The New Lou Reeds are a lot like Gay Dad or the Drugstore Cowboys—you’ve heard the name but not the music. I mean, I could go on and on about how stupid the New Lou Reeds’ name is. I’ll keep it down to one gripe: Why Lou Reed? Papa Reed has released two and a half good albums since leaving the Velvets. That’s pretty fucking pathetic. I mean, what other occupation would allow that kind of inconsistency? While at the post office, Charles Bukowski had to throw letters into their respective slots with something like ninety percent accuracy. Had Lou Reed chosen a career at a NYC post office branch, the sour fucker would’ve been canned on his first day. Fuck Lou Reed. This band should be called The New John Cales. Think about it. Vintage Violence is way better than anything Lou did after the Velvets. And I’ll stand by that, motherfucker. So you want to hear a review of this record? It’s okay. Fuck, not great, but not bad either. It’s got a Southern, Compulsive Gamblers touch. It has a singer with a vocal delivery reminiscent of David Thomas from Pere Ubu. And that’s about it. A fucking five out of ten: also known as supreme mediocrity. Unless The New Lou Reeds can pick up the fucking pace, all subsequent albums should be called Rock and Roll Heart or Growing Up In Public (AKA the Reed albums not worth pissing on).
–ryan (Exit Stencil)