Coley's eulogy is very clearly rushed, slapdash -- shitty.
Legs McNeil trots out the same three Lou mem'ries he's traded on for the past several decades, and they're even dimmer now than they were the first dozen times 'round.
Christgau can, at the very least, write. Coley has flashes of illumination, but every time I read him (and, for that matter, pretty much any grad of Forced Exposure U), I sense insecure posturing and hollow nihilistic affectations (a la Meltzer, who could also write). See: Albini.
I'm not all that affected by Lou's passing, but I did give the third LP a spin at work the other day 'cuz it was the only VU I'd handy. The solo on "What Goes On" sounded particularly great. But then I remembered Loaded, and the subsequent horrible (and never-ending!) solo career, and the putrid bobbleheaded cult o' personality -- hey, at least David Crosby cut one really good solo LP -- and after threading through a litany of dime/duz Facebook eulogies and etc., I felt every bit the hollow husk of a whogivesafuck this side of the morning's unmade bed. I stepped out to grab a cup of coffee while the rec continued to play, and some tourist bought it when I returned.
Hey: Lou was tin-pan alley with a pulse. He wasn't an artist. Which is fine -- he didn't have to be. (Cale did.) But he definitely thought of himself that way, and the recs he made under those pretenses aren't fit to line a birdcage. And now the pulse is gone, and I've still never read any grand stories about a rock journo decking the guy in his face. What Christgau wouldn't say is that Lou, of all the world's bitchiest rockers, would've deserved it.
RIP, Lou.