“Life’s good… but not fair at all”: Deceased Artiste Lou Reed (part 4 of four)

When I talk about Jerry Lewis on the Funhouse TV show, I’ve often noted that his comedy films (particularly the imaginative, charming ones he made with director Frank Tashlin) will be able to be more fully appreciated when Jerry has passed on. Even though he has been mellowing in recent years — and many members of the public who never liked him were saddened by him being booted from the telethon — Jerry’s abrasive attitude in public has served as the biggest obstacle to his comedy work being appreciated.

The same is true of Lou Reed. Now that he has left this mortal coil, he is no longer around to be rude to interviewers, so what is left is his truest legacy: his music (and yes, those pieces by Bangs I explored in the second part of this piece will live on forever, but those are also about Lester’s worship of Lou’s best music).

We can now explore the 22 studio albums he put out — plus the legally released live albums, which range from the best (Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal) to later experimental items with the “Metal Machine Trio” (not counting the literally hundreds of live bootlegs on the Net) to absolute crap (Take No Prisoners) — without having to think of Lou's abrasive interludes. 

Now onto the Reed solo-career discography, without “lettered” grades, since we know how much Lou hated Christgau’s rating system (wonder what he thought of Entertainment Weekly's appropriation thereof). 

First, I should suggest if you’re intrigued by any of this stuff, or just want to hear any one of *dozens* of Reed bootlegs, check out the YT accounts of a RABID Lou fan, who says he’s posting items given to him by a super-fan named “Lyoko.” His two accounts are here and here; his postings are comprised of 21 of the legally released albums and literally countless full concerts from the Seventies through the 2000s. 

Since the Net contains too many fucking Top 10 lists already, I will include one and only one in this piece. My top tier of Lou albums would be these 10 (ordered chronologically):

1-4.) The Velvet Underground albums (available together as the CD box set Peel Slowly and See)

5.) Transformer

6.) Berlin

7.) The Blue Mask (the harder, angst-ridden songs)

8.) New York

9.) Songs for Drella

10.) Magic and Loss 

And, to a lesser degree, his eponymous first solo LP from ’72, Sally Can't Dance and the tongue-in-cheek LP that is Coney Island Baby. Metal Machine Music is up near the top tier simply because it is aggressive and insane, thus worthy of a mind-fuck or two.

I’ll close out this obit with a discussion of the last three items on that list, but first I want to explore the “middle-period” Reed, which contains a handful of great songs and some LPs that are just heinously lame:

The “Arista Years”:

Rock and Roll Heart ('76): the title tune is all that you need to hear from this directionless “interim” album.

Street Hassle ('78): the title tune and “We're Gonna Have a Real Good Time” (which Patti Smith covered wonderfully in concert) are the sole standouts.

The Bells: not one good tune on the fucking disk. “Disco Mystic” is particularly abominable, time you won’t be getting back.

Growing Up in Public ('80): Lou confronts his alcoholism for the first time on this album, with a startlingly unflattering photo on the cover (he looked much worse for the wear at only 38 years of age). He complains about his parents, preaches that we should “Teach the Gifted Children,” and in one song rhymes “Escher” with “Measure for Measure.” The sole virtue is his tongue-in-cheek ode to booze, “Power of Positive Drinking.”

In 1982, Lou returned to RCA and put out his first truly powerful album since Berlin, The Blue Mask. In relistening to it to write this piece, I realized that the record is half-masterpiece/half-Arista-level material. The worst item is definitely “Heavenly Arms” (the aforementioned Lou-bellowing-about-Sylvia song I referred to in the first paragraph of the first part of this entry). It's goddamned dreadful.

On the other hand, the album contains four songs that are back in the traumatic groove that Lou pioneered with the Velvet Underground. “Underneath the Bottle” and “The Gun” are disturbing numbers that sketch a man on the edge; “The Blue Mask” and “Waves of Fear” are on a level with the finest VU work.

The strength of these songs comes no doubt from the fact that Lou was in the midst of cleaning up after years of booze and drugs when he wrote them; they also benefit from a stripped-down approach – just Lou performing with Fernando Saunders (bass), Doane Perry (drums), and the amazing Robert Quine on guitar. One thing is certain: they are closest that rock has come to approximating the work of the brilliant novelist Hubert Selby.

“Waves of Fear” is delirium tremens in musical form: “Crazy with sweat, spittle on my jaw/what's that funny noise, what's that on the floor/Waves of fear, pulsing with death/I curse my tremors, I jump at my own step/I cringe at my terror, I hate my own smell/I know where I must be, I must be in hell.”

“Blue Mask” is a masochistic anthem, a lyric that reeks of self-loathing and pain worship: “Make the sacrifice/mutilate my face/If you need someone to kill/I'm a man without a will/Wash the razor in the rain/let me luxuriate in pain/Please don't set me free/death means a lot to me.” (I'll take bets a young Mr. Reznor was listening.)

That was basically it for Lou's Selby-like trip. On his next LP he went full-throttle into the biker/tough-guy pose he kept up for most of the Eighties. Legendary Hearts ('83) is a mostly forgettable album, that includes one more fatalistic addiction ode (“The Last Shot”), and Lou putting us on notice that he's happy and doing well financially (“Rooftop Garden”).

New Sensations ('84) spawned the song “I Love You, Suzanne” that broke Lou on MTV (see part 3 of this blog entry). At this point he's still in transition (Lou's transition lasted more than a decade and a half), still trying to find the right vocal style for his lyrics.

The most-indulgent, yet enjoyably nostalgic, song on the record is “Doin' the Things That We Want to,” a “where-did-this-come-from?” tribute to the works of Sam Shepherd and Martin Scorsese, in which he considers both men colleagues (the song is lively and sounds like a plea from Lou for collaboration with either or both of them).

In 1987, Lou tried to inject a “danceable” note to his music in the album Mistrial. “Video Violence” and “The Original Wrapper” show Reed trying to be audience-friendly and retain his new MTV following. He also executed a sort of dry run for the New York album with the topical lyrics of “Video Violence.” The slower songs were still a drag, however.

****

It's impossible to call the 1989 New York album by Reed a “comeback,” since he had never gone away, but it most certainly was a return to form, and the first completely excellent album from start to finish since Berlin. Working at the height of his powers here, Lou turned out a “newspaper” album, the kind of thing that Phil Ochs did in '64 (All the News That's Fit to Sing) and Lennon took a stab at in '72 with Some in New York City.

What Lou wound up delivering was the rock equivalent of Bonfire of the Vanities, a time capsule that is filled with beautifully sketched portraits of big city life and political issues in the late Eighties, with the references unrepentantly dated and localized to New York City.

Some of the self-righteous anger (especially in “Good Morning Mr. Waldheim”) doesn't make for the best rock “poetry” – in fact, it's clunky as hell – but New York is the first album where Reed perfectly matched his limited vocal range to the melodies.

He also crafted a “character” that suited him, a cranky chronicler of a city (and civilization) in decline that is touted as being on the “upswing” (Guiliani is one of the many real-life figures who are namechecked and/or mocked on the album). The clear, pure sound of one of Reed's idols, Dion, counterpointed with Lou's own sardonic, nasal narration, make “Dirty Boulevard” unforgettable on both a musical and “storytelling” level.

Reed followed the New York album with Songs for Drella ('90), a suite of songs he cowrote and performed with John Cale in tribute to Andy Warhol. This is the album that would've most likely made the best Lou Reed off-Broadway show, since (aside from Lou's fervent “I Believe,” about his wishes that they had killed Valerie Solanas for shooting his hero Andy) the songs are primarily written from the perspective of a single character (Andy) and the stripped-down sound created by Lou on guitar and Cale on piano and violin is both economical and powerful as hell.

In the album, Reed and Cale alternate vocals, with Cale assuming the quiet, public side of Warhol and Lou incarnating his professional and conceptual side (plus the anger that he never seemed to have expressed). The fact that the two were back together again, making music for the first time since 1967, was amazing, and the resulting show/album was nothing short of brilliant – Lou had to up his game when Cale was around (the Welsh one being a schooled musician who dwelt in the real avant-garde before the VU; Lou basically had to create his own little “wing” of the underground).

The back-and-forth between their instruments (as on the VU live reunion album) makes the music crackle, and the best songs – the sarcastic “Small Town” or the elegaic “Forever Changed” – are what the VU might've sounded like if either of these gents could've stood each other's company for a longer period of time.

And, although Cale was very generous to Lou in the program notes for the show (saying it was mostly Lou's show and he was only a singer/performer), it was essential that there be another voice in the project – Lou could not have carried off the song “The Trouble with Classicists” the way that Cale did.

I saw the live performance of the songs at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and was struck by the use of slides on a big screen behind Reed and Cale. The effect of augmenting the music with Warhol's paintings from the era and photographs of the people and locations was overwhelming. I remember being very disappointed upon purchasing the 1990 VHS version of the show (directed by the great Ed Lachman) to see that the images of Warhol's paintings weren't in the shots.

The VHS version can be seen in piecemeal fashion on YT, but still what you see are the two men playing and singing, not the stuff that was going on above them on the screen, as here in the song that best used the Warhol images, called (fittingly enough), “Images”:

Lou’s last great achievement was Magic and Loss, his '92 album about dealing with the death of a friend (Reed said in interviews that it was inspired by the deaths of two friends of his, one of whom was famed songwriter Doc Pomus). The album continues on from Songs for Drella, with Lou exploring the topic from several angles, from visiting the friend in the hospital to disposing of their ashes and, most touching, dreaming about the person after their death.

Too often Lou surrendered to his pet emotions — anger and angst — in his songwriting, but here he adopts an adult attitude throughout, balancing the sadness of loss with the joy of having loved a friend (and knowing how much they’d scoff at the somber nature of their memorial service). 

Magic and Loss is not as eminently re-listenable a record as his best rock albums because it so sad at points, but it does place Lou in the category of the great singer/songwriters, who crafted a musical identity for themselves while delivering sober truths in song. It’s also, needless to say, an incredibly “middle-aged” album, as it deals with one of the most common situations we encounter after age 40. And one of middle age’s most common emotions: regret. 

There are things we say we wish we knew and in fact we never do
but I'd wish I'd known that you were going to die
Then I wouldn't feel so stupid, such a fool that I didn't call
and I didn't get a chance to say goodbye
I didn't get a chance to say goodbye

No there's no logic to this - who's picked to stay or go
if you think too hard it only makes you mad

But your optimism made me think you really had it beat
so I didn't get a chance to say goodbye
I didn't get a chance to say goodbye
No - I didn't get a chance to say goodbye
I didn't get a chance to say goodbye 

And if the beautifully elegiac tunes don’t do it for you, there’s also an extremely Selby-esque “short story” called “Harry’s Crucifixion” that finds Lou back in “Blue Mask” mode, although in a quiet, calmer fashion and with a Freudian “back story” this time….

******
The single best way to end this long-assed tribute to Lou Reed is to highlight the one song I’ve played more than ANY other Reed-related item (in fact I used it as the theme to the Funhouse for a very short while many years ago). It appears on the Velvet Underground rarities album Another View (’86), and I’ve found it’s one of those indisputably upbeat, hard-driving numbers that will jumpstart me in even the lowest of moods.

The VU with Cale in Dec. ’67 doing the instrumental version of “Guess I’m Falling in Love.”

Goodbye, Lou, you hard-rockin’ pain in the ass!

Darker Velvet: Deceased Artiste Lou Reed (part 1 of four)

Lou Reed took himself very seriously. At times that made him a great artist. At others it made him a nasty son of a bitch. At still others it made him an imminently satirizable figure (who wound up not being satirized, mostly because he was a cult icon but never a massive mainstream success). Now that he has departed this mortal coil, we can deal with what mattered most, his music, the best and the worst, the songs that will hopefully remain around forever (“Sweet Jane,” "Satellite of Love," “Dirty Boulevard”) and those that should've never seen a legal release (that one where he bellows about his then-wife Sylvia, sounding like John in the worst throes of Yoko-worship). But before I get to the music, let's just review what we can call, for lack of a better term, the prickish side of Mr. Lou Reed.

Reed was certainly an NYC institution, but not a friendly one. That seemed to have changed after he and Laurie Anderson became “an old couple” together – they'd could constantly be run into attending events downtown, out in Brooklyn, or in Lincoln Center.

They performed regularly, either together or separately, at events produced by their good friend, the wonderfully talented Hal Willner. They even dressed up in silly outfits and served as “king and queen” of the Mermaid Parade at Coney Island. Through it all, Laurie remained a sort of smiling beacon; Lou, on the other hand, maintained a really good glower.

Even as his lifestyle mellowed, Lou maintained an adversarial – no, let's be honest, a hostile – relationship with the press. His standard line was that he loathed journalists. What was interesting about that (and very telling) was that it was journalists who created Lou Reed.

He was certainly a musician's musician (cue the Eno quote about the folks who bought VU albums), but he also was lionized and mythologized in the press. Rock critics treated him very seriously, and although they did pan his work – and a LOT of the criticism was merited, let's be honest (I'm a fan, folks) – they also helped him craft a public persona as a “poet of the streets” and “punk forefather.”

I remember reading an interview in a British mag just a few years back where Lou got pissy with a gent who was merely asking him about the various grades of guitars he'd used over the years. This after Lou had mellowed out and could've become the kind of genteel, classy “elder statesman” that various singer/songwriters have become (Leonard Cohen is the very ideal of this).

He felt a need, though, to tell off interviewers and maintain a hostile position to the press, even as the press kept throwing garlands at his feet (even when his work wildly missed the mark – but I'll talk about “The Raven” soon enough). Let's run through some history....

****

Although Lou hated it (or perhaps, precisely because Lou hated it), the Victor Bockris book Transformer offers us a look at the many guises of Mr. Reed throughout the years. Bockris' preceding book, written with “Exploding Plastic Inevitable” member Gerard Malanga, Up-tight: The Velvet Underground Story, sketches how Lou and the band were broken on the “scene” by Andy Warhol, and how, once they had moved away from the Warhol camp, Lou tossed out the immensely talented John Cale (his main rival for leadership of the group) and then estranged the other two members (especially Sterling Morrison) by mixing them “down” on the band's third, self-titled LP (you can hear the original mix on the VU box set).

Lou was a literary-minded guy who wanted to break into rock 'n' roll badly, so badly that he toiled for the amazing Pickwick Records, which just appropriated trends from the major labels and had their “house writers” come up with songs that sounded like the hits. Here is the best example of his work from that period, “Cycle Annie.” Notice the chuckle in his voice here – he knows this stuff is crap, but in fact it's really fun, solid rock 'n' roll:

The Pickwick Records are not the weirdest early Lou recordings you can hear. Those would have to be the 1965 demo tape (found on the VU CD box set) that the three piece Velvets did of songs in a funky folk vein (with a fucking harmonica!). Here is their bluesy, seemingly endless version of “I'm Waiting for the Man.” Lou's whiny voice is absolutely bizarre – you'd never believe that would be the same guy whose “pretty voice” would be found on the opening VU song “Sunday Morning”:

The four Velvet Underground albums are indeed perfection – although some fans prefer the first two because the clear tension between Reed and Cale was what “fueled” the band, the third and fourth LPs are perfect examples of Reed's young, acid-tinged genius. Here is an “interview” with Lou conducted by famed producer Tom Wilson in 1967 (this, of course, before his “rival” had left the band):

The Velvets' albums are easily available all over the Internet (and have been rhapsodized about by better souls than I), but a few of the artifacts have to be seen to be experienced. One is the Warhol film of the Velvets jamming with Nico (and her kid) in tow (which has been on and off YouTube for years, thanks to the furor of the Warhol estate). Here it is, from Italian TV, with the MoMA intro card left intact!

The other is the mini- “reunion” that occurred when Lou and John Cale played with Nico in Bataclan in '72; it was a magical musical occurrence that wouldn't happen again – Cale would work with Nico often, and Lou and Cale would collaborate on “Songs for Drella” and the VU reunion tour. You can see the TV broadcast of highlights from the '72 concert here.

The best account of Lou's solo career can, as mentioned above, be found in the Bockris biography (also a debunking of his tales of a terrible childhood – probably the reason he hated the book so much).

Even when seemingly stoned (watch him slurp at his drink!) in interviews, as here (in Australia in '74), he did the Dylan-in-'65 thing of being sarcastic and acting as if the interviewers weren't worthy of his time (although it's obnoxious as hell, it clearly works – the folks can't wait to write about ya when you're a rude asshole to them). At this point he was still in his glam phase, replete with dyed hair and nail polish:

That is indeed a funny strategy when dealing with mainstream, “square” interviewers, but as time went on that became Lou's default mode. Here you see a British interviewer talking about how you could warm Lou up by talking about old rock singles:

And you can see a fledgling interviewer whose English isn't very good going through the traumatic experience of having Lou as one of his first interviews. Sure, the editors, knowing Lou's rep as a dick with interviewers, should've sent someone who actually knew something about Reed's music to talk to him, but Lou really seems to love playing cat-and-mouse with this young guy.

Friend Steve suggested that Lou “does a great imitation of Jerry Lewis” in the interview above, and there's a lot to be said about the similarities between the two performers – although I do think Jerry would've been kinder to a foreign interviewer than Lou was. I've been trying to verify a story I read once that said that Lou was kicked off his college radio station for doing a nasty impression of Jerry Lewis (has anyone got a tape of that?), but it is indeed true that the mannerisms of both men when pissed off at journalists are quite the same.

Let me close out this part of my tribute (yes, I actually really love a whole bunch of Lou's music!) with two interviews from very different periods in his life. First, let's start with the recent years – I will cite in the next part the album I think that was a watershed, in that he was finest personal statement and his last truly great album from start to finish. After that he involved himself in a bunch of projects that stretched him as an artist but were really misguided, uninteresting, or just plain awful on a musical level.

One of his most laid-back projects ever was a “quiet” album of mediation music called Hudson River Wind Meditations. So by the time that came out (2007) he was a “mellow” individual who had a perfect life mate, had won extreme honors in his profession, and had done whatever the fuck he had wanted in music and had it all released by major labels. So did that make him a nicer guy? Well, why don't you read David Marchese's interview in Spin from 2010?

Lou expects his interviewer by that point to know his work cold, does not want to be asked about whether he exposed listeners to the gay lifestyle (he answers snottily and then stares at Marchese when that topic is mentioned), and really gets riled when asked about the possibly commercial enterprises he did like that silly-ass Honda ad (when he was in his “muscle-Lou” phase), complaining that has “nothing to do with music.”

After barking at Marchese for asking him about tai chi (which supposedly became Lou's one major past time and fascination – some folks like to talk about that stuff; ever read David Lynch talking about TM?), he tells the interviewer he's “not interested in music” and declares “we're done talking.” This from the man who crafted Hudson River Wind Meditations....

But to really get the feel of Lou being a jerk to an interviewer you have to go back to primo Lou, back to when he was still writing great songs (albeit maybe two or three per album of 10 or 12 – I've got too many of 'em, kiddies). In 1978 the great writer Josh Alan Friedman (whose Tales of Times Square I count among the best books about our burg) was assigned by the Soho Weekly News to interview Lou and told to ask him about Brooklyn by his editors (talk about sending a kid into the lions' den!).

You can read Josh's interview in its entirely on his Black Cracker Online blog, but I'll note that Lou has nothing nice to say about either Brooklyn or Long Island, does get misty about old r&b records and Andy Warhol (side note: what was all the Andy worship about in interviews and Songs for Drella when Warhol's own diaries record the number of times that Lou snubbed him publicly?), and he tells Josh that only good-looking people should be rockstars (not “ugly” Tom Waits, “four-eyed” Elvis Costello, and “niggers like Donna Summer”).

So, go and read the interview – it gets to the point where Lou tells Josh how he would kill him. The most memorable pullquote? “You oughta fuckin’ kiss the ground that you’re walking on that I’m even talking to you. I’ll chew you up on any level you want to get to. You’re a fucking moron, and you oughta fuckin’ know it man, ’cause you don’t know what you’re talking to, or how you’re talking to it.”

Admittedly, Lou was, to put it plainly, a really nasty drunk at this point in his life (cue “The Power of Positive Drinking”). But, again, go back to the 2010 interview above, and you see that Lou has taken the death-threats out of his interviews and the “faggot”/“niggers”/“lowlife Jewish asshole” stuff out of his vocabulary, but he still was a petulant, pissed-off prima donna.

Is there any trace of that Lou on record? Well, I'm sure it exists in several bootlegs, but for some unknown reason, most likely fulfillment of a record contract (personally produced by Lou himself), one of the MOST RIDICULOUS-EVER live albums is Lou's two-record Lou Reed Live: Take No Prisoners, recorded in May 1978 at the Bottom Line in NYC. If you want to hear really *great* Lou Reed live, listen to Rock and Roll Animal and Lou Reed Live (the one to the right). But if you want to hear a NYC rock icon try desperately to sound like Lenny Bruce, and fail, big-time, then check out this atrocity. (It was indeed released on CD and now is available as a legal MP3 download – Lou musta liked it!)

Lou is drunk or stoned (or both) and never stops fucking talking throughout certain songs – and he's less funny than Francis Albert was in his “comedy routine” in the middle of the Sinatra at the Sands LP. During “Sweet Jane”, he goes on about, among other things, Barbra Streisand being condescending at an awards ceremony, people from Wyoming (?), politics, and Henny Youngman. He affects a bitchy pose to those who talk in the audience, but also never stops doing Lenny's nasal voice.

The whole set is really Lou at his most indulgent and awful, but to experience him at his most drunk/stoned/indulgent/rambling/unfunniest, you must hear him doing “Walk on the Walk Side.” He starts the song, returns to the actual lyrics every so often, but mostly conducts an ongoing monologue consisting of short lines that mean nothing at all.

It's a 15-minute abomination that finds him running down Robert Christgau at some length, then moving on to mock the folks mentioned in “Walk,” Candy Darling, Jackie Curtis, “the Sugar-Plum Fairy,” and Joe Dallessandro. At this point Lou clearly thinks he's Ondine in addition to Lenny – but unlike those two, again, Lou is just NOT FUNNY.

The band continues to play the melody, assuming he'll come back to speak-singing the song, but he's relentless in supplying quick quips. Eventually the band ends the tune because, well, he's just not gonna shut up.

The fact that he included one of his more embarrassing tunes, “I Wanna Be Black,” on this LP is entirely appropriate. During a really looooong version of “I'm Waiting for the Man,” he goes back to being Lenny, and even obliquely refers to Groucho's “Show Me a Rose (and I'll Show You a Girl Named Sam),” but at times seems to be talking to himself, not the audience.

In re-listening to the album to write this post, I should note that the only really great things about it are the cover illustration by Brent Bailer and the collage design on the gatefold (and the album sleeves) by Phenografix Inc. and Dennis Weeden.

In the next three parts of this post I'll discuss the one journalist who called Lou out on his bullshit and will finally praise the guy's music.