1972/1973 was my senior year of high school, during which time I became a big fan of David Bowie. At that time, he was in his Ziggy Stardust phase, with spiky orange hair and an androgynous appearance.
The one turntable in my home was part of a formidable piece of furniture that was referred to as “the stereo.” It was placed in the dining room on the first floor of our semi-detached Northeast Philly home. I could not listen to my music in private, so I had to bear the slings and arrows of abuse from my parents, who had no clue about glam rock. My father in particular made one scathing comment after another about “David,” a name he would intone in a feminine-like, falsetto voice. No, Mom and Dad did not approve.
Through Bowie, I learned about other similar British acts, such as Mott the Hoople. Of most consequence for me was the pathway from Bowie to Lou Reed. Unlike the other acts, Reed was American – from New York. He had been one of the leaders of the Velvet Underground, a band managed by Andy Warhol. After Reed went solo, Bowie produced his album, Transformer, which spawned the hit, Walk on the Wild Side, certainly one of the most unusual records to become a Top Forty radio hit. I became an even bigger fan of Reed than I was of Bowie.
My parents were further perplexed by my interest in Reed. Although he was swept up in the glam rock category, he did not have a Bowie-like appearance. However, he was decidedly strange, and many of his songs tended toward the eccentric and outlandish. I guess that appealed to my teenage self. And what my parents could hear more than anything else was Reed’s distinctive singing voice. To say that it was an acquired taste would be charitable.
Nonetheless, he struck a chord for me. Vicious, another song from Transformer, included the line, “Vicious, you hit me with a flower.” I loved it and bought a bright orange t-shirt that I had customized with glued-on large black letters. The front said, “LOU REED IS …,” and the back had, “VICIOUS.” The fact that most people who saw me wearing the shirt had no idea who Lou Reed was just made it all the more fun for me.
Out of high school and into community college, I continued being mesmerized and elevated by Reed’s music. I bought each of his albums as they were issued. In the summer of 1975, I had just gotten my Associate’s Degree and was preparing to head down to the University of South Florida in Tampa for my last two years of college. I worked more than fulltime at Dave’s Deli, accumulating a nest egg to make it possible to continue my education. The nest egg grew slowly, as I was making less than minimum wage and was earning no more than two dollars an hour. With so little coming in and the future needs for cash well known, it was always a significant decision for me to buy an album. For a new Lou Reed record, though, I just spent the money and didn’t think twice.
In July, he released a double album, Metal Machine Music. I didn’t know anything about the music that it included, but the cover looked great. Despite the cost, which was probably equal to half a day’s wages, I went out and bought the album as soon as it was available. In great anticipation, I took it home, pulled off the cellophane wrapper, removed disc one from the sleeve and placed it gently on the stereo’s turntable. Come on, Lou, play me some great music!
The noise that then issued from the stereo speakers is a bit hard to describe, but it wasn’t music. It was an onslaught of loud, droning electronic feedback – no melody, no lyrics. There was just unrelenting noise that varied little. I lifted the needle from the disc and placed it further along side one of disc one. It was the same unlistenable crap. I then flipped the disc and put the needle down on side two. More of the same. Need I tell you what disc two contained? It was sixteen minutes and one second on each side of the same relentless eardrum attack.
Luckily, my parents were not home to hear what I had just purchased. I sat in shock for quite a while. Then I realized that I had been cheated by an artist whom I really, really liked. He was either screwing the fans or the record company or both. Possibly, he thought some deranged folks would actually enjoy the noise.
I should have returned the album and gotten my money back, but I didn’t. Instead, I took it with me when I went to Tampa that fall. I attached one of the discs to the wall in my dorm room and invited visitors to scratch it with jagged implements whenever they felt like they had gotten ripped off by anyone. Having it available for that purpose was cathartic. Nevertheless, I never got past the feeling that one of my favorites had screwed me out of $7.98 or whatever I paid for it. When I graduated from college, I left the defiled disc behind in the trash.
I learned a lesson, believe me. From that point forward, I read the reviews before shelling out my money for any performer’s new work.
The original joke was on me and so is the continuing joke. A used copy of the Metal Machine Music double album on vinyl now is worth over $100, but not my copy. I have only one of two discs.