Lulu

Ivan Nostrilovich Sniffalov, aka the Nose of Coney Island, lounged comfortably in his leather-backed chair, enjoying a steaming bowl of borscht. On his desk sat a slew of newish metallic releases, many of which had already sated his nostrils with the sweet scent of prime melodic energy. Seemingly, all was well with the world.

However, something uneasy hung in the air, interrupting his bourgeois sang-froid. Earlier that day, he had become aware of several gaudily colored bills hung up on the entrance gate, advertising what was listed as the "theatrical triumph of the new century". This was slated to be a staged collaboration between one "Lou Reed" and the aforementioned "Metallica."

As he struggled half-consciously to put his dread into words, the phone rang. At the other end of the line was an airy, hissy, rasp. "Sniffalov!", it unceremoniously announced. "We have reports of an enemy of the motherland lurking abroad. It seems that he has joined forces with a heavy metal band from California. They call themselves, ahem, "Metallica." We require you to investigate this matter and, if possible, put a stop to it."

"And just how do you expect me to accomplish such a feat?", Sniffalov challenged. "An opportunity will undoubtedly present itself" was the unequivocal, yet craftily open-ended reply. "Hmmph", the Inspector retorted as the line went dead. He now realized the full extent of the misgivings he had been suffering. Indeed, his nostrils were now filled with the sour stench of an imposture about to be perpetrated on an unsuspecting public. He drew on his overcoat, pocketed his service revolver, and left for the theater.

As he neared the grand edifice of the Shoreline, he reflected on what he knew of this "Lou Reed." During his time in Petersburg, he had heard rumors of a nebulous "Velvet Underground." This had appeared to be an organization that specialized in titillating shiftless serfs and day-laborers with scurrilous tales of heroin addiction, sleazy sex, and general depravity under the guise of "experimental music."

Upon being broken up by the Okhrana, it had turned out to be nothing but an overhyped agglomeration of poorly tuned guitars and a screechy viola. "Lou Reed" had then fled to the West, starting a solo career with lyrical odes to sadomasochism a la "Vicious" as well as a double-album of badly recorded amplifier feedback. Interestingly, "Reed" had also recorded a quasi-romantic ballad called "Perfect Day", an ode to domestic banality that ended with the foreboding line, "You're gonna reap just what you sow."

Meanwhile, "Metallica" had arisen from the California "thrash" scene, nattering on about hitting the lights, riding the lighting, and the concept of justice for some but, apparently, not all. Sniffalov's keen analytical mind had been able to make little sense of these ravings, even as his nostrils had detected more than a slight whiff of hypocrisy. From giving the middle figure to the "industry", they had quickly become darlings of the establishment, even appearing at awards ceremonies hosted by President Taft.

Dismissing these idle conjectures, Sniffalov presented his Inspector's badge at the front office of the theater. Upon admission, he strode through the sumptuous Art Deco-styled hallway, ultimately taking a seat near the front of the stage. At 8 p.m. sharp, the curtain rose. The theater was immediately filled with the sound of lazy acoustic strumming, accompanied by a rheumatic whine which took the Inspector several seconds to recognize as "Lou Reed's" current "singing" voice.

The spotlights rose to fever pitch as the band kicked into full gear. "Small town girl!" their lead singer, one "Jaymz" commenced to roar, even as "Reed" continued to pour out his arrhythmic word salad. Sniffalov had heard hushed musings of the effects of late-stage syphilis on the minds of narcissistic "artistes." As "Reed" blathered on and on about legs, tits, and Nosferatu, he judged that the would-be rebel had indeed fallen victim to the dreaded "souvenir of Paris."

Sniffalov consulted the program that the theater attendant had helpfully furnished him. The tune in question, one "Brandenburg Gate", consisted of little more than a snail-paced repetition of a single half-baked riff. The voices of "Jaymz" and "Reed" trampled over each other, with no regard for symmetry or plot exposition. As he scanned the libretto, he noted references to pedophilia, scatology, whips, chains, and general contempt for the existing social order. In the case of "Reed", such sentiments, however ill-formed, were undoubtedly genuine. What "Metallica" stood to gain through this misguided collaboration was another question entirely.

The next selection on the program proved to be something entitled "The View." For a moment, the Inspector perked up in his plush velour-backed seat, as his nostrils detected a slight tang of something actually resembling metal music. However, this quickly proved to be little more than a red herring as the tune soon ground to a halt amid "Reed's" endless, pointless, and tuneless ruminations on coffins, pain, and evil.

As Sniffalov wondered what in the Tsar's frozen tundra it all could mean, the voice of "Jaymz" suddenly cut through the haze of "Reed's" atonal delusions. As it rang out, the body of the burly, mustachioed lead singer was lowered down upon the stage. He had been cleverly fitted into a life-sized bit of furniture, the kind that was common in workshops all over the world. As he reached the footlights, he helpfully explained this unforeseen plot development by identifying himself at the top of his lungs as "The Table."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sniffalov found his attention wandering. The performance continued, revealing fresh new lyrical revelations along the lines of "Little doggie face to a cold-hearted pussy" and "Where most have passion, I got a hole." Slowly but painfully, the spectacle ground its way to the inexorable conclusion. A nearly motionless parody of Metallica's ballad style, listed in the program as "Junior Dad", petered out halfway through into an interminable repetition of tuneless guitar feedback. At least, so it seemed to Sniffalov, who had finally given in to desperate boredom, nodding off after the first verse.

Suddenly, the Inspector was shaken out of his stupor by the sound of screaming theater denizens. His nostrils were filled with the acrid odor of smoke and flames. He jerked out of his seat, whipping his head around to locate the source of the trouble. As a member of the Coney Island Fire Brigade passed by him, he heard the man yelling, but could not quite make out the words. All he could catch was a mention of "some stupid with a flare gun" who had apparently "burned the place to the ground."

Gripping his service revolver, Sniffalov made haste to the back of fhe building. His keen senses had already prepared him for what he would encounter. As "Lou Reed" and the hapless "Metallica" were plucked from the smoldering wreckage, he turned in anger to the attending police. "Officer! Take notice of these scoundrels! This older one, "Lou Reed", is a notorious hooligan whose mockery of dramatic form has enabled him to swindle thousands of delusional critics and even a few unwitting music fans!"

As "Reed" was led away in cuffs, the Inspector turned to face the hapless group of Bay Area "thrash" merchants. "As for you, I demand that you cease immediately this artistic "posing" and return to your roots. You have a bright future ahead of you as long as you concentrate on mediocre radio-friendly "active rock." But be warned: Other eyes than mine will be watching you!"

Whilst turning to depart from the sordid spectacle, he was accosted by a cub reporter in a newsboy cap. "Inspector! What grade would you give tonight's performance?" Sniffalov paused for a moment, then answered, "One point for the institution of democracy that allowed this ludicrous imposture to be staged in the first place. Also, one further for the noble art of music, no matter level of depravity it may reach in the wrong hands."