I knew what you were thinking. Alllllllll along, I knew it. “Gee, wonder which artist he’s gonna pick? Betcha it rhymes with Lob Lylan!” (Cue laughter and general knee-slapping.) Well, you know what? Not today. Today, I’m throwing you a curveball. And not just any old curveball, either. Maybe the most gloriously chaotic, vibrating, raging comet of a curveball ever to grace a 45. White Light/White Heat is a proto-punk gem coming at you all the way from 1968, before the Sex Pistols knew what sex was. (Okay, okay, I made that up, but it might as well be true.) Point being, this is some real primitive shit.

I’d like to think it’s obvious, even to the untrained ear, that this isn’t your grandma’s pop single. It’s absolutely drenched in fuzz; you can only barely make out what the hell Lou Reed is even saying at any given moment. Barely identifiable among the roaring din are the cymbals of Moe Tucker, who, to quote a phrase, is wailing on the crash cymbal like it owes her money. The bass, acting here as a percussion instrument, keeps steady time throughout the song, lending it a primal on-the-beat thrust, the kind favored by contemporary Ginger Baker. All this gives the listener the impression that the Velvet Underground isn’t interested in creating coordinated music so much as they are in astonishing their audience, as wholly and convincingly as possible. The result is one of the few songs in existence whose listening experience is actually cheapened, rather than enriched, by a set of high-end headphones. Go ahead. Rummage through your attic and retrieve your shitty Walkman headphones from 1990 with one side half-dead. THAT’s how this song oughtta be listened to.

Ultimately, I picked this song to reverse my own self-typecasting and prove that (gasp!) I listen to music besides Bob Dylan. Enjoy White Light/White Heat. I sure do. Greatly.