Charles Douglas

Lou Reed's lost mojo has finally been recovered by the unlikeliest of characters in Charles Douglas. That mojo is one powerful dope fuelled beast that can turn the most mundane 36-minutes of rock'n'roll into a brilliant, hip swaying, out of control rock orgy. Douglas has been encouraged on the drums and in the production chair by Velvet Underground drummer Moe Tucker, who beats her drum kit like a young’un. Even though Douglas spent the good part of ’96 and ’97 hospitalised for a nervous breakdown, working with him was probably less insane than dealing with John Cale and Reed. Whereas Lou has been hailed as a poetic genius, Douglas should get a gold star for effort. God knows he won't get a gold record, unless everyone can somehow appreciate the bizarre genius of his life. For a man that can barely operate a fryer, the mojo has hexed the lyrics and the guitar sounds that are verging on garage rock to make them become the work of an idiot savant. Frank Black wishes he could rawk as a good as Douglas. This album should have been an utter failure, but Douglas has been able to tap into the part of rock'n'roll that few artists seem to be able to be able to locate, let alone manipulate.