X Clan
To The East, Blackwards
(4th & Broadway, 1990)
Makes perfect sense, really, my initial hostility toward rap music—or anything with a groove, for that matter. For you see, kids, once upon a time, it wasn’t particularly cool for dirty white boys to listen to rap. Forget for the moment that when I was coming up—back when a new Aerosmith record was an event, rather than an embarrassment—rap was still in its infancy. That’s kind of beside the point.
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Metal Machine Music: Groaning Galactic Refrigerator
by William I. Lengeman III
Crawdaddy!
You shouldn't be reading this. And that's not an admonition, by the way. You go ahead and read whatever you want. It's just that, by all rights, the subject of this discourse should have been relegated to a footnote in the history of Lou Reed and of rock ‘n’ roll, in general.
At this point, nothing more should need to be said about Lou Reed's cacophonous 1975 double album, Metal Machine Music. It should have sunk without a trace, relegated to the dusty corners of the Great Pop Music Archive, where it would butt up against the works of such obscurities as the Godz, Gentle Giant, Human Beinz, and Bubble Puppy.
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Throbbing Gristle
The Second Annual Report of Throbbing Gristle
(Industrial, 1977)
It's hard to know what to make of the fact that Throbbing Gristle are still around, more than three decades after they first came together. It's also hard to know what to make of the fact that they've released an audiophile-quality vinyl version of The Thirty-Second Annual Report of Throbbing Gristle in a framed limited edition.
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Animals, the Most Unlikely Punk Album of All Time
by William I. Lengeman III
Crawdaddy
Some rock historians would have us believe that punk rock rose up in the ’70s, snarling and spitting, as a reaction to the excesses of progressive rock. It’s a truism that may be overstated but which probably contains at least a kernel of truth.
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Gun Club: Fire of Love
by William I. Lengeman III
Crawdaddy!
As I enter into my 112th year on this earth (okay, I'm 47, but for a music fan it might as well be 112), my once obsessive desire to track down new bands has dwindled to almost nil. Twenty years ago, I would surely have been keen on the likes of the White Stripes, hanging on their every utterance, buying the action figures and so on. Nowadays, I don't even give a hoot that Jack White has weighed in on the Gun Club from his Olympian indie-rock hall, decreeing that they are/were indeed a good thing.
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