Outside


Lou Reed’s New York doesn’t exist anymore, and neither does Lou Reed. And neither do people like Lou Reed. Maybe in the future we’ll think of him as a social historian as much as anything else. He documented a particular place and time, with a specificity as rare in literature as it is in rock music. That’s the legacy we remember him for, and if he sometimes wrote fairly mindless songs like this one, we hold on to that too, if only because he carried his specificity in his accent. Is this the clumsiest and least romantic song about making babies ever written? Is it the tossed-off germ of a better idea about domesticity and the wrongs of the world? Is it the sound of a great artist being lazy? All of those things.

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