I hurt myself.
It happens often, lately.
The blood gushes from the hole. It’s a small slit. It pulses.
We must wait.
The liquid is darkened. The label is white with a number printed in red. Kentucky Corn Distillate, aged 16 years. Do I really have to tell you what it tastes like?
The record spins. The black cover with yellow writing and those 4 faces, 4 ghosts from the sewers of Ann Arbor.
Distilled anger, anguish, personal abysses and animalistic, fierce, lust for life. Piss, sperm, sweat, spit. Dance in the mud, wild love, flowers of evil.
50 years old.
Do I really have to tell you how it sounds?
The blood keeps flowing, staining the clothes, sliding over my body.
I'll ask her to lick it off.
Later.
The Stooges vented their typically adolescent anxieties in this frenzied, abrasive, misogynistic rock’n roll album.
It is above all the honesty, pure feelings, and disillusionment with which this album was played that will be hard to replicate.
The music world receives one of the most violent punches in the stomach ever delivered, and it does so in a totally revolutionary way: this is punk.
Iggy Pop sincerely declares his deviance: no one had ever been so radical.
A pagan rite of initiation into the music of the devil, the album without which probably no one would have ever talked about a certain 'punk rock'.
8 tracks for a total duration of just 35 minutes [...] episodes that alone are worth as much as an entire album from any rock band today.
You don’t wash. You smoke. You do drugs. You dance like madmen. You don’t go to Church. Ever. Aren’t you ashamed?
Those damn rockers, they had done it without our knowledge, the biggest folly of their lives: They had listened to a Stooges record.
After this record it’s over for everyone else, there’s no more room for anyone.
Don’t you want to turn up the volume to the maximum and blast it even louder, wishing that your amplifier and speakers explode?