Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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39 of 41 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Whip it on me Jim, May 25, 1999
By A Customer
Once you tame this wild, noisy, amphetamine-fueled, out-of-control beast of an album, it will be your best friend for a lifetime. Few albums are as off-putting on initial hearing; fewer still will reward you more after hundreds of spins. Inexplicably, its chaos, noise, and howling confusion will become comforting. But it takes awhile...For example, I doubt anyone ever thought they'd play side two (for those who remember vinyl) a second time after weathering the "I Heard Her Call My Name"/"Sister Ray" barrage...but if you can brave Lou Reed's paint-stripping lead guitar and John Cale's shrieking organ a second and then third time, slowly the initial repulsion will turn to compulsion. And the mysteries will unfold...20 or 30 years later, you'll still be trying to figure out "Lady Godiva's Operation" or "Sister Ray"...or at least basking in their glorious noise. Songwise, it's not the best music the Velvets, Reed, or Cale ever made, but it's probably the most influential--would Sonic Youth, Yo La Tengo, Jesus & Mary Chain, Pavement, My Bloody Valentine, the lo-fi movement, etc., ever have happened without it? "White Light/White Heat" is the sound of smart, cool, frustrated, and heavily amped (in all senses of the word) people coming apart and making as loud a noise as possible while they still could. And it's timeless because to this day it still irritates and scares people even after we've all been numbed by decades of hardcore, shock rock, and death metal. Finally--the louder you play it, the clearer it gets. Volume is the key to this swamp creature of an album emerging from the murk...and the creature wants to be your friend despite its initially scary face.
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20 of 20 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Real Life/Street Life, January 3, 2006
Having been a precocious kid I had the distinct pleasure (yes, I said pleasure) of seeing this band at the original Tea Party in the South End of Boston shortly after the release of "White Light/White Heat". Moe Tucker was still playing her drums standing like a mad majorette. Cale's electric voila was so loud plaster dust fell from the ceiling, literally.
With all the peace and love nonsense cluttering what little media was free enough to experiment this album cut like a knife through to the truth of what city life was really about.
When my sons asked me if I was a hippie I gave them the first MC5 and Stooges' albums - and "White Light/White Heat". They now play in a Punk band. I'm glad they got the point...
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19 of 19 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
The album that warped my fragile little mind..., June 13, 2005
Okay, so many years ago, I can't remember the exact year, but I was a teenager so it seems like a few billion, I was visiting a friend of mine in upstate New York. This friend was schizophrenic, although at the time I knew little about such things; I only knew he was freakin' out of his mind. (apologies to mental health and disabilities rights advocates, whom I think do good and valuable work, but this guy was loopy!) At the time, my musical obsessions were the Beatles and Pink Floyd, and I loathed anything having to do with "heavy" or otherwise abrasive sounds. This friend, who was afraid to approach a mailbox because he thought they were government spying devices, had a somewhat different take. First he played for me the Sex Pistols, a group that I had never heard of. I thought it sounded like two wolverines tied up inside a burlap sack being smashed against large rocks. I hated it. (of course, later on I would end up loving the thing for exactly the reason I just noted) Undeterred, and dare I say a little emboldened by offending my sensibilities so thoroughly, he got out a worn copy of the Velvet Underground's second album, "White Light/White Heat" and slapped it on the turntable. (hey, I said it was a long time ago) I have never been the same ever since.
The opening title track to me sounded like an old Jerry Lee Lewis song being ripped to shreds by the aforementioned wolverines. Right away, I was, to put it mildly, skeptical. I believe my exact comments were "put this &%#@!!! away and let me play you side one of "Wish You Were Here" already" He didn't budge. Next came "The Gift" which was John Cale reciting a short story by Lou Reed over a stormy sea of guitars and Maureen Tucker's primal drumming. As the recitation was in one channel and the music in the opposite, I could at least focus on the words, which were surreal enough to soothe my little hippie brain. The next track, "Lady Godiva's Operation," got me hooked even more. "This sounds like "I Am The Walrus!" I declared, "or even something from the first Floyd album!" There was something far darker and sinister to this song, though. "Here She Comes Now" confused me even more. A soft melodic love song with sweetly strummed guitars, it didn't sound like the same group that was thrashing ole Jerry Lee. "Just wait 'til side two" my friend snickered.
"I Heard Her Call My Name" is the nastiest barroom brawl of a song I had ever heard, and even today it has few equals. Lou sounds like he's having an ugly physical confrontatiion with his guitar; the instrument is alive and boy is it not happy. Even the sainted Jimi Hendrix would be scared. It was anathema to me, yet it maintained an almost atavistic hold on my senses. At this point I couldn't shut off the record if I tried. Also, it's not wise to alarm a manic schizophrenic. Anyway, then comes "Sister Ray." If you've ever uttered the cliche "over the top" and you haven't heard this song, you don't know what you're talking about, Pedro. Seventeen minutes and twenty-seven seconds of relentless primitivistic howling scree, a black hole of misery and degradation, heck, a mother-lovin' celebration of misery and degradation. The guitars sound like machines in a huge factory breaking down and headed for oblivion, but never getting there. John Cale's organ, which was practically all I noticed the first few times I heard it, is demented, distorted, monolithic and utterly obsessive. Tucker's drumming is the heartbeat of a transvestite shot up with so much smack that heshe would kill a cop after a round of, um, oral delights, which of course are what the lyrics describe. In an uncharacteristic display of decorum that actually adds to the pervisity, Reed uses the phrase "suckin' on my ding-dong" instead of a more NC-17 wording! Then, after at least one false ending, perhaps deciding that after a long day of metaphorically splitting minds open, they just, well, stop. Just like that. No grand Wagnerian Ragnarok gestures, just goodbye and don't forget to turn off the lights on your way out, thanks.
I sat there, glassy eyed and slackjawed for a full minute afterward. Then I slowly turned my head to my friend, who was grinning maniacally, and I said, "that was the worst piece of garbage I have ever heard! I'm sick to my stomach!" Part of me still wanted to hear some Floyd, but I just couldn't. I was seething. I was violated.
Naturally, the next week I went out and bought the album and listened to it so many times that if sweat could make a sound, it would sound like "Sister Ray."
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~ Velvet Underground
~ Velvet Underground
~ Velvet Underground
~ Velvet Underground
~ Lou Reed
by The Velvet Underground 
