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Lou Reed "Transformer" [1972]

Those who suspected in the 60s that the Velvet Underground were the most talentless group of miscreant druggies propped up by their vague association with Andy Warhol and nothing else -- assuming you even heard of the fucking Velvet Underground before Lou Reed went solo -- were proven so incredibly, profoundly correct upon the release of Reed's solo breakthrough album "Transformer" it's impossible to exaggerate. This time he gets propped up by David Bowie as these two speed-freak zombies in pancake makeup and eyeliner race to the bottom of the realms of bad taste. And Lou Reed wins. Still struggling to hold a tune with his nasal quiver of a voice and with no ability to figure out an interesting chord progression, it takes Bowie's hyperactive session-wonk studio taskmastering to get "Transformer" out of the toilet, however briefly. But even Bowie is helpless beneath the most insipidly absurd lyric sheet ever printed -- retarded gender-bending mixed with amphetamine-fueled idiocy that makes "Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear" seem like Longfellow. It's probably very fortunate Reed likely remembers none of this period of his life, and because he's not yet dead from embarrassment it's a good indication he's never been curious to revisit it. Because even if you tried, you couldn't remotely approach this level of lowlife, unintentional comedy -- Lou Reed was the biggest clown rock music has ever produced, even bigger than Gene Simmons.

Tame Impala "Lonerism" [2012]

Wow — you’d think “futurism” this ridiculously lame would have been over as of the original “Flash Gordon,” or at least Shat-man Era “Star Trek.” The year 2012 must have been a very tough one for music critics whose job it is to find something interesting to say about new music; by this time 20 years ago, the entire landscape had been re-done from coke-B.O. leather to flea-riddled flannel. But between Tame Impala’s “Lonerism” and things like Frank Ocean’s “channel ORANGE” — the difference here being the guy named after a body of water virtually drowned onstage at the Grammys — indie rock in the 20-teens is about as nutritious as eating smoke. When Tame Impala (which I guess translates from pretentious rockstar-ese to “dead meat,” otherwise “underperforming Chevy”) stops dicking around and gets to some actual songs, they tend to sound exactly like John Lennon’s heroin nods (all of them — they all sounded the same, which is why his 70s output was so shitty). Basically, Tame Impala exists on the same airy plane as MGMT — young kids engaging in unapologetic multi-track abuse (“What do you mean, people used to not record music on computers?”) and stumbling into “psychedelia” simply because they can’t stop themselves from drenching everything in too many effects. It’s beard rock for people too immature to grow beards. Apparently this spaced-out aesthetic has flown all the way down-under, from where Tame Impala hails. Sound like CO2 won’t be the only major issue concerning our global atmosphere for the next decade or so.

Leonard Cohen "I'm Your Man" [1988]

OK, the contest is officially over -- no matter how big an ass-head Bob Dylan ever was (or big a washout he'd have become by the late 80's) -- at least he never stooped to cheap Euro-disco synth bullshit to push his egocentric lyrics on the music-buying public like Leonard Cohen does on "I'm Your Man." Who the fuck rescued this guy from obscurity, and why the fuck did they do it? Cheap, phoney Georgio Moroder backing tracks with a trio of session-hack sisters as backup singers, Cohen proves he really has no level of depth he won't sink to -- his tuneless basso voice is a perfect testament to this, as well. He sounds like Nick Cave fronting Donna Summers' studio band after burning them out on drugs, probably the way Cohen was able to seduce all those starlets in the 60s, when he was still a pedestrian talent but mercifully only carried around an acoustic guitar with him instead. Even though he's approaching Viagra-taking age during the "I'm Your Man" sessions, his lechery has not left him. Every Barry White was able to suppress the drool coming out his face hole while in front of a microphone. Maybe Serge Gainsbourg wasn't -- and that's clearly what Cohen's going for here: an aging scumbag Jew trying to get in the pants of the most amount of pseudo-sophisticated hot babes in the cheapest way possible -- but what the world really needs is fewer Serge Gainsbourgs, not more of them who speak in different languages.

Nirvana "In Utero" [1993]

The rise of the Seattle grunge movement was remarkably swift and relatively long-lasting, proving the music industry had already organized itself in reaction to the Warrant "She's My Cherry Pie"-led movement of LA hair metal, and apparently threw a dart to decide which group would be deigned their movement's "leader" and it hit Nirvana. So it's noisy, obnoxious, simplistic major-label debut "Nevermind" became anthemic of the early 90s -- so much so that their follow-up, "In Utero," could be any old piece of shit and still be considered a classic work of genius, and it was (any old piece of shit, that is). Here Kurt Cobain has made a choice very few people ever get to make: treat yourself seriously and branch out into bold new musical real estate under the spotlight at the risk of coming off too full of yourself, or just snort a lot of junk and go through the motions like a bitch. It becomes apparent upon revisiting "In Utero" not only which decision he took but why he couldn't wait to off himself. Some cynics claim he killed himself for the publicity, because he was a junkie with a one-way ticket or because his cunt of a wife had him murdered. Listen to this album and feel the weight of Cobain's fucked up decision to let Steve Albini produce him; I'd feel not only compelled to kill myself but Albini as well. In a way, I wish "In Utero" had come before "Nevermind;" that way Pearl Jam could have been the grunge poster boys and the movement would've lasted far less time.

Kid Creole and the Coconuts "Tropical Gangsters" [1982]

Every time you book a beach vacation, you fantasize about all the trouble-free bliss you're going to have -- but once you arrive there's always this one charming local in a Panama hat who fucks up your good time by flirting with your wife and offering to take her to all the popular tourist sites. Now imagine that guy with his own pop-calypso band and then consider how much you're going to hate Kid Creole and the Coconuts' "Tropical Gangsters." As if music fans in the early 80s didn't already have enough to contend with -- between the Boy George-led second British Invasion and Michael Jackson's "Thriller" coup still in blitzkrieg stage -- here comes a jive-ass Cab Calloway Jr. in Miami Vice pastels. Tempting as it is to call the sound of "Tropical Gangsters" simply Prince at Club Med, it's actually a lot less sexy and a lot more petty than that. Ripping off a "1999" beat to sing a song about other people ripping him off, Kid Creole clearly has a lot of nerve calling the kettle high-yella. Besides which, his grooves (if you can call them that) and his raps (which absolutely can't be called that) do a good job of making Huey Lewis & the News sound funky. What the Coconuts offer to the act must be in their no-doubt campy-as-hell live show (meaning they probably all have big tits, otherwise they would have been named something else), because they don't bring anything to this album the Pointer Sisters sleepwalking couldn't manage. Easiest way to tell this is a band of hack frauds, however, is to notice they're not even from the islands at all -- they're New Yorkers who have to take the 6 Line like every other schnook.