On Why Lou Reed is Essential: A Eulogy

I was in my late teens when I first listened to the Velvet Underground. I was already a self-professed Sonic Youth fan, having been attracted to the feedback and experimental noise that was the band who defied categorization. In a way, it all began with Sonic Youth. Upon reading about their influences, I came across a little band called the Velvet Underground and I knew immediately that I had to explore them. I have to admit I instantly fell in love with the name. It sounded mysterious, almost esoteric, and yes, sexy. It evoked feelings of curiosity, eroticism, and familiarity. It was the name of a band who felt like home. I wanted to get to know the music, experience it, and become part of it. I remember the now oft-quoted Brian Eno saying about everyone who bought their first album started a band. I was intrigued. I went to a local music store (which closed a few years later, much to my chagrin) and bought a used copy of The Velvet Underground and Nico in CD form.

The Velvet Underground back in their heyday.

The cover was intriguing in itself. One could describe the Andy Warhol banana as being a phallic symbol, but one could also claim that it had absolutely no meaning at all. That it was just a banana. One could also say that much like a banana, one had to peel and open the album and see what was inside. I played the CD and, as cliched as it sounds, it was unlike anything I had ever heard before. Sure, I had grown up on 60s and 70s rock, and alternative and punk rock were my life at that point, but nothing, NOTHING sounded like the Velvets. “Sunday Morning”, the very first track, seemed at once familiar and foreign. It was hauntingly beautiful and I wanted to get to know the album more. Needless to say, “Heroin” and “Venus in Furs” were orgasmic. The lead singer’s voice captivated me, reminding me a little bit of Bob Dylan and of something completely distinct. It felt like he was in the room with me. I fell in love with Lou Reed right then and there, with his speaking style of singing and his defiantly sardonic tone. He sounded cool, as cool as anyone could ever hope to be. I found pictures of him in books, in CD inserts, and on the internet, wearing his signature sunglasses and leather jacket. The man epitomized Cool; he was the word itself. One didn’t just want to be around him, one wanted to be him. I knew immediately that the smug, eccentric King of Cool was responsible for good music as we know it today, and for all the music I would be interested in hearing from then on.

The King of Cool

Many people have artists they hold in very high regard and claim that they changed their lives. Lou Reed changed my life, but he also changed the way everyone listens to music. One could argue that whether you like it or not, everyone’s been affected in how we approach music because of the legendary musician. If there was no Lou Reed, there would be no VU. If there was no VU, there would be no Modern Lovers. If there were no Modern Lovers, there would be no 70s New York punk scene (or not much of it). If there was no New York punk scene, there would be no post-punk and No Wave. If there was no post-punk and No Wave, there would be no Sonic Youth. If there was no Sonic Youth, there would be no Nirvana, etc. etc. You get the picture… If you care about music at all, I dare you not to at least respect Mr. Reed to some degree. The man was the seed from which what is now known as alternative rock and “indie” music stemmed. Good music begins with him. As for him, he was the product of a lot of things characteristic of his youth. The Beat movement was in full bloom during his coming of age. Young people were discovering marijuana and other more potent drugs. Sex was no longer just for married couples, and let’s not forget that Dr. Kinsey had written books about the multifaceted sexuality of different people in the 50s. And of course, as always, there was societal backlash. The more traditional majority was terrified of these changes and wanted the eccentrics, artists, and outliers to go back to the way life used to be. To fall in line and not stir up any sort of revolution. To dress more conventionally, blandly. To listen to radio-friendly tunes and be put into mental institutions to receive electroshock therapy for having “deviant”, homosexual tendencies. Reed was a product of all of this. He defied the orthodox, the mundane.

Lou Reed’s high school yearbook picture.

He was born into a middle-class suburban Jewish family, but from a young age, he rebelled against the norm. At the age of 14/15, he was placed in a mental hospital by his concerned parents for his bisexuality and perceived bad behavior, only to be treated with electroconvulsive therapy. While studying at Syracuse University in the early 1960s, he was kicked out from the ROTC program for holding a (unloaded) gun to a superior’s head. One could say the military just wasn’t for someone like Lou Reed, but how could it be? The King of Cool was destined for other things. He was influenced by good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll, as well as jazz. It was also in college that he immersed himself in poetry and was greatly influenced by the poet Delmore Schwartz. If you’re not a huge fan of his singing style, I challenge you not to appreciate his well-crafted songwriting, his clever and richly resonant lyrics. His poetry has an uncanny way of placing the listener in the scenario presented by the song.

“Here he comes, he’s all dressed in black PR shoes and a big straw hat He’s never early, he’s always late First thing you learn is you always gotta wait I’m waiting for my man”

Can’t you picture it, the Harlem-residing black clad drug dealer with the “big straw hat,” confidently walking in his neighborhood towards a young junkie who feels out of his element? “I’m Waiting for the Man” is a tale about walking into a seedy part of town to get your fix and patiently waiting for the fashionably late dealer on the surface. Beneath that, however, there is a layer of self-mockery, making it clear that the buyer is silly and pathetic in his wait, his escalating addiction being the target of self-awareness and self-loathing. This song, from the VU’s first album, was one of the first songs ever to blatantly address the topic of drug addiction and the rituals that come with maintaining a habit. While the Beatles only hinted at tripping on LSD in their dreamy “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, Reed was less glamorous and revealed to the world what it was like to be a part of New York’s seedy, drug-crazed underbelly without the sugarcoating. He wrote about it as he saw it. After all, the 60s counterculture wasn’t all just peace and free love and pleasantly revelatory acid trips. It was also junk sick hustlers and Harlem prostitutes and drag queens. It was Andy Warhol’s Factory. It was sex and violence. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll at its purest. Watching interviews with him and Charlie Rose, one can see that he truly admired what his mentor, Warhol, was doing in the 60s. He believed in the artist’s power, in his ability to change the way people saw things. Regardless of what you might think of Warhol and Pop Art, he was a direct influence on the band formed by Lou Reed and John Cale. Warhol and Schwartz were artists both greatly revered by Reed and he held them dear to his heart. He acknowledged their significance by writing “European Son” for Schwartz and later recording Songs for Drella with Cale in honor of Warhol. The following video is Lou Reed’s “screen test” for Warhol. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person look so interesting while drinking a coke. I also wouldn’t mind being that coke…: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crjeF8G13x8 The Velvet Underground evolved quite a lot throughout its brief existence. Reed eventually quit the band he had founded and went on hiatus only to move back in with his parents to become a typist. His first solo effort after returning to music was not very successful, but it was Transformer, his second solo album, that really put him on the map in terms of commercial success. David Bowie, the industry’s musical (and physical) chameleon, would co-produce the album with Mick Ronson. Reed soon became a chameleon himself, constantly changing his image and experimenting with his musical approach. Transformer was not only a commercial success, it was also an artistic one, with Reed picking up from where he had left off with the VU and making it into something more his own. His songs, though deceivingly radio-friendly, once again addressed the topics of drugs, transvestism, homosexuality, and prostitution. NYC’s underground world was his muse and he would not censor it. “Walk on the Wild Side” is perhaps his best known hit, but songs like “Perfect Day” and “Satellite of Love” touched me deeply upon listening to them. “Satellite of Love” is filled with a heavenly choir, strangely uplifting lyrics, incredibly catchy instrumentation, and that voice, that baritone, vibrato-marked voice. “Perfect Day”, despite its optimistic-sounding words, is actually quite sad and beautifully complex. It perfectly describes a simple, mundane day filled with hope and despair. “You’re going to reap just what you sow,” he repeats towards the end.

Portrait by Mick Rock

Reed liked to play up his rumored junkiedom. If people perceived him as an androgynous junkie, he gave them what they wanted. With black nail polish and bleached blond hair, he looked unlike anything else in rock at the time. Whether it was having wild curly dark hair and black eyeliner or dancing around leather-clad with a dog collar, his image constantly changed. He became known for his surly behavior, especially when it came to journalists. The man really despised journalists. There was no such thing as a non-stupid question in his book. This also appealed to me, as I’ve often felt like journalists unnecessarily harass some people. They either don’t know who they’re talking to or don’t come up with well thought out questions. Lou Reed became my misanthropic hero, my example at how to deal with press and people in general. Only Bob Dylan in the mid-60s compares. Watch any interview with him in the 70s and you’ll see that Reed was an asshole, a cynical curmudgeon to his interviewers. But what a charismatic curmudgeon. In him was a kindred spirit. In him was a reluctant icon who took shit from no one. He did as he pleased and made no apologies. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IeMIWCxHgQk Berlin was the first Lou Reed album I bought in vinyl form. Someone once described it to me as an emotional rollercoaster of an album, and it truly is. Although I haven’t listened to all of his albums, I have to say that Berlin is my favorite (although The Blue Mask is pretty damn good, but I’ve just recently picked it up). A conceptual rock opera, it tells the story of two junkie lovers who are clearly ill-fated. “Men of Good Fortune” has always been a favorite of mine, with its resoundingly wise, angry lyrics.

“Men of good fortune often cause empires to fall While men of poor beginnings often can’t do anything at all At heart they try to act like a man Handle things the best way they can They have no rich daddy to fall back on”

This enigmatic creative genius was also responsible for one of the most perplexing and controversial albums of the 20th century: Metal Machine Music. To this day, fans and critics alike are not sure what to make of it. Was it a slap in the face of the music industry and his fans? Was it a contentious result of a contractual obligation? Was it one big, giant joke? Was it all three? Now I suppose we’ll never really know for sure. One of these days, I promise to listen to the entire album all the way through (have not been able to do that just yet). Despite what one could derisively say about MMM, it was a landmark piece of art and it spawned a whole new movement in feedback-driven rock. Would we have the Jesus and Mary Chain without it? For all of Lou Reed’s intentions (whatever they might’ve been), the infamous album only added fuel to the fire and he became more puzzling, more intriguing, and more legendary. He became all of those things simply because he didn’t give a fuck. Lou Reed taught me how not to give a fuck. He pushed boundaries that not even his contemporaries cared to push. Sure, Iggy Pop and David Bowie wore eye makeup and danced around provocatively, almost like harem girls. Bowie claimed to be bisexual (although really it was more of a marketing ploy). But emaciated Lou played at injecting himself with needles on stage and became romantically involved with a transgender woman for a bit only to have her picture on one of his albums. The man was one of several contradictions, that’s for sure. Like any self-respected iconoclast, he wanted to break down barriers, bring down ideas and notions, and set the world on fire. Yet he didn’t enjoy all the attention that was lavished on him whenever he did something revolutionary. He seemed reluctant to acknowledge his individual artistic contributions. “You think of yourself as a legend?” Charlie Rose once asked him. “Not for an nth of a second,” he said both jokingly and seriously. He was “just your average guy trying to do what’s right.” Both proud and humble, but never unreasonably arrogant, Lou Reed was and is one of the most important figures in rock history, indisputably. I’d say that’s not too shabby for just an “average guy.” My biggest regret is that I will never get to meet him, never get to see him play live. Never have him tell me to fuck off when asking him for an autograph or letting him know how much he’s affected me. Never have the opportunity to make a fool of myself as I struggle to find the words to explain how much of an influence his music has had on my life and my artistic endeavors. My heart broke on that woeful Sunday morning when I learned that he had passed away. Surely you didn’t think he was going to live forever, I thought. Still, it seemed wrong, all too wrong. A sad song was heard all around the world. I realize that countless eulogies have been written for him by now, but I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I have to acknowledge the impact this man’s life and death has had on me. I’m sure he’s enjoying his “heavenly wine and roses” at the moment, wherever he is. It seems fitting that the last picture taken of him was the one below. Rest in peace, Lou.

Blue Jasmine: Dark Comedy or Morbid Drama?

Finally writing my delayed review of Woody Allen’s latest film, Blue Jasmine. It was about a month ago that I went to see it at the Clay Theatre on Fillmore. It was actually my first time watching a movie at that small, single-screen theater, despite the fact that I interned at Landmark Theatres last year and got free passes then. It’s a nice little theater, in which you can enjoy midnight screenings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and other cult classics. Highly recommend it if you live in SF, as so many small, independent theaters have been closing down, and it’s really a shame to see historically important art house cinemas disappear.

On to the half-assed review (I think it’ll be half-assed, as I watched the movie a while ago and it’s not going to be as fresh in my mind anymore). Blue Jasmine was definitely an experience. Whether a pleasurable one or not is up to the viewer, but I think most people would agree that it was not a pleasant one, especially the ending. I don’t think I’m giving too much away when I say that it’s the iconic New Yorker’s take on A Streetcar Named Desire. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it was Cate Blanchett who was chosen to play the lead, as she played Blanche DuBois in the Sydney Theatre Company production of the Tennessee Williams play back in 2009. Obviously I never had a chance to see the play with her as the tragic character, but I imagine she made quite an impression, especially to Woody Allen. Her performance in the film was unforgettable, as her performances usually are, and very thought-provoking. It was also very excruciating to watch.

The story itself is compelling, though the cinematography was nothing to write home about. Woody Allen’s late period visual style isn’t very special, at least in my opinion. The cast was excellent, but clearly Blanchett was the focus of the attention. She embodied an indulgent, self-absorbed woman’s fall into mental illness impeccably. If she doesn’t win an Oscar, or at least get nominated for one, it would most certainly be a crime.

Here is the trailer:

It’s true that Blue Jasmine shares a lot in common with the film made famous by Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando, but instead of being set in the romantic South of the 1950s, it is set against the backdrop of the San Francisco of now. I have to admit that it was interesting sitting in that theater and recognizing pretty much every place the characters took you, whether it was the not-so-glamorous Mission, or the gray scenery of Ocean Beach. I’m glad Allen chose to show parts of SF one normally wouldn’t see in other films taking place in the city. Everyone can remember the majestic shots of the Golden Gate Bridge against a (strangely) crystal clear blue sky in Hitchcock’s Vertigo, but who consistently displays the Mission District?

Jasmine, the main character, is emblematic of every rich white lady with “first world problems” most of us seem to taunt frequently. Although some may not easily relate to her, she is still a sympathetic character to a degree, just like Blanche DuBois. Just because she comes off as superficial, shallow, and frivolous does not mean her gradual mental instability is any less valid, and so the viewer essentially feels sorry for her and distraught by her tragedies, despite her apparent knowledge of her husband’s carelessness. The character, as well as the entire film, is a good portrayal of a mentally and emotionally unbalanced individual who needs help and support. From the beginning, there is no hiding the fact that she is not completely all right, exemplified, in one of the first scenes, at the airport when she endlessly talks an older lady’s head off about herself and her troubles. When the lady’s husband comes to meet her at the luggage carousel, she expresses that she’s a bit confused as Jasmine’s character seemed to have been talking to herself the whole time.

Jasmine’s sister, Ginger (played by Sally Hawkins), is a mixed up mess of her own, though she’s ultimately much happier than her sister. She’s in a relationship with a blue collar guy’s guy type of man who seems to genuinely care about her and can’t wait to move in with her and her two sons. We learn that she was previously married to another man, and their dissolved marriage seems to be primarily blamed on Jasmine and her corrupt businessman ex-husband. We also learn that Jasmine never really likes any of the men involved in her sister’s life, as she feels as though Ginger settles for men who are no good. Chili (Bobby Canavale), the man Ginger is presently with, is simple but truly seems to love her. He also doesn’t seem to trust Jasmine and feels like she is a burden on his girlfriend. This immediate animosity between Chili and Jasmine parallels the difficult relationship between Stanley and Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire (though it is never insinuated that Chili rapes Jasmine).

The film is filled with flashbacks of Jasmine’s past decadent life as a New York socialite. Once a woman who had it all, her husband Hal (Alec Baldwin) made some very poor decisions and stole investors’ money, including Ginger’s ex-husband’s lottery money. Although there is speculation as to whether Jasmine knew the entire time of her husband’s crooked dealings, the viewer learns that she had to have had some degree of responsibility in the matter. Who could possibly be that naive? one wonders (though it may be possible, it’s not probable). Ultimately everyone who knows Jasmine can’t fully trust her and can’t stomach her overly-dramatic nature. She has plans to start fresh and remake her life, but she doesn’t want to be involved in any job deemed low or too laborious. It’s obvious she’s gotten used to a life of leisure and high expectations, but she is ambitious. She gets a job as a receptionist at a dental office while she takes interior design classes. It seems as though her life could be very different for the better if she could only keep from losing her mind and not desiring to jump into a life similar to what she had before.

Jasmine in her former life.

Although mostly dramatic, there are moments highlighting the absurd in the form of dark humor. One example of this is the scenes in which Jasmine talks to herself during manic episodes. Much like Gollum’s conversations with himself in The Lord of the Rings, the moments are so ridiculous that one can’t help but find it horrendously and tragically funny. it’s also quite depressing and pitiful. We witness the decline of a woman who, although partly responsible in the downfall of other people (including Hal), is still just a woman who’s never really known profound love and genuine happiness. The story is terrifying in its realism and honesty. Although not necessarily Woody Allen’s strongest film, it might well be his late period’s best one so far. Then again, I disliked Match Point and haven’t cared for Vicky Cristina Barcelona enough to watch it.

Rating: 4/5 stars