Lou Reed died on my birthday. So, that evening, I set aside the cards and crisps to read the tributes and obituaries rapidly filling websites and social media. Understandably, people were shocked and sad. To many, Reed appeared a permanent fixture in the rock landscape – like Keith Richards, he was grizzled and gnarled but venerable and invincible. Men like Lou aren’t supposed to die.
Thanks to the undeniable influence of his work with the Velvet Underground and as a solo performer, the famous – from Iggy to Bobby Gillespie – added their voices to the flush of tributes. Reed’s death genuinely felt like an unwelcome milestone in music history, which is why fans and DJs, writers and singers, critics and musos didn’t hesitate to publish their appreciation of the man. I just wonder whether he’d have given a hoot.
Thanks to the undeniable influence of his work with the Velvet Underground and as a solo performer, the famous – from Iggy to Bobby Gillespie – added their voices to the flush of tributes. Reed’s death genuinely felt like an unwelcome milestone in music history, which is why fans and DJs, writers and singers, critics and musos didn’t hesitate to publish their appreciation of the man. I just wonder whether he’d have given a hoot.
Lewis Allan Reed was born in Brooklyn at the height of World War Two, in 1942 – and he was surrounded by conflict throughout his life. As a teenager, his bi-sexuality was noticed by disapproving authorities, who subjected him to electro-convulsive therapy by way of a ‘cure’. Once established as a musician, his relationship with patron and mentor Andy Warhol, whom he adored, was dogged by friction. When the pop-artist insisted the Velvet Underground take the model Nico as their singer, Reed angrily objected (although he did go on to write songs for her).
Even within the band, Lou despised stability. He eventually fired Nico, co-founder John Cale and incredibly, Warhol himself. Consistently volatile and irascible (barely adequate descriptors), upset and confrontation were as much a part of his make-up as lyrical brilliance, and a fascination with life’s seamier territories.
‘Transformer’ wasn’t Reed’s first solo album (that was the almost forgotten ‘Lou Reed’) but it was certainly his most significant. A near perfect collection, and a collaboration with David Bowie and Mick Ronson, it was a huge success, making Lou a proper rock star. Typically, he resented the achievement almost immediately, feeling the record had nullified any work which may follow. Many artists claim they don’t much care whether their songs sell or not, Lou Reed was actively disgusted by his hits. He was driven by an ambition to bring the sensibilities of the novel to the rock album, but never, ever, by the desire to be liked. Quite the opposite. With a grinding inevitability, he later made an enemy of Bowie.
If art’s intention is to inspire and challenge, Reed’s focus was firmly on the latter – the former merely a by-product of his talent. Perhaps unfortunately, this combative attitude wasn’t restricted to his music. Reports of ruined interviews, trashed by perceived offence and terminated by stubborn walk-outs, are legion. Whether Lou was really a die-hard misanthrope, or simply got his kicks from generating discomfort and intimidation, he never let on. Nevertheless, it’s obvious he derived satisfaction from conjuring bad feeling, leaving frustration and bitterness in his wake. Psychologists would call this a ‘defence mechanism’, a fortress of comfort thrown up by a fragile and vulnerable psyche. Possibly so, but cold comfort to those who simply wished to make a connection with an artist they admired.
Of course, there was more to Lou Reed than rancour and attitude. He married twice, his first wife was the designer Sylvia Morales and they were together for a decade – an eternity in American showbusiness. His second marriage was to the performance artist Laurie Anderson. Friends and associates confirm they were a devoted couple and Anderson writes movingly about their last days together here.
So perhaps, across the years, the rest of us have been witnessing nothing more than a performance. Or at least a gross exaggeration of the real Lou Reed. A character designed to represent the ultimate moody, arrogant, tortured artist. Maybe he was defying us to engage us, pushing the world away to draw it closer to his vision.
Lou recorded ‘Metal Machine Music’ in 1975. Despite intricate examination of the record, by countless devotees, it is simply a grating slab of feedback. However, it does have merit as a perfect reflection of Reed’s public persona: difficult to enjoy, brutal, alienating and impersonal, but somehow fascinating, dangerous and excitingly subversive.
Lou Reed didn’t expect or demand praise, acclaim and adoration for ‘Metal Machine Music’. It was what it was, and your reaction was your business. He felt the same way about himself.
Even within the band, Lou despised stability. He eventually fired Nico, co-founder John Cale and incredibly, Warhol himself. Consistently volatile and irascible (barely adequate descriptors), upset and confrontation were as much a part of his make-up as lyrical brilliance, and a fascination with life’s seamier territories.
‘Transformer’ wasn’t Reed’s first solo album (that was the almost forgotten ‘Lou Reed’) but it was certainly his most significant. A near perfect collection, and a collaboration with David Bowie and Mick Ronson, it was a huge success, making Lou a proper rock star. Typically, he resented the achievement almost immediately, feeling the record had nullified any work which may follow. Many artists claim they don’t much care whether their songs sell or not, Lou Reed was actively disgusted by his hits. He was driven by an ambition to bring the sensibilities of the novel to the rock album, but never, ever, by the desire to be liked. Quite the opposite. With a grinding inevitability, he later made an enemy of Bowie.
If art’s intention is to inspire and challenge, Reed’s focus was firmly on the latter – the former merely a by-product of his talent. Perhaps unfortunately, this combative attitude wasn’t restricted to his music. Reports of ruined interviews, trashed by perceived offence and terminated by stubborn walk-outs, are legion. Whether Lou was really a die-hard misanthrope, or simply got his kicks from generating discomfort and intimidation, he never let on. Nevertheless, it’s obvious he derived satisfaction from conjuring bad feeling, leaving frustration and bitterness in his wake. Psychologists would call this a ‘defence mechanism’, a fortress of comfort thrown up by a fragile and vulnerable psyche. Possibly so, but cold comfort to those who simply wished to make a connection with an artist they admired.
Of course, there was more to Lou Reed than rancour and attitude. He married twice, his first wife was the designer Sylvia Morales and they were together for a decade – an eternity in American showbusiness. His second marriage was to the performance artist Laurie Anderson. Friends and associates confirm they were a devoted couple and Anderson writes movingly about their last days together here.
So perhaps, across the years, the rest of us have been witnessing nothing more than a performance. Or at least a gross exaggeration of the real Lou Reed. A character designed to represent the ultimate moody, arrogant, tortured artist. Maybe he was defying us to engage us, pushing the world away to draw it closer to his vision.
Lou recorded ‘Metal Machine Music’ in 1975. Despite intricate examination of the record, by countless devotees, it is simply a grating slab of feedback. However, it does have merit as a perfect reflection of Reed’s public persona: difficult to enjoy, brutal, alienating and impersonal, but somehow fascinating, dangerous and excitingly subversive.
Lou Reed didn’t expect or demand praise, acclaim and adoration for ‘Metal Machine Music’. It was what it was, and your reaction was your business. He felt the same way about himself.
