under control. Maximilian says I should go towards the light.

*          *          *          *          *

For two hundred days now, we’ve been living this Double Bigamy (All the Way). And for two hundred days now, no one has noticed. But here we are on day two hundred and three and someone has noticed. It has all been leading up to this.

“Mom, is Kaykay dead?” my daughter asks. She asks this matter-of-factly.

“No,” Dana says. She is looking to Aesop for some kind of confirmation.

And Aesop, he looks calm. Confident. “It’s just a stomach bug.”

“Just a stomach bug,” says the reporter. “She doesn’t look like she’s breathing. And why are you sniffing her coffee and going through her pockets?”

“Just a stomach bug,” Aesop says. He is checking my pulse. “But I’m gonna to call 9-1-1 anyway. Just to be extra-extra-cautious.”

*          *          *          *          *

So it’s my wife and her husband and his husband (who is also my husband) and our kids and they’re sitting in some waiting room at some hospital. They are waiting to hear whether Aesop or my daughter were correct in their respective assessments. Their assessments of me.

The real live journalist with real official press credentials is long gone, says she’ll “reschedule” the interview. But we know she never will.

Go towards the light, Katy!

And elsewhere, late that night, at some little corner restaurant in Houston, the body of some dish washer on the night shift is found in some back room.

The body is mangled. Chewed.

Pieces of the body are missing.

A long line of ketchup stretches from the body and on out the back door into the alley.

Maximilian tells me not to worry. Maximilian has it all under control.

*          *          *          *          *

**To see an interview I did not manage to hijack, check out my friend Rafa’s RudeBlog. You’ll be glad you did. **