This album is raw. This album is primal. Like a catfish stripped of its whiskers and thrashing violently. Like a mad hatter dying of mercury poisoning and careening sideways from exhaustion. This is the steely without the dan and the grit without the grist -- a veritable low-fi fuzzbox of sounds and sinister sweets. "Down On The Street," the opening track, begins with a filthy guitar riff played by Mr. Ron Asheton, who is a certified fucking monster. It is said that imitation is nothing more than flattery and that it never supersedes an original. Often cited as proto-punk, if punk owes Asheton anything, it's an apology, because it never sounds as good as he does here. My favorite track is the excellent "T.V. Eye" where Asheton rips along to a nasty riff whilst the bass punches along and Iggy sneers. The erratic interweaving guitar solo is priceless as well. "1970" has some tasty sax, very much in the vein of Ornette Coleman, who I've dug into recently. Did I mention that the guitarist is completely awesome? Ok, just making sure; it's hard to type with tea in one hand and my brain in the other. "L.A. Blues," the last song, is complete random bursts of something or the other that somehow sounds coherent -- which I believe is a result of preconditioning from the album's previous six dizzying tracks (minus "Dirt" -- I care little for that one.) It's a shame that they wouldn't go on to bigger and better things after this, but it is what it is. Enjoy. B
