Words and terms I often use to describe how I feel about music these days are usually these: bland, uninspired, derivative, empty, unfeeling and homogenically subversive to the point of unironic conformity. Compounding these problems facing the creation of rock are the two antitheses of musical theory (those filled with eltitist highbrows, who in looking down from ivory towers may even be more concerned with genres and buzzwords than songs) and musical practice (those who, in a libertarian manner, provide only the bare amount of sustenance for a musical appetite to be satiated, leaving listeners who are inquisitive for more than what they are simply given behind). This exclusionary attitude portrays rock as either an imagistic, crystallized art or a simple, sentimental way to enjoy oneself, but very rarely is rock seen as both these things. Add into this mix an amblivolous television media concerned with only rock's periphery and rarely rock music ITSELF, I am finding it harder and harder to believe that the supposed juggernaut that pretends it is rock, that social instigater, the residency of poets and dreamers and the unifier of peoples can maintain its dwindling relevancy. Basically, rock music sounds like it is becoming scared. In this environment, the modern listener is invariably jaded and alienated to the point of cliche (under which I probably fall). Whenever I feel like this, that rock is an anarchic musical fossil devoid of any gifts to offer, I listen to "Sweet Jane". With the very first angelic chimes leading into Lou Reed's cocky strut to the final hallowed refrain, all of rock's putrid crass commercial sins are absolved, its dogmas destroyed, its alienating walls crumble and rock and roll, encapsulated in four beautiful, transecendent, perfect minutes, is fully redeemed. And for that I will always be grateful. That is what Loaded means to me.