Fact: This is the worst album ever recorded by professional musicians. I've listened to the latest Jane's Addiction and Red Hot Chili Peppers, so I am ably prepared to be your musical Dutch uncle and guide you through this morass of absurd talk-rocking nonsense.
This is a collaboration between a toupee-wearing Lou Reed and a droopy Metallica, sodden with insecurity about where and how they fit into rock and roll's pantheon. I'm not ageist. Oldsters like Keith Morris, Buzzo and Lemmy continue to do great work (granted, Lemmy is mostly bald and dyes his beard...with raven's blood!), but Metallica is foundering, seeking a way to appear "relevant" or "interesting" or "smart." Lou has nothing to lose. He recorded Metal Machine Music and manages to still have fans. Notably, both Metallica and Reed have been making junk albums since the early '90s, so it makes sense they'd get in cahoots.
Any butt-dart who reviews Lulu as other than heinous is a lout pretending to be in on something the rest of us just aren't smart enough to get. Oh, what does it sound like? It sounds like the slowed moans of Jerry Lewis humping on a sperm whale's bloated corpse.