Lou Reed tried to sell us on a Harlem heroin score being cool, even if he was feeling “more dead than alive.” Tina Harvey went to the same dealer, but she was just jonesing. Gone is the jangly swagger of the Velvets uptown jaunt - she and her band tear a blister across the cover, slipping on the worn out steps of the old brownstone, grasping perilously against the stair railing. The guitar picks away quietly but aggressively in the background, coursing in and out of the slamming rhythm. On the back-half, a chorus of Lovin’ Spoonful-esque ahh’s . . .
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