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So said an unapologetic Lou Reed speaking to MOJO seven weeks before his death. Mark Paytress, who interviewed him during that final encounter, leads our definitive tribute to rock\u2019s ultimate iconoclast as we celebrate a life lived without fear or compromise…<\/p>\n
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Who loves the sun: Lou Reed in 2006<\/p>\n
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IT’S 2013. LOU REED IS JET-LAGGED. He\u2019s also in the early stages of recovery after a liver transplant in May. His elegant, rough diamond voice is now summoned up from the throat, rather than the spleen, but the famous indifference in his drawl is unmistakable. He\u2019s a little more round-shouldered now, and when he rises and walks about at the end of the interview, his frailty is more apparent still.<\/p>\n
A few weeks earlier, Reed had declared himself \u201ca miracle of medicine\u201d, insisting that he was bigger and stronger than ever. It was fighting talk from a man with a long history of sparring, whether with journalists, over whom he always had the upper hand, or with his psyche, an altogether more complicated battle.<\/p>\n
The location is well-chosen. We are in Trident Studios in Soho where, 41 summers ago, Reed created the work upon which his career turned. That was Transformer, and Lou\u2019s here today, on September 4, to remember those times. Looking back is not something he does through choice, but there\u2019s a book to promote, a lavish, atlas-sized visual chronicle of Reed\u2019s \u201970s stylistic reinventions. Phantom of Rock, Rock\u2019n\u2019Roll Animal, Godfather of Punk \u2013 they\u2019re all here and much else besides.<\/p>\n
The book \u2013 also called Transformer \u2013 draws on the work of Reed\u2019s long-time friend and photographer Mick Rock. He\u2019s here too. It\u2019s been a long day, so as they steel themselves for one final interview, Rock and Reed take an unscheduled break as Lou shows off his new Leica camera to a man who knows a thing or two about photography. \u201cIsn\u2019t it wonderful? And the weight,\u201d Reed drools, with Warhol-like wonder. \u201cThis is not a piece of plastic\u2026\u201d It\u2019s several minutes before the Rock\u2019n\u2019Reed Gadget Show grinds to a halt.<\/p>\n
Lou stares at your correspondent impassively and offers an polite \u201cShall we?\u201d As our conversation runs from Transformer to Hollywood via Othello, he is by turns glib, generous, protective, fatigued, funny, passionate and, when the mood takes him, trigger happy. His combative spirit seems intact during one particular moment, suggesting Lou might be in better shape than he looks. \u201cWhy would I?\u201d he grumps, when I ask if he\u2019ll ever write a memoir. \u201cSet what record straight? I am what I am, it is what it is, and\u201d \u2013 bingo! \u2013 \u201cfuck you.\u201d<\/p>\n
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In truth, it\u2019s not as if a Lou Reed autobiography would come with a cast-iron guarantee of total veracity. His interviews have always been a minefield of irony and false trails. Even his lyrics, as plain-speaking and personal as any in rock, are more true to the work than to the author. \u201cPut all the songs together and it\u2019s certainly an autobiography,\u201d he once declared, \u201cbut not necessarily mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was a period in Lou Reed\u2019s life when he wasn\u2019t quite so circumspect. In 1971, several months after he\u2019d walked out on The Velvet Underground, Reed wrote an essay for No One Waved Good-Bye, a 128-page anthology and self-styled \u2018Casualty Report on Rock and Roll\u2019. In Fallen Knights And Fallen Ladies, Reed unpicked the pressures of fame with particular reference to Brian Epstein (\u201ca pawn of circumstance\u201d) and \u201cperfect\u201d Brian Jones. It was a remarkable piece, full of insight and enough empathy to make the reader wonder whether, like Waldo Jeffers in Reed\u2019s 1962 short story (and 1967 song) The Gift, he\u2019d wrapped up his jilted self and mailed it to the world.<\/p>\n
Lou, who\u2019d announced in the spring of \u201971 that he was no longer a singer but a poet, bowed out with a lesson for aspiring rock stars. \u201cPerformer beware,\u201d he cautioned. \u201cIf you come looking for love, come prepared with a thick skin or a thick heart\u2026 Don\u2019t depend on anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n
His decision, though surprising, made sense for Lou\u2019s literary ambition, like his throbbing rock\u2019n\u2019roll heart, was hard-wired. Almost a decade earlier, in 1962, he\u2019d written an untitled piece for the launch issue of a magazine he\u2019d co-founded while at Syracuse University. Its opening sentence was no less transparent: \u201cHe\u2019d always found the idea of copulation distasteful, especially when applied to his own origins.\u201d Sex, disgust, the family\u2026 When John Cale later said that Lou\u2019s best work owed its existence to his upbringing, he was probably right.<\/p>\n
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Home for the young Lewis Reed, born March 2, 1942, was a respectable, ranch-style residence in Freeport, Long Island. Brooklyn, Lou\u2019s birthplace, was just 20 miles away but for his family, aspiring, Jewish and to some extent subjugated by a domineering father, suburbia was seventh heaven. Their son had another name for the place: \u2018Nowhere\u2019.<\/p>\n
Reed\u2019s salvation was the radio, spluttering out rock\u2019n\u2019roll, R&B and his beloved doo wop as if direct from city street corners. \u201cDespite the amputation,\u201d as he sang on Rock & Roll, one of his least contentiously autobiographical songs, the radio stations beamed in from New York reconnected Reed to his roots.<\/p>\n
Any hopes that Lou might help run his father\u2019s accountancy business, or at the very least continue with his piano studies, vanished. As he explained in the Fallen Knights essay, \u201cAt the age when identity is a problem, some people join rock\u2019n\u2019roll bands and perform for other people who share the same difficulties.\u201d<\/p>\n
His entry in the 1959 Freeport High School yearbook \u2013 \u201cno plans, but will take life as it comes\u201d \u2013 speaks volumes about Reed\u2019s early attitude. But he wasn\u2019t indolent. Several months earlier, he\u2019d ventured up to the big city with two classmates, and cut two sides of homespun doo wop.<\/p>\n
The big event in Lou\u2019s early life came shortly after graduating from school in June 1959, when he was pronounced unfit for adult life until he\u2019d undergone a course of electroconvulsive therapy \u2013 thrice weekly for eight weeks. His parents wanted to \u2018cure\u2019 his suspected homosexuality, he explained years later, though depression, and even his disobedient attitude have also been cited as reasons for his treatment.<\/p>\n
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Walk on the wild side: Reed performing live in 1974.<\/p>\n
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In 1974, Kill Your Sons on Sally Can\u2019t Dance raged both at his family and the \u201ctwo-bit\u201d psychiatrists whose actions blew away his memory and who knows what else. But Reed\u2019s eyes, sad and reproving, said as much as any song could: that he has always carried the experience with him. Still, he sometimes managed to joke about it, telling biographer Victor Bockris: \u201cIt was shocking, but I was getting interested in electricity anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
When John Cale first met Reed, late in 1964, he remembered \u201ca highly strung, intelligent, fragile college kid in a polo-neck sweater\u201d partial to mind games. By then, Reed had graduated from Syracuse University in upstate New York, where he\u2019d studied English and philosophy. When not studying, he spun free jazz records on a late night radio show, wrote letters daily to a sweetheart in Chicago named Shelley, and played guitar in numerous no-hoper beat and folk combos. The authorities kept a watchful eye on him, suspecting drugs and homosexual transgressions. He got hepatitis, most likely after a shared drug encounter with \u201ca mashed-in Negro named Jaw\u201d, an experience that would soon provide the inspiration for a song called Heroin. And between 1962 and \u201964, he flourished under a creative writing tutor named Delmore Schwartz.<\/p>\n
Schwartz was a speed freak and an alcoholic, Jewish but in exile from faith, tortured by depression and paranoia, and a writer\/poet who surrendered himself to his largely autobiographical work. That made him the perfect anti-hero for the Long Island renegade. But by July 1966, Schwartz was dead at 52, remembered only by a handful of poets as a gifted man who threw it all away. Lou attended his funeral. Two decades later, he dedicated My House on The Blue Mask to his old mentor. He was, sang Lou, \u201cthe first great man that I had ever met.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was something else Cale remembered about Lou Reed: that he wrote \u201ctwisted folk\u201d and sang like Dylan, but his songs \u201cseemed sorry for themselves\u201d. His lyrics caught Cale\u2019s attention, unflinching reportage from the dark side of the street, material you\u2019d expect to find in the writings of William Burroughs and Hubert Selby Jr but rarely, if ever, in pop. Before teaming up with Reed, Cale was a fixture on the New York avant-garde, playing viola and with a liking for extravagantly long pieces of drone music. Lou, according to Cale\u2019s collaborator Tony Conrad, was simply \u201cpossessed by rock\u2019n\u2019roll\u201d.<\/p>\n
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Everything changed for The Velvet Underground in December 1965, when Pop Art controversialist Andy Warhol caught them at New York\u2019s Caf\u00e9 Bizarre. Within days, they were a significant element in the menagerie of freaks, artists and \u2018Superstars\u2019 who gathered at the artist\u2019s Factory studio.<\/p>\n
\u201cOnce in Warhol\u2019s orbit, they\u2019d assumed they\u2019d get famous fast,\u201d says legendary A&R man Danny Fields, an eager mid-\u201960s scenester. \u201cWhat an acknowledgement to have Warhol create a record cover like that [The Velvet Underground & Nico aka \u2018the Banana album\u2019]! The trouble was, it was like a road sign, so everyone saw it as an Andy Warhol thing. But the truth was that The Velvet Underground were a really great band in their own right.\u201d<\/p>\n
Writer Al Aronowitz, who briefly managed the Velvets before Warhol breezed in, dismissed Reed years later as \u201cnothing but an opportunist fucking junkie\u201d. He was still bitter. But for all Reed\u2019s admiration for Warhol \u2013 who, especially after the artist\u2019s death, he often mentioned, usually uttering the words \u201cgenius\u201d or \u201clove\u201d in the same breath \u2013 he felt that the artist\u2019s sponsorship of the band was swallowing them up out of existence.<\/p>\n
At the height of 1967\u2019s Summer of Love, in a clear act of cultural patricide, Reed dumped Warhol. Some insist it might have had something to do with money, that royalties from the debut album were imminent and the band didn\u2019t want to share them. But mostly the split was fuelled by a desire to be accepted on their own terms.<\/p>\n
Nevertheless, Reed knew he owed a huge debt to Warhol. Though he\u2019d been writing about drugs, dark alleys and going insane long before they\u2019d crossed paths, Warhol\u2019s decadent milieu gave him access to characters that would inhabit his work for years. And though it seemed oppressive at the time, Warhol\u2019s blessing and all that went with it invested Reed\u2019s work with the kind of aura that money couldn\u2019t buy. Above all, Lou noted the simple techniques that the artist employed to protect his emotional centre \u2013 sunglasses, deadpan fa\u00e7ade, and \u201cEr, yes, er, no\u201d answers to prying questions.<\/p>\n
While film-maker Paul Morrissey remembered Reed as \u201can uncomfortable performer\u201d during the Factory era, others have spoken of a far more complicated, confrontational nature. To Sterling Morrison, Reed\u2019s \u201cfragmented personality\u201d meant it was virtually impossible to second-guess his mood. Nat Finkelstein, the photojournalist and The Factory\u2019s iconographer, was far more direct in his assessment to Victor Bockris, telling him that Reed was \u201cabout as fragile as a piece of stainless steel\u201d.<\/p>\n
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The Velvet Underground, 1967: All punk, alt, cult and indie rock start here<\/p>\n
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Reed\u2019s complex personality also seemed ingrained in the music itself. Whether hissing and spitting his way through Black Angel\u2019s Death Song on the first album, or remixing I Heard Her Call My Name on the follow-up, White Light\/White Heat, so that his maniacal guitar solos genuinely assault the senses, it was clear that Reed sometimes regarded his music as a weapon. \u201cOne of my finest hours,\u201d he told me in 2009, recalling the impact of those incendiary solos. \u201cEverybody ran for cover\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
The Factory-reconditioned Lou, or \u2018Lulu\u2019, was also capable of \u201cspit[ting] out the sharpest rebukes\u201d, recalled Cale. The often toxic atmosphere that pervaded Warhol\u2019s coterie of misfits did wonders in quickening his already acid tongue. Singer Nico, briefly Lou\u2019s lover and added to the line-up at Warhol\u2019s request, put Reed\u2019s anger down to the \u201ccombination of all the pills he takes\u201d. As the focus for the spotlight, and much of the band\u2019s publicity, she was often on the receiving end. \u201cLou was the boss,\u201d she shrugged.<\/p>\n
Despite being the dominant figure in the group, Reed still needed to make sure of his own role. Once he\u2019d engineered her departure, he had the exclusive right to sing the songs he wrote. The following year, he offered Morrison and Tucker a him-or-me ultimatum that saw off the increasingly formidable John Cale too. By autumn 1968, there was no doubt that The Velvet Underground was Reed\u2019s band.<\/p>\n
After the coup, a calm of sorts \u2013 although new songs like I\u2019m Set Free and Beginning To See The Light were highly suggestive of epiphany, even mild euphoria. All the whip-cracking dancers and other non-musical distractions from the Warhol era were long gone. Now Velvet Underground gigs opened with lazily upbeat We\u2019re Gonna Have A Real Good Time Together; instrumental warfare was kept to a minimum; even Heroin was dropped from the set. To ram home the change, Reed came out from behind his dark glasses, wore floral shirts and velvet trousers and let his curly hair grow.<\/p>\n
This was, he sang, \u201cthe beginning of a new age\u201d. It didn\u2019t last. During summer \u201970 sessions for the Velvets\u2019 fourth album, Loaded, Reed was in retreat, and actively encouraging Cale\u2019s replacement Doug Yule to sing, even on the bellwether New Age, a song that underwent a minor lyric change which altered its perspective from one of warm expectancy to abject ruined glory.<\/p>\n
On August 23, 1970, towards the end of a two-month season at Max\u2019s Kansas City, Reed walked off stage and quit the band. It came out of the blue. Loaded was going to be Reed\u2019s most accessible outing yet, and new label Atlantic were already talking up Sweet Jane as a potential radio hit. \u201cI didn\u2019t belong there,\u201d Reed later insisted. \u201cI didn\u2019t want to be in a mass pop national hit group with followers.\u201d<\/p>\n
That wasn\u2019t the half of it. He was demoralised. Years later, Sterling Morrison confessed that his ex-colleague had simply \u201cgone insane in a very dull way\u201d. There were bizarre rumours that his parents turned up at Max\u2019s and drove him home. What\u2019s certain is that Lou ended up back on Long Island, where he remained for the best part of the next 18 months.<\/p>\n
This was Lou Reed\u2019s \u2018lost weekend\u2019. He was spotted driving his parents\u2019 Datsun, and apparently did a stint at his father\u2019s office. It is likely he was using the facilities to file suits to claw back his songwriting copyrights, a move that soon had a positive outcome for him. Judging by the poetry he wrote during this period, he was more than ever the deeply conflicted Reed. As a measure of his desire to start anew, he met a waitress named Betty in a supermarket, and promptly declared his love for her in verse form. Other poems testified to self-pity, castigating his \u201csad and moody self\u201d, announcing his boredom.<\/p>\n
Reed\u2019s ennui is reflected in his portrayal of Brian Epstein in that 1971 essay, \u201cpraying to resurrect once again the excitement, the glory, and the power\u201d. Lou is under no illusion who the Fallen Knight really is.<\/p>\n
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Across the Atlantic, in an unfashionable outpost of London, David Bowie had recently recorded an homage to The Velvet Underground, crowning several years of devotion. The Queen Bitch riff sounded like a steal from Sweet Jane but there was one important difference: this one sounded like The Velvet Underground. When Bowie arrived in New York to sign a new contract with RCA, on September 9, the pair met at the Ginger Man restaurant, and it\u2019s quite possible Reed played a few new songs to Bowie in his room at the Warwick Hotel. Around the same time, a ripple of belated praise for the Velvets in the British press prompted the re-release of the band\u2019s first three albums in October 1971. Without Lou having to do a thing, his career was poised for a breakthrough although, as he was quick to point out when we last met, \u201cthere was no guiding brain\u201d.<\/p>\n
Nevertheless, Reed was happy for the attention. Having cobbled together a set of songs (several dating from Velvet Underground times), he flew to London right after Christmas 1971, and was ready to start work on a solo album for RCA with Richard Robinson producing. Later in January, he was in Paris for a one-off show with Cale and Nico.<\/p>\n
It all helped create a buzz, but the flurry of activity hardly set the world alight. The album was recorded with a bunch of disinterested session musicians and managed not to put a photo of Reed on the cover. The gig, billed inevitably as a Velvet Underground reunion, was acoustic, with Lou oddly pudgy and with big Noel Redding hair. This was no snarling Factory misfit raging about his mind being split open. \u201cPale, pale rock\u2019n\u2019roll,\u201d chided Charlie Gillett in Let It Rock. It was an inauspicious, uncertain return.<\/p>\n
Six months later, an entirely different Lou Reed turned up at Trident Studios to record Transformer. \u201cI think he was on heroin,\u201d remembered Trident regular producer Tony Visconti shortly after Reed\u2019s death. \u201cHe was just sitting in the corner on the floor kind of nodding off. I remember saying hello and he just looked up and was all glazed over.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was the old Lou Reed, maybe worse. Weeks earlier, Reed had walked off the Festival Hall stage on July 8 to the biggest acclaim he\u2019d yet experienced. He was there at Bowie\u2019s invitation, sang three songs from the Velvet Underground catalogue, then promptly stepped back into self-destructive ways. For the next decade, both the public and private Lou Reed ricocheted like a pinball. The \u2018thick skin\u2019 he deemed a prerequisite for dealing with fame came to him in many forms \u2013 tumblers of double Scotches, powders and pills, but also in his deliberate refusal to stay still as an artist. That, according to the Fallen Knight of yesteryear, had been Hendrix\u2019s downfall, being forced to repeat his act in a \u201cfrenzy of self\u201d, and all because \u201cthe wretched THEY want it\u201d.<\/p>\n
To avoid any such indignity, Reed followed up the success of Transformer and Walk On The Wild Side with Berlin. RCA billed it \u201cThe Sgt. Pepper of The Seventies\u201d. Critics and audiences savaged it. Lou\u2019s meticulously crafted rock cabaret soon acquired the reputation as the most depressing rock album in the world.<\/p>\n
Berlin exacted a heavy toll on Reed, and his marriage collapsed soon afterwards. His response to its loudly ungrateful reception was to play to the crowd on the live and unremittingly rockist Rock\u2019n\u2019Roll Animal, then mess with it on the funked-up Sally Can\u2019t Dance. Claiming to have slept through its making, he toured it in the States, feigned shooting up on-stage and, hey presto, he scored his first US Top 10 album. It was all too easy.<\/p>\n
Rock\u2019s now decidedly sinister imp of the perverse then decided to sabotage his career good and proper. The four sides of feedback and overloaded guitar manipulation that comprised 1975\u2019s Metal Machine Music came close to fulfilling his mad fantasy. Reed was out of control, but seemingly defiant. \u201cMy week beats your year,\u201d he boasted in the barely digestible sleevenotes.<\/p>\n
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In 2009, Reed was still the proud, unrepentant maker of the most controversial \u2013 most would say unlistenable \u2013 record ever offered for sale by a major rock star. Was it an act of provocation? \u201cNot at all,\u201d he said. \u201cI was trying to get out of a label contract.\u201d And the real reason? \u201cI\u2019m a guitar player who loves feedback,\u201d he insisted. \u201cI\u2019m not that complicated\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
While Reed was putting his neck on the executioner\u2019s block, a new generation of musicians was emerging in New York that, within the year, would spearhead a new rock revolution that threatened the existence of the old order.<\/p>\n
On November 7, 1975, in Danny Fields\u2019 New York apartment, Lou heard the Ramones for the first time. His reaction, revealed for the first time in a highly edited transcript supplied by Fields, offers a unique glimpse of Reed, red-hot with passion for a new cause in rock\u2019n\u2019roll.<\/p>\n
After ripping into Television (\u201cI thought they were acting gay to placate me and see if they could get on the tour!\u201d) and his new Arista boss Clive Davis (for passing on Patti Smith), Lou asks, \u201cCan I hear the Ramones?\u201d Fields sticks on demos of I Don\u2019t Wanna Go Down To The Basement and 53rd & 3rd. \u201cThat is without doubt the most fantastic thing you\u2019ve ever played to me!\u201d Lou declares. \u201cIt makes everybody else look so bullshit and wimpy \u2013 Patti Smith and me included, man!\u201d<\/p>\n
He then asks to see a photo. \u201cAh! It\u2019s too perfect! They are their own dream! You gotta be kidding! Johnny Ramone? Oh, leave me alone! How can they not be monsters? Jeez. It\u2019s what everybody\u2019s been waiting for. The Stooges? No! The Stooges weren\u2019t smart. What they did was natural. This is calculated, it\u2019s so insanely perfect.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe starts every song like that? Twelve songs in the same key and they all start and end the same? It demolishes everything! Can you think of Joni Mitchell now? Or The Grateful Dead? [This] is the glory of youth\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
It was instant recognition and spot-on. But within a year, Reed was bored again. His latest sobriquet, \u2018Godfather of Punk\u2019, was not of his own making. The more acclaim he received, the more he wrestled with it. \u201cI\u2019m too literate to be into punk rock,\u201d he raged, while at the same time doing the rounds in all the fashionably grimy clubs.<\/p>\n
His legendary mood swings seemed to intensify, too. Velvets aficionado Robert Quine, then guitarist with Richard Hell And The Voidoids, tells a story where Lou, having just seen him play at CBGB, raved about what a great guitar player he was while at the same time threatening to smash his face in.<\/p>\n
Becoming one of those living legends exacted a great toll on Reed\u2019s psyche. The title of his 1978 double live set, Take No Prisoners, nailed not just the attitude but, more depressingly, the man. There was almost as much stage banter as there was music, but Reed loved it. \u201cIf I dropped dead tomorrow,\u201d he growled, \u201cthis is the record I\u2019d choose for posterity.\u201d<\/p>\n
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Transformers, 1972: Reed’s 2nd, most accessible, solo album<\/p>\n
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Among its many \u2018moments\u2019 was his favourite late-\u201970s cliche, that \u201cI do Lou Reed better than anybody.\u201d The competition grew fierce. Everyone was banging on Lou\u2019s drum, with his de rigueur look of shades, leather jacket and T-shirt the nearest thing to a punk uniform. When Sid Vicious OD\u2019d, John Lydon blamed it on too many Lou Reed albums.<\/p>\n
Punk was going stale, and Lou Reed was getting worse. Both The Bells (1979) and Growing Up In Public (1980) saw Reed propped up with numerous shared writing credits. But something was stirring on the latter. The Mick Rock cover shot depicting Reed in \u2018Average Guy\u2019 apparel was a first, that\u2019s for sure.<\/p>\n
On Valentine\u2019s Day 1980, two months before its release, Reed married Sylvia Morales. They\u2019d met the previous year, and as the new decade got underway, the couple began to spend more time on their 18-acre rural retreat in New Jersey, reportedly enjoying a diet of nuts and fruit juice and delighting in the landscape. Inevitably, the album had been full of the joys of new love, but one song clung steadfast to his old life. \u201cI\u2019ll go out gracefully, shot in my hand,\u201d bragged Reed on The Power Of Positive Drinking. It turned out to be a parting shot. Months later, Reed gave up booze altogether.<\/p>\n
Now committed to sobriety with a conviction that equalled his once unquenchable thirst for self-destruction, Lou was newly empowered. He could do anything. And during the MTV-driven \u201980s, opting for survival in a fast-changing rock world was as drastic a move for \u2018Cool\u2019 Reed as releasing Metal Machine Music.<\/p>\n
He picked up the guitar again for 1982\u2019s The Blue Mask, his best in some time, turned up in ads for Honda and American Express, and even sanctioned the release of some previously unheard Velvet Underground recordings (VU), He also started mouthing off against drugs, that \u201csingle most terrible thing\u201d. Lou Reed had gone straight.<\/p>\n
This dramatic turnaround in his private life wasn\u2019t always matched on record, though, with 1986\u2019s Mistrial being prime contender for his most shamefaced AOR moment. The deaths of Warhol (1987) and Nico (1988) seemed to provide a catalyst for change, because from this point on, Reed permitted a little more of his old public self back in. It was further proof that he\u2019d become more secure in his new way of life.<\/p>\n
The first fruit came with 1989\u2019s New York, Reed\u2019s grittiest album in years, a highly acclaimed song cycle about his hometown rich in detail and buzzing with a new- found political conscience. Apart from once endorsing Jimmy Carter for President in the \u201970s, politics was something Reed always shied away from. New York was swiftly followed by Songs For Drella, a collaboration with John Cale based on Warhol\u2019s life story, full of warmth and witty with it.<\/p>\n
Reed\u2019s handshake with his past extended to a full embrace when, after burying their differences, The Velvet Underground did the unthinkable and reunited for a full-scale 1993 European tour. When a proposed US jaunt was cancelled, as well as plans to record a new studio album, it was obvious that not every old scar had healed. Reed, now with rimless specs, perma-scowl and resembling an older version of Steve Albini, is believed to have had his mind set on a producer \u2013 and wouldn\u2019t back down on his choice, forcing tensions to rise again and split the band.<\/p>\n
Since the mid-\u201980s, Reed \u2013 by now an Elder Statesman in the manner of Jagger and Dylan \u2013 had been extending his role in public life. He shook hands with Popes and Presidents, picked up awards, established scholarships and got involved in charity work. The cumulative effect of all the changes he\u2019d effected since the early \u201980s was that his reputation finally freed itself from the long, dark shadow cast by the Velvets. Perfect Day, from 1972\u2019s Transformer, became his biggest-selling song thanks to a BBC promotional tie-in that went from being a self-serving move on the Corporation\u2019s part to being released for Children In Need. The delicacy of songs like Sunday Morning and Pale Blue Eyes came out of hiding and found new audiences. Ever the contrarian, Reed countered by reviving the spectre of Metal Machine Music and fronting a ferocious improvisation trio. He even turned round the reputation of Berlin by taking it on the road in 2007 with a massive band and choir.<\/p>\n
Behind all the reputation building and good public works, the private Reed was increasingly drawn towards matters of the spirit. Speaking to Q\u2019s Mark Cooper, around the time of Magic And Loss, he explained that while the subject of the album was death, its fundamental theme was transcendence. \u201cThat\u2019s ultimately what we\u2019re talking about,\u201d he said, \u201ctranscending a situation to a higher plane of consciousness.\u201d<\/p>\n
His last bona fide solo album was 2007\u2019s Hudson River Wind Meditations, music specifically made for the mind, body and spirit, an immersion in sound that seemed to counter the disruptive energies inherent in Metal Machine Music. It was also a public endorsement of Reed\u2019s deep commitment and understanding of tai chi, a martial practice that he\u2019d made an integral part of his daily routine for the past 25 years. But, just when it seemed as if Reed had opted for the quiet life, he took a left turn, teaming up with Metallica to reaffirm his noise credentials on Lulu \u2013 an album based on the plays of Frank Wedekind which divided both his fans and those of his metal sparring partners.<\/p>\n
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LOU REED passed away at his home in Southampton, New York, on October 27 2013, in the arms of his beloved wife Laurie Anderson with whom he had shared his life for 21 years. His eyes were wide open. With his passing, rock lost one of its warrior masters. Driven by a rare combination of wild forces and intellectual inquiry, he believed passionately in rock\u2019n\u2019roll, breaking down barriers both in terms of subject matter and the sonic spectrum. His gifts went beyond breaking new ground. For all his provocation, he also managed to leave behind some of the most disarmingly elegant melodies in pop. But above all, Lou Reed didn\u2019t just sing; he spoke to people, re-making himself several times over in the process.<\/p>\n
Back at Trident in September, during our last encounter, the giant-sized book of photographs fell open at a random page. \u201cThis is a particularly interesting pose,\u201d remarked Lou. \u201cI don\u2019t even look like I\u2019m a real human. Isn\u2019t that amazing?\u201d Feeling brave I asked: \u201cDoesn\u2019t that mean the photo\u2019s telling us a lie?\u201d \u201cNo, not telling a lie,\u201d he countered, bringing the conversation to an end. \u201cPassing through some kind of warp. That\u2019s part of the fun.\u201d<\/p>\n
This article originally appeared in MOJO 242.<\/em><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section][et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_divider color=”#111111″ module_class=”custom-divider” _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”||0px||false|false” custom_padding=”||0px||false|false” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_divider][et_pb_text module_class=”credit-names” _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” text_font_size=”14px” text_orientation=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n Images: Jorgen Angel\/Redferns; Getty<\/strong><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" He wrote \u201ctwisted folk\u201d and sang like Dylan, but his songs \u201cseemed sorry for themselves\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":672,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_lmt_disableupdate":"","_lmt_disable":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-667","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-mojo-presents"],"acf":[],"modified_by":"akindell","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/667","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/7"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=667"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/667\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":690,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/667\/revisions\/690"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/672"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=667"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=667"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flatplanplus.io\/mojo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=667"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}