I guess I don’t have to tell you what man Lou is waiting for and why. I can only comment that $26 went a much longer way ’67. You couldn’t buy very much heroin for $26 today, and also I’m afraid that all the shady characters have been swept away from Lexington Avenue long ago. Nevertheless, the general intent hasn’t changed much over the years. I’m sure what Lou Reed put to paper in 1967 remains a universal experience, amirite? I mean, who hasn’t trekked to the bad side of town to buy drugs before? Whaddya mean not all of you have bought heroin!? In any case, if the jangle and feedback of the Velvets isn’t alienating and culty enough for ya, check out the cover Nico cut. She, more than anyone else, understood the true meaning of the song – most likely a lot better than Lou Reed himself ever did. Nico was neck deep in heroin by the time she recorded her 1981 album Drama of Exile, and her attitude was very much in keeping with the material:
[Aura label head Aaron] Sixx admitted that Nico “didn’t give a shit what happened to the LP, she just wanted the money for drugs.” Yet despite these unconventional circumstances, Drama of Exile would see Nico receive some of the best reviews of her career.
— Dave Thompson, Better to Burn Out: The Cult of Death in Rock ‘N’ Roll
Waiting for the Man was certainly a brilliant choice for her. She didn’t have very much contribution in the recording of The Velvet Underground & Nico, having been roped in by Andy Warhol for glamour purposes, but she lived that album for the rest of her life. Lou Reed never did as many degenarate things as his songs lead us to imagine and in no time at all he was living the high life with David Bowie. Speaking of whom, there he is with Lou, still having a real good time together. It’s great to see those two jamming together on a particularly rockin’ mid-90s David Bowie song – oh wait, that’s a cover of Waiting for the Man that mysteriously just sounds exactly like a mid-90′s David Bowie song.
Forgotten classic. It might be kind of cliche to say so, but man, Transformer just has to take its place as one of the peaks of Lou Reed’s career. It’s also one of the seminal glam rock records. It was something that captured a moment. With so many indelible hit songs like Walk On The Wild Side, Satellite of Love and Perfect Day taking all the thunder, some of the other tracks get a bit overshadowed, fame-wise. Ignore the fame, though. It’s an album that is absolutely solid all the way through, and all the tracks hang together harmoniously. This track is, characteristically of Lou Reed, a tale of the city. It is, atypically, unverbose and lighthearted. It’s pretty goofy and fun, not really the scathing social commentary Reed made his name with. But it paints a bright picture with simple words. For anyone who’s ever had a great night freezing their ass off wondering around the big city, just talking and walking and not giving a fuck, this one’s for you.
I don’t always pick the most acclaimed records as my favorites. Because, you know, critics are frequently full of shit. The things that get the best review or sell the most copies aren’t always the most deserving. In that spirit, let me tell you that Mistrial is one of the best Lou Reed albums. Not one of the best selling or one of the ones critics have deemed ‘important’. Just really great. Reed, ever the iconoclast, became the exception that proves the rule by not sucking in the eighties. In fact, the eighties found him more awesome than ever. I mean, he was awesome in the seventies as well, but he did put out a few albums that tried too hard to appeal to all the David Bowie fans who made Transformer a hit, and then he went through a phase of being really really depressing. Also, Metal Machine Music. In the eighties he really found a groove being the slightly cranky voice of wisdom. He made some of the most biting political commentary of the time, or of any time, or by any rock star. Reed’s most remembered 80′s moment is the searingly political New York, but in between writing angry songs about the state of society he also produced a wealth of unforgettable love songs. This one, from Mistrial, is a balance of edgy rock and lyrical romanticism. If you don’t think of Lou Reed as a romantic kind of guy, then you must not know him very well. He has an image as a cranky dude in a leather jacket, but that, like a lot of images sprouted out of publicity, isn’t very accurate. Reed is a deeply romantic songwriter. And I think this is an incredibly romantic song.
“I live with thirteen dead cats, a purple dog that wears spats“
What have I been telling you about Lou Reed? One of America’s greatest poets, living or dead, that’s what! Oh give it up, he was really young when he wrote this one. It was one of the earliest Velvet Underground demos, and Reed later revived it on his first solo album. The Velvet Underground version resurfaced on the Peel Slowly & See collection. Both versions are good, the older one obviously being very raw and abrasive on the ears. Even though it’s kind of a silly song, it’s certainly a common enough sentiment, expressed with originality. So, points for that.
Now for one of the more depressing concept albums on our roster. Not everyone agrees that Lou Reed’s Berlin even is a concept album, but I say it clearly is. The concept is; life and relationships really suck, especially for drug addicted expatriates living in Germany. Berlin must’ve been a hell of a place in the 1970′s, for it’s been the muse for so much transformative music. Lou Reed is still adding to the story he started in 1973. Last year he released the controversial and universally unloved Lulu, which was a rewarding torture for listeners brave enough to absorb themselves in it. What critics didn’t notice was that Lulu was a nearly song-for-song revisit of Berlin. Clearly, Reed can’t let go of these themes and characters. I’ve always said that Reed was really a novelist with a guitar, and now he’s written the same book twice. You don’t have to listen to Lulu, but you do have to have Berlin. It’s not the funnest ride, even by Lou’s standards, but I can’t think of very many other albums that have such a strong narrative and truthful, unvarnished understanding of the human condition under bad conditions. Not many rock albums have the substance to approximate the experience of reading a book (or at least a short story). We think of the various arts as being separate from one another, but sometimes it’s plain to see human creativity as a continuum. Like this case, where rock music merges with the literary, in the realm of poetry.
Ohh, bitchy! Lou Reed has a great nasty sense of humor when he’s in bitch mode, and this is song one of his best campy social critiques. It introduces a big cast of characters, but unlike other songs where he sings about people with names, I don’t think anyone here is famous or even a real person. I think he’s just letting hangers on and various party girls in general have it. Half the words don’t even make sense. What, dentures, where, on her nose, wtf? If it was a new song, which it absolutely could pass for, I would think it was all about the evils of hipsters, except that I know that wasn’t a thing in the seventies, at least not a thing with a name. It’s the big thing now to complain about the plague of hipsters, and I don’t know what the thing to complain about was back then, but I don’t think the NYC underground social scene has changed all that profoundly much. I bet it’s still home to a handful of the genuinely awesome and cool, plus a swarm of lame people who think they’re cool if they just spend enough money on the right pants to wear. Coolness and fake coolness haven’t changed much – they still revolve around each other, and the really cool people get pissed off. I suspect that might be what Lou’s going on about.
Lou Reed is a fount of wisdom and a voice of reason. He’s had his rock star reputation right from the beginning. The glamorous association with Andy Warhol, the notorious shooting up on stage, partying with the rich and fabulous, mouthing off at every turn, his love of motorcycles – it all says decadent, dangerous rock’n'roll animal. The drug escapades may have been exaggerated, but it doesn’t matter, because the image is made. The famous grumpiness, well, that’s just a tag every artist gets who happens to have integrity and speak his mind. I think the image is a false one, anyway, constructed by people who took the work too seriously. Lou Reed is a badass, no questions, but I don’t see him as a rock star in the sense that, say, Keith Richards is a rock star. Reed isn’t a musical savant who lives the live because there’s no other way he can possibly be. He’s adopted rock and roll as his metier, but he’s a writer and an observer firstly. Which makes him, for me, a more simpatico and comforting figure, a real person in the guise of a star.
A notable exception to what I was talking about earlier. Namely, how rock’n'roll takes ques from nearly any musical avenue except continental music of the polka and bratwurst variety. Nothing could be less cool than oom-pah music. So, exception that proves the rule. When Lou Reed wanted to end his Transformer album on a note of particularly abject uncoolness, he called in an oom-pah band. For a song about being lonely, sad and unpopular, the melancholy tuba was the lemon in the tequila. On Transformer you don’t need forensics to see the fingerprints of producers David Bowie and Mick Ronson – it’s a Spiders From Mars album in all but name. Nearly every song is spiky and uptempo, all strut and attitude. Goodnight Ladies is a departure in tone, and as such, the perfect ending. It’s an ode to passing out alone after the guests have all gone home, maybe chugging the dregs of other people’s unfinished drinks before falling face-down for the night. After an album’s worth of high-energy, presumably drug-fueled partying – trips to the zoo, walks in the park, hanging round with Andy, walking on the wild side, coming out of our closets, out in the street – it’s the inevitable, looming hangover. It also foreshadows the spirit of the forthcoming Berlin. It’s that lonesome tuba that evokes bedeviled lost souls trying to drown their sorrows in a grimy, history-burdened old city, come what may.
1989 found Lou Reed at his most politically engaged. Boy, was Lou pissed! The entire New York album swings from rage to depression over the state of the world. Everything from the devastation of the AIDS epidemic to the devastation of urban poverty, the devastation of the environment, and worst of all, the uselessness and corruption of the political process. Listening closely to New York it’s hard not to get the impression that everyone and everything is hopelessly fucked, the world is a mess, a disaster, people are dying, the world is dying and there’s nothing to be done about it. On this track, Reed aims his pen at Kurt Waldheim, at the time the president of Austria and a former member of the Nazi party. Also mentioned is Jesse Jackson, an inflammatory figure in the 80′s who ran for president on a diversity/tolerance platform despite having in the past supported the distinctly racist and radical Nation of Islam. And of, course, the Pope, who can do no right. Reed was all riled up about the hypocrisy of politics, and it seemed like a hopeless situation indeed. But, comfortingly or not, all of those formerly hateful figures have passed from relevance. Jesse Jackson doesn’t wield nearly the influence he used to, John Paul II has died and been replaced with – guess what! – a former member of the Nazi party, and no one cares who the president of Austria might happen to be. Lou Reed hasn’t been so outspoken since then. After New York he settled back into writing in a more personal style, still sensitive to social issues, but no longer dropping names. I wonder how he feels about our current, seemingly hopeless, morass. If he were to write a second New York, who and what would he rage at? Or would raging at the fools in power today be too easy, redundant in the age of internet commentary? Does anybody need an outspoken, angry record album the way we needed New York in 1989?
To summarize the year in the bluntest way possible: January and February were awful; March and April were alright; May, June and July were amazing; August and September were torture; October was ok, November was boring and December was good. That all the highlights of 2011 were sex, drugs and rock’n'roll is either great or humiliating, depending on what view you take on such things. I didn’t achieve jackshit, but I wasn’t trying to either, and I got some of what I wanted, though not nearly enough. Just like the year before. I saw an amazing line-up of concerts: Robyn, Diamond Rings, Gogol Bordello, Brownout, Love Inks, Bobby Birdman, YACHT, The Kills, The Decemberists, Liza Minnelli, Lucinda Williams, EMA, CSS, Morrissey. There were some sad moments; saying goodbye to Elizabeth Taylor, Amy Winehouse, Clarence Clemons and Cesaria Evora. Also upsetting, Jack White’s triple whammy of betrayal; breaking up the White Stripes, divorcing Karen Elson and associating himself with ICP. He’s got some major making-up to do. In the end, the uneventful nature of 2011 should be taken as a good thing. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt, almost.
1) In music, Lady Gaga has been the guiding light of the year. I’ve had to swallow my elitist tendencies (that’s ok, they were unattractive anyway) and admit that I’ve fallen in love with Gaga and her messianic gospel of self-love. Her boundless enthusiasm for all things theatrical - be it haute couture, lengthy videos, half-crazed TV interviews, opulent arena shows, or those inescapably memorable hit singles – is a blinding blast of sincerity in an ocean of staged, wooden, pre-scripted and impersonal ‘stars’ who have nothing to present of themselves besides their glossy backsides. All of which would be null and void if it weren’t for the most vital thing: she can sing circles around nearly every one of her peers and many of her elders too. Her songs might be lyrically incoherent but that doesn’t stop them from delivering, with the cutting efficiency that only a pop song can have, her message of paws-up! empowerment. Which would be intolerably cheesy, except that she believes it so hard, and that makes us believe it back. Therefore, Born This Way, album of the year.
2) Proceeding in no established order, then. Recent years have shown a heartening trend of artists growing gracefully older, making great work from a mature perspective, and proving that if you’re never too old to rock’n'roll if you’re too young too die. One example was the comeback of Lucinda Williams, who finally made her album of happy woman blues. She’s still preoccupied by past loves who wronged her, haunted by old friends who died, and concerned with the regular hardships of life, but age (and presumably, married contentment) has taken the edge off. The very title, Blessed, hints at her contemplative attitude this time around. I think it’s her best since World Without Tears, only without tears.
3) The Kills have made their best album yet. Blood Pressures is their most professional sounding record, which is no detriment. They don’t rock any less hard for having learned to use the studio to better advantage. The album is dark and mesmerizing, like Alison Mosshart’s persona. She’s become a leading light for me, a new rock icon who deserves to be remembered as one of the great frontmen. She and Jamie Hince have great chemistry together but how far will the duo go, I don’t know. But I’m certain that someday Mosshart will be subject of many ‘I saw her when’ tributes.
4) SuperHeavy definitely takes the cake for best surprise of the year. Just when it seemed that Mick Jagger would only get off his pile of money to marshal another greatest-hits tour for the Rolling Stones to amass more money, here he comes with something entirely fresh and off-the-wall. Jagger’s choice of super group was seemingly random, but turned out to be impeccable. With the help of Dave Stewart, Damian Marley, A.R. Rahman and Joss Stone, Mick gets to indulge his taste for the exotic, combining flavors of Bollywood, Kingston, rap, funk, soul, and the blues-based rock’n'roll he helped invent. It could’ve been weird, it could’ve been self-indulgent, it could’ve not worked at all, but it work it does, and how. I can’t stop being delighted to get such a treat.
5) Again with older people rocking out like there’s no tomorrow. Tom Waits is another veteran who suddenly found his creative spark burning brighter than ever. Waits has never really had a slump in his career, he’s been consistently himself for decades, staying in character and undistracted by passing fads or the winds of fashion. Though he’s never let us down, it feels like he’s upped his game. Bad As Me stands out for sheer relish and for that has brought on a bout of critical and commercial success. The old devil has grown in stature from fringe-dwelling eccentric to a figure of such coolness he can not only write a song sending up The Rolling Stones, he can then compel a certain Mr. Richards to come play on it.
6) More of oldsers doin’ it like it’s new. Paul Simon was never given to childishness anyway. Come-ons, double entendres, party anthems, glorification of drugs and cars, none of those things were ever his thing. He’s written some great love songs, which all are somehow tinged with mournfulness, as if every love was already heavy with regret. On So Beautiful Or So What he’s right on track with the formula he mastered with Graceland, a combination of African and Latin beats, equal parts blues, piano pop and gospel, and a view of the world as a place of sadness and beauty, redeemed by love. And of course, a little humor at his own expense, as in The Afterlife, where he’s an ordinary schlub trying to get into heaven and finding that it’s a bureaucracy, and the girls still don’t like him.
7) I know I’m the only person on the planet to say this, but I really liked Lulu, Lou Reed‘s collaboration with Metallica. The record got blisteringly bad reviews across the board. It topped many a critic’s worst list. Clearly not one of those critics was a Lou Reed scholar. They all complained that it’s too weird and doesn’t sound like regular Metallica. No one saw it in context of Reed’s career or noticed the many references to and parallels with Berlin. Admittedly, I can’t recommend it for everyone, but for lifelong followers of Lou Reed, it’s a must. It’s hard to listen to, yes, but it’s not the first time Lou Reed has been hard to listen to. There have been many moments in his career that I find unlistenable. For example, Lulu is considerably less painful for me than The Blue Mask. Reed continues to be a challenging, uncompromising experimenter. I had misgivings about such a strange mash-up, but found myself getting thoroughly drawn in by Reed’s storytelling, his powerful lines, and his wrenching delivery.
8) This year I fell for Florence. The first Florence + The Machine was good, but Ceremonials was epic. Florence Welch has come into her own on this one. She knows the power of a big emotional climax, and provides climax after climax, every song a cresting wave. I can only describe the music as opulent. A minimalist she is not. There’s layers of tumbling sound, everything and the kitchen sink it sounds like, but expertly marshaled for maximum effect. And of course, the style, the look the personality. Red hair!
9) Speaking of epic and convoluted, the Decemberists were just those things on their 2009 album The Hazards of Love. That album was a musically and lyrically dense concept album. Now, on The King Is Dead, they’ve taken the opposite track, making it stripped down and folksy. Though I love the highly ambitious and complex concept album, the simplicity of songs for their own sake is its own charm too. It looks like this might be their last album in the foreseeable future, so enjoy it thoroughly. It’s sad that the most literate and intelligent band going has gone on hiatus. Perhaps Colin Meloy has an as yet untapped future as a novelist, and music was just a youthful pursuit, or perhaps they’ll make it back together after a restful year or two. Either way, not a bad note to bow out on.
10) Amid all these heavy hitters there’s room for something more out of the blue. The five-man duo YACHT combines high-energy electro-pop with an endearingly earnest New Age sensibility. Led by the androgynous Claire L Evans, they’re at one spiritual, cerebral and fun to dance to. Shangri-La takes as its topic dual visions of utopia and dystopia. But to call it a concept album would be reaching. YACHT has their worldview and iconography, but they’re still more interested in playing fun music than drawing out big ideas. If Evans isn’t a star now, she certainly deserves to become one soon. She’s got the stage presence of a guru, with the laying-on of hands for her following of devout fans.
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