[Berlin] is the most disgustingly brilliant record of the year. There has always been a literary instinct behind Lou's best writing—classics like "Sweet Jane" were four minute short stories with recognizable characters acting out their roles, manipulated for Lou's amusement in a way he certainly considers Warholian. In Berlin, his first feature length presentation, the silhouettes have been filled in till they're living, breathing monsters.
A concept album with no hit singles, but shy of the "rock opera" kiss of death, Lou refers to it as a film. So I guess it's his attempt … at Warhol Trash….
What it really reminds me of, though, is the bastard progeny of...
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