Lou Reed & Metallica
Lulu

This album is an enormous joke.

I like to delude myself like this. Because it's not possible that so much rubbish and crap can be contained in 2 discs and 87 minutes of my life wasted.
But let's proceed step by step.

What is wrong with this work? I would say almost everything, for the reasons I will now explain:

LARS ULRICH: Ahahahah! If you thought he was scandalous and counterproductive in "Death Magnetic", listen to him here: he manages to worsen his work in very slow songs or those that don't go beyond mid-tempo. Suffice it to say that as metal as it is, he never uses the double bass pedal, and even the work he does is really badly done or minimalist. A drum machine would have done much better.
ROB TRUJILLO: How is it possible to talk about an instrument that is not heard for 87 minutes? Poor Rob, let's leave him alone: he is blameless.
KIRK HAMMETT: His presence in this album is as useful as a fridge in Greenland, since in the whole double album he does one serious solo and various phrases here and there. His amazing solo consists of a single distorted note held for 30 seconds. But put down the guitar and pick up a shovel, will you?
JAMES HETFIELD: A mystery of Fatima. An indecipherable enigma. Fortunately, he plays all the time and his voice is heard only in a few parts, like the now-famous phrase "I am the table!". As a rhythm guitarist, I would say he does his normal work as he always has, endlessly repeating riffs that sound stale, without believing in a single note he plays, like a worker punching the clock.
LOU REED: Talks. Talks. Talks. Talks. (Ad libitum). He spends 80 minutes just talking. The other 7, he's silent. Now, it's okay if you maybe do a spoken piece every now and then, but don't spend an hour and twenty talking! After the third track, a non-masochistic listener like me would have sent everything and everyone to hell and thrown the CD away. Moreover, there's not a hint of pathos in his words: he sounds like a robot.

In short, a historic band and a historic artist at their historic lows (sorry for the pun), who don't even believe in the rubbish they've recorded: it's an album so full of pathos and so compelling that during the 87 minutes of listening, I stuffed myself with many Tarallucci, chatted with people on Facebook, tidied up the computer, arranged to go out in the evening, stuffed myself with more Tarallucci, swept away the crumbs, and so on.

In short, the most solemnly banal work of the last 150 years...