A 75-minute crash course on the 62-year-old singer, poet, and performance artist for those, like me, familiar with the name but not the work. You’ve heard of New Wave? Lydia’s aggressively insane contributions to music — she champions “unlistenability and unpopularity” — fall under the category No Wave. It’s a rare case that finds me loving an artist and not their art. The sound of her voice hit my ears with the similarly unpleasant sonorousness of a tray of silverware being hurled off a 20-story building. She became sexually promiscuous “in order to wash the taste of my father off my hands” and was strong enough to transform his unspeakable acts into her art. Lydia didn’t eff her way to the top; people effed her to get to the top. Former band mate Jim Sclavunos reveals that one of the prerequisites to joining the band was his agreeing to allow Lydia to relieve him of his virginity. Unable to perform on the spot, an appointment was set for the defloration. He brought the Redi Whip, Coca-Cola, and gum as requested, but rather than seeing them incorporated into the sex act as expected, they turned out to be Lunch’s dinner. Much of what comes out of her mouth is meant to shock, none more than her thoughts on Harvey Weinstein’s victims. (“They couldn’t crack the * of a fat man in a bathrobe?”) And how can you not love someone who describes the cop who assaulted her as “Robert Blake with a cheese-grater complexion.” Beth B directs. (2019) — Scott Marks
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