Proof positive that Reed really needs drugs.

Review Score: (2/10)
Yes, that's right: Lou Reed needs to go back to his drug-addled ways! Heroin, speed, Mylanta even. If this is the kind of music that comes of clean living, inspired love and maturity, forget it brother, make mine a speedball! This album is absurdly overwrought in all the wrong ways: sonically tinkered to a fare-thee-well with stream of consciousness "Dear Diary"-esque horseshit lyrics worthy of a love-sick 12-year-old. Sure, great rock'n'roll should be passionate, but if I wanted to hear the whispered sweet nothings (key word: nothing) of an infatuated jackass, I'd drill a hole into my neighbors' apartment, and listen in as they baby talk to each other. Reed should drop the pretentious, sensitive poet routine and go back to being a gritty, sarcastic rocker.

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