Lou Reed
Metal Machine Music

Time possesses rather scandalous cyclicality, if one attempts with iron attention to torture and conquer it. How many times within a day do we grasp its utter elusiveness propelled by the same false interests that constitute it?

How often do we realize we have in mind the only two things that rhyme with ordinariness?
There are no plausible and acceptable answers regarding this, nor any ruthlessly practical solutions. There are only refuges, and this is one of them.
Completely certain of being considered an idiot by most who do not admit the existence of the aforementioned problems, I believe it is necessary to shamelessly make public that "METAL MACHINE MUSIC" is a vortex of induced irrationality, not a glam-naive recording.

Its coils can astonish and enchant, project and hallucinate, firmly positioning themselves as possible drugs synthesized from sound frequencies. An infernal machine endowed with pure cannibalism starts its karma engine, giving vent to nonexistent irradiation channels that only a bio-mechanical monster could possess. The kilometric feedback that afflict your eardrums are progressively left to be torn apart by moans of nonexistent and insane cats trotting along the streets of a Bombay and/or New Delhi in which you are not actually walking, but of which you non-perceive the petals, a vermilion red, covering your eyelids vibrating and breathing upon you with no sensory value, and it is impossible to remain silent, albeit offended by such beauty of non-reality.

As the sun rises and sets at intervals of cyclic mold, the Siamese questions from which the journey matured seem to disappear under the effect of a mind fogged by fuchsia dawns, magenta seagulls, and purple polka dot penguins in suit and tie asking you how far it is to Rovereto, subsequently becoming indignant by your non-answer.
Curses in an archaic language bypass the left channel to crash into the right with primordial violence capable of making the man-jesus and Gan himself tremble.  The state of awareness melts, spreads, envelops, and retracts, breaking only in passing from one sequence to the next. "Pt.1-Pt.2-Pt.3-Pt.4-Pt.1-Pt.2-Pt.3-Pt.4-......."

Gnomes with a macabre appearance, capable of hallucinating Syd Barrett himself, sharpen the sense of the work, slaughtering each other before your defenseless and dismayed eyes by the not-grace of all this. It is an endless journey. No vector to follow. No light to reach. No present to take back with oneself and for oneself. It is repetition: time, trapped in itself.  No oligarchic sound. Only that eternal reverb from infinite resurrections. The serpent will never stop biting its tail.

On the contrary, Lou Reed will have bitten his hands realizing he practically initiated a cycle (a really new one) that prematurely submerged this his unique work, dredged up and named only by people like Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine, people who \"veeerameeenteee\" owe much to this his record (and not just this one...). It was 1975.

Good acids, peace, love, and hepatitis.