On the first of November of the 2,011th anniversary of the alleged birth of Christ, Lou Reed and Metallica, henceforth malevolently referred to as Loutallica, released the collaborative double album Lulu, proudly proclaiming that, in no uncertain terms, “Rock is dead. We killed it.” Though this unholy union did not shout this proclamation from the rooftops, the 87 minutes of pure rubbish do all the talking (literally—most of the album is spoken word). All puns aside, Lulu is by far the worst album in rock history.
From the very start, Lulu is doomed to fail. “Brandenburg Gate” begins the album with the frantic acoustic strumming of a five-year-old who has just learned his first guitar chord. As Lou Reed begins to speak nonsense into the microphone with his raspy voice, the listener cannot help but hold a memorial service for the money and time wasted on Lulu.
What Loutallica tries to pass off as an LP does not improve with time, and listening to the album more than once may have adverse health effects. “Frustration,” at the end of the first CD, echoes any listener’s feelings on trying to sit through even one listen. With its chaotic chords and Lou Reed reading the listener’s mind by repeating, “I want so bad to hurt you,” this track launches listeners into a second disc filled with tracks that are much too long.
The album’s final song and 20-minute monolithic steaming pile of trash, “Junior Dad,” provides the perfect definitive allegory for Loutallica’s Lulu as a whole. Met allica’s surprisingly soft steadily progressing guitar lines provide hope of a decent production until Lou Reed’s monotonous voice and painfully uninspiring lyrics destroy any vision of the track’s quality. Unmistakable Metallica riffs occasionally punctuate the deathly horror of the remainder of the song, attempting to resurrect the sound that built the band until the very last note.
This quiet, steady, 10-minute-long last note, with nearly undetectable alterations in pitch, signals the end of the track, the end of Lulu, and the probable end of Metallica. With apologies to T.S. Eliot, this is how the world of rock ‘n’ roll ends: not with a bang but a whimper.
