Nathaniel West once wrote about Hollywood, "Few things are sadder than the truly monstrous." In the case of Lou Reed's [Sally Can't Dance], that line might be amended to read, "Few things are more depressing than limp attempts by an aging rock 'n roller to titillate a mass audience." So far has Reed's musical/sensibility stock plummeted.

There was a time when, beneath the facades of kinkiness, paranoia and demimonde weariness, Reed's songs were compassionate, even tender. Short stories on messy people and situations. Reed's material at its zenith qualified as near poetic expressions of desperation….

[The] difference between the Reed style of, say, "Some Kinda Love," with its subtly stalking melody, exemplary phrasing and beautifully turned lines …, and any of his current output is rather like comparing the works of [the Marquis] DeSade with a peep show. Any likenesses between the two are purely incidental.

Whereas a...