Some people view Lou Reed as a living legend, one of rock 'n' roll's true icons. Other people think he's a godawful hack whose influence is way out of proportion to his actual talents. From Berlin to The Blue Mask, from Metal Machine Music to Magic And Loss, the man's body of work has provided plenty of ammunition for both of these factions over the years, and his latest opus is certainly no exception.
On the plus side, Ecstasy sounds great and it flat-out rocks in many places, with that primal four-on-the-floor push at which Reed has always excelled. The droll opener "Paranoia Key Of E" and the more vicious "Future Farmers Of America" are particular standouts. Beefy horns and wry strings (provided in part by paramour Laurie Anderson) add textural interest, and it's pleasing to report that, unlike his last studio release, there are precisely zero songs about egg creams. (Goofy lyrics do abound, however; the line where Lou ponders the possibility of being "in a kilt in Edinburgh doing a modern dance" is my favorite.) Sex and drugs are still major subjects--with regular excursions into depression, jealousy, violence (physical and otherwise), and domestic turmoil--and Reed covers them with considerable emotional range, alternately obnoxious and playful, bitter and wistful.
Unfortunately, such a range can't really be conveyed successfully by a non-voice. The fact is that Reed developed a distinctive sing/speak style to camouflage his inability to carry a tune, and that style leaves him sounding emotionally detached far too often. On songs like "Tatters" and "Turning Time Around," which seem to touch on highly personal matters, the monotonous delivery is hard for a listener to get beyond. Yet when Reed tries to turn up the volume and add a soulful melisma or two, it can be painful; "Big Sky" and "Baton Rouge" testify to a kind of premature rigor mortis of the vocal cords, stiff, inflexible, littered with train wrecks.
During Ecstasy's climactic track, "Like A Possum," 18 minutes of fuzz-guitar frenzy and plainly ridiculous ranting, Reed barks out, "I got a hole in my heart the size of a truck." It's a telling line, and it sums up the album's principal flaw, one more glaring than a lack of vocal prowess. For despite the wit, intelligence, drive, and tremendous guitar tones so evident in these grooves, there's not much heart to be found here, and what little there is could very well be just a put-on. Love him or hate him, Lou Reed remains a cool character, in every sense.
All recordings written by L. Reed, courtesy of Warner Bros. and Lou Reed Music, Inc. (BMI), administered by EMI Blackwood Music, Inc.
