Early in 1983, I was living in a house in Vancouver, sharing the main floor with some band mates. The property was managed by this odd older fellow who lived in another house a couple of doors down. All three houses in this row were owned by the same person and managed by this dude, who happened to be an avid record collector. He had a little garage in the back of our house which was stuffed from top to bottom with records. There were shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling with all these LP's neatly stored inside. We got friendly enough with the guy that he eventually gave us the green light to have a dig and borrow any records we wanted to check out. This is where I first discovered Lou Reed's most iconoclastic release of his career, Metal Machine Music.
Released on the heels of one of Reed's most commercially successful periods in the early 1970s, 1975's double LP monolith of noise came screaming out of the gate to the immediate confusion of fans and critics. Assumed to be no more than a contractually obligated prank on his record label, whom Reed was about to terminate relations, few suspected Reed's earnestness in delivering this slab of apparent antisocial discord.
At the time of its release, the idea of "noise" music was virtually anathema within the commercial record buying markets. There may have been some obscure fine arts conceptual dalliances throughout the 20th century, but it was strictly academic stuff for students and art snobs. It was never dropped headlong into the midst of a mainstream record buying public.
Prior to unearthing the record in that garage, I'd only come across a few references to it in the music press and most of it was either dismissive with the occasional glancing comment indicating some form of reverence. I recall one review by Lester Bangs of another LP where he referenced MMM as a form of antidote for the horrible album he'd just reviewed. Given that, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I dove into it. It didn't take long to discover the reality of the impenetrable wall of noise I would encounter.
I can't say I "enjoyed" listening to this album, but across those 4 sides of brain cell shattering treble piercing frequencies, something got lodged in my consciousness. Without any chemical augmentation, my brain chemistry changed. At the time, I couldn't put it into words or describe what process had occurred and I still don't really know how to give it a proper description, but I do know that the idea of "noise" and the concept of using it creatively was firmly lodged into my consciousness by this record. It also impressed a sense of personal determinism upon me in the manner in which Reed had put this product out there in accordance with nothing more than his own desires and with no concern for the judgements or reactions of anyone else.
It wasn't until years later that I finally got a CD copy of it and I don't listen to it often, but I do find it necessary to listen to at least once a year. The day Lou Reed died, it was the first recording of him that I had to listen to and I played it from start to finish. I don't find it a chore to listen to either. I find it is, as Bangs noted, a cleansing experience. It's like sandblasting all the gunk off your brain. It's a way to give your mind a bit of a reset. Reed's motives for creating the album have, since its release, become more understood as a tool for meditation rather than as a "fuck you" to any record label. It is, perhaps, the most fundamentally useful record he ever created in terms of practical application.
