On Sunday 23 August, 1970, The Velvet Underground were nine weeks into a ten week residency at Max’s Kansas City – the famous Manhattan club-cum-restaurant frequented by artists, models, drag queens, musicians and film stars. At the end of that night’s second set, Lou Reed, put down his guitar, informed manager Steve Sesnick that he was quitting the band, and left Max’s with his parents who drove him back to the family home at 35 Oakfield Avenue, Long Island. Frustrated by the band’s lack of commercial success and his own loss of control due to unwise business decisions (Sesnick was pushing relative newcomer, Doug Yule, into the spotlight at Reed’s expense) he simply decided to walk away.
So, where do you go next after you’ve walked away from one of most unique, influential, ground-breaking and – let’s face it – coolest rock & roll bands of all time? In Reed’s case, his next move (after a short spell working as a typist for his father’s accountancy firm, followed by an equally short spell attempting to rebrand himself as a poet) was to embark upon a solo career that produced 22 studio albums and 10 live albums – not to mention numerous compilations and bootlegs – all characterised by black humour, minimalist guitars and his own brand of no-nonsense New York City street-poetry. It got off to a stuttering start in 1972 with the damp squib of his eponymous debut, before being kick-started later that same year with the David Bowie and Mick Ronson-produced glam rock classic Transformer and its accompanying hit single ‘Walk On The Wild Side’. In the years that followed, on more than one occasion it came close to being derailed completely – either through substance abuse, insouciance or sheer bloody-mindedness. (The apex/nadir being 1975’s Metal Machine Music.) It was a solo career that, in the 1970s alone – careening through the decade in a haze of drink and drugs and polymorphous sex – took in the aforementioned glam-rock of Transformer and noise of Metal Machine Music, distraught high-concept histrionics (Berlin), distraught low-concept obnoxiousness (Sally Can’t Dance), proto heavy metal (Rock ‘N’ Roll Animal), swooning romanticism (Coney Island Baby), US punk rock (Street Hassle / Take No Prisoners), fusion and pseudo-disco (The Bells), before stumbling exhaustedly into 1980 with seemingly nothing left to give (Growing Up In Public).
In the 80s Reed got sober, got married, got a new band and produced a trio of fine, if faintly anonymous rock albums (The Blue Mask / Legendary Hearts / New Sensations) to gradually diminishing returns. Then, after a mid-80s slump when all passion seemed spent (1986’s dreadful Mistrial) there were three years of silence before a stunning return to form with the New York, Songs For Drella and Magic And Loss triptych. This was followed by 1993’s surprising (though unsurprisingly short-lived) reformation of The Velvet Underground, after which Reed picked up his solo career from where it left off.
But something happened to Reed after the second dissolution of the Velvets. Had his confidence been shaken at realising he simply couldn’t sing those songs as he once had? Having put his recent successes down to “rewriting – endless rewriting” his philosophy changed to “first thought best thought”, and, inevitably, quality control began to slide. He abandoned the talk-singing style that had served his vocal range so well on New York and Drella, returning to the quavering vocals that now missed as much they hit (and would miss more and more as he grew older). A sloppiness set in – both lyrically and musically. Reed’s phrasing was shot. And though the last two decades of his life threw up some moments of greatness, they were more sporadic than of old; and his final few projects before his death in 2013 seemed ill-judged and poorly executed (2003’s Poe concept album, The Raven and 2011’s Metallica collaboration, Lulu).
There was one consolation for long-term fans, though: Reed had fallen in love (with fellow artist Laurie Anderson) and finally appeared happy. And more than happy to share the spotlight with a partner and some-time musical collaborator who was (at least) his equal. Because, for one who put across such a fiercely independent image, it is easy to underestimate just how crucial collaboration was to Reed’s career. Like Miles Davis, Reed seemed to possess an innate talent for choosing/stumbling across the right mentors and collaborators at the right time. And while Reed’s solo career may not have been as groundbreaking as Davis’, it was just as searching, with its own peaks and troughs, hot streaks and fallow periods, false starts and dead-ends.
Of course, trying to sum up a 41-year career in just 10 songs is an impossible task. And this list is far from definitive. Instead, think of it as 10 songs that hopefully provide new listeners with convenient entry points to Reed’s solo career – as well as insights into his life and work. In a 1984 interview with Bill Flanagan, Reed said, “If you play my albums in a row… one of the things that I think is fun about me, or interesting if nothing else, is that if you follow them from day one up till now you’re following a real person. A real person I’ve tried to make really exist for you – Lou Reed. And all the things I wrote about as I was passing through.” And while this is largely true, it doesn’t quite tell the whole story. Because more often than not, Reed’s most significant creative breakthroughs were accompanied by a drawing upon, or at least an acknowledgement of, the one thing he seemed to be trying his hardest to get away from: his past.
‘Walk On The Wild Side’ from Transformer (1972)
The song that set Reed’s solo career in motion began life as a commission to write the score for an off-Broadway adaptation of Nelson Algren’s 1956 novel, A Walk On The Wild Side. When that project folded, Reed kept the song (tellingly removing the indefinite article to transform the title into an invitation or command) and replaced Algren’s characters with real-life personalities from Warhol’s Factory. In a series of wittily evocative thumbnail sketches (gently propelled by that famous laidback bassline by the late great Herbie Flowers) Reed introduced mainstream America to transgressive Warhol “superstars” Holly Woodlawn, Candy Darling, Joe Dallesandro and the Sugar Plum Fairy. (And if you want a more detailed breakdown of how the song came to written – straight from the horse’s mouth – check out the 16-minute live version from 1978’s astonishing Take No Prisoners album. But more of that later…)
‘Caroline Says II’ from Berlin (1973)
Determined to assert himself as an independent solo artist and not be seen as just another Bowie protégé, Reed followed the glam pop of Transformer with a Berlin-set concept album chronicling the violent disintegration of an abusive relationship. The moral dankness of the songs seemed to seep into the recording studio, with producer Bob Ezrin turning to heroin to get him through the sessions (“Alright, let’s wrap up this turkey before I puke” were his words upon completion). One of Berlin’s most beautiful moments is ‘Caroline Says II’. Drawing, perhaps, on his own troubled marriage (newly-weds Reed and Bettye Kronstad would be divorced within the year) as well as his turbulent relationship with Nico (the Velvets’ Germany-born chanteuse), Reed sounds utterly drained of all emotion. “She put her fist through a windowpane” he dispassionately observes as a mellotron sighs and a wind chime tinkles exquisitely behind him.
‘Sweet Jane’ from Rock ‘N’ Roll Animal (1974)
Knowing he had created a masterpiece in Berlin, and stung by the negative reaction from both press and public, the tour to support that album was an all-out assault on the senses. Reed retained Berlin’s twin guitarists, Dick Wagner and Steve Hunter, who showed off their hard rock chops by opening the shows with a beautifully constructed instrumental that segues seamlessly into the familiar chords of ‘Sweet Jane’ – transforming the Velvets classic into a thrilling glam metal stomp. Never has a live album been so aptly named. Reed sounds unleashed; seizing his moment in the spotlight and ramping everything up. Admittedly, it’s not for everyone, and criticisms that Reed was cheapening his songs for a mass audience by playing them in a slick hard rock style are perfectly valid. But for this listener, Rock ‘N’ Roll Animal is one of the greatest live albums ever recorded.
‘Kill Your Sons’ from Sally Can’t Dance (1974)
The provocatively titled ‘Kill Your Sons’ is the standout track from 1974’s largely unloved Sally Can’t Dance. The album sounds cheap and nasty: like the bastard offspring from a drunken threesome between Transformer, Berlin and Rock ‘N’ Roll Animal, and is almost certainly an accurate aural representation of what Reed’s amphetamine-fuelled life in NYC was like at the time). The song looks back to one of the defining moments of Reed’s adolescence: his parents’ decision to send him for electroshock therapy in an attempt to “cure” him of his homosexuality. But the only thing the therapy destroyed was Reed’s short-term memory – and probably his trust in his parents and doctors. “All of the drugs we took / it really was a lot of fun,” he sings, sounding like he’s just taken one drug too many and is about to drive all the fun into the ground.
‘Coney Island Baby’ from Coney Island Baby (1975)
Perhaps triggered by ‘Kill Your Sons’, Reed’s follow up to Sally Can’t Dance was the infamous Metal Machine Music: a double album of unrelenting feedback and electronic squalls. A ‘fuck you’ to his record label and audience? A genuine artistic statement? Or simply the result of a drug-addled mind? (“I was… really stoned,” Reed said in 1998.) Whatever Reed’s intentions, MMM was less a dead-end, more a black hole, forcing Lou to appease his label with a more commercial follow-up: the ravishing Coney Island Baby. Its title-track – a paean to Rachel, Reed’s lover throughout the mid-1970s – is one of his greatest ballads; its final spoken lines arguably the most affecting moment of Reed’s career:
“I’m sending this out to Lou and Rachel / and all the kids in PS192 / Man, I swear I’d give the whole thing up for you.”
‘Street Hassle’ from Take No Prisoners (1978)
If ‘Coney Island Baby’ was a love song to Rachel, ‘Street Hassle’ was the eulogy: a 3-part suite explicitly detailing a night of sex, drugs and violent death. And although the album version is a fantastic example of Reed’s dispassionate reportage, let’s go with the live version from 1978’s astonishing – and essential – album, Take No Prisoners. Yes, you lose the beautiful cello part – and, most regrettably, a lovely spoken-word coda from Bruce Springsteen – but Reed’s raw live delivery is far superior than the slightly strained syntax of the studio version. And while part of the charm of Take No Prisoners is the throwaway nature of many of the performances (Reed reminding CBGB’s nascent punk scene that he was there first, dammit) on ‘Street Hassle’ the Everyman band is tight, Reed fully engaged, the smart-ass asides jettisoned for a fully committed cathartic performance. Lou and Rachel, RIP.
‘My House’ from The Blue Mask (1981)
Reed’s first comeback of the 80s saw him drink and drug-free, with a new wife, a new band (featuring Richard Hell And The Voidoids’ mercurial guitarist, Robert Quine) and a new album – the opening track of which sets the tone for much of Reed’s lyrical concerns over the next decade: how to navigate the uncharted territory of marriage and middle-age while remaining on the straight and narrow. And yet again, one step forward is accompanied by one look back: this time to his first mentor, and drinking partner, the troubled poet Delmore Schwartz. It is Schwartz’s spirit that haunts ‘My House’ (literally if the lyrics are to be believed). But more than the lyrics, it is the music that impresses most here. Recorded in a single take, with no rehearsals or overdubs, the sound is minimal and intuitive, Quine describing the performance as “that magical jazz thing”. Simply beautiful.
‘Dirty Blvd’ from New York (1989)
How did Reed get from 1986’s wretched Mistrial to 1989’s stone-cold classic New York? (His second comeback of the 80s.) The unexpected death of Andy Warhol in 1987 must have played a part, perhaps forcing Reed to once again confront his past and reassess his present. And so a new band was formed, with a new commitment to “rewriting – endless rewriting” that paid off in spades. Reed’s lyrics have never been sharper, his singing rarely better. Or rather, his talk-singing: part of New York’s success is down to Reed finding a new style of delivery perfectly suited to his limited range, lending his vocals a new authority and intimacy.) One could choose practically any of New York’s 12 tracks, but ‘Dirty Blvd’ shines in particular,’ Lou’s favourite three chords recast to produce an archetypal Lou Reed song without falling back on cliché. All this and Reed’s high-school hero, Dion DiMucci, on backing vocals.
‘Open House’ from Songs for Drella, with John Cale (1990)
The death of Warhol also led to a rapprochement between Reed and fellow-ex-Velvet, John Cale, which led, in turn, to them producing one of the greatest albums in either of their back catalogues: Songs For Drella. (Drella being one of Warhol’s nicknames, a portmanteau of Dracula and Cinderella.) Again, choosing a single track to represent this moving tribute to their one-time mentor-cum-manager, is near-impossible, but let’s go with ‘Open House’. Over Cale’s simple piano part, Reed seems to become Warhol. His delivery is note-perfect in its intimacy, his eye for detail razor-sharp: “My skin’s as pale as the out-door’s moon / My hair’s silver like a Tiffany watch” he recites in one of the song’s loveliest couplets, the similes capturing Warhol’s other-worldliness and enthusiasms with an economy that would’ve made Delmore Schwartz proud – and would have probably left Warhol speechless (or at least elicited a sincere, ‘Oh wow.’)
‘Like A Possum’ from Ecstasy (2000)
Reed’s looser approach to writing, singing and guitar playing from the mid-1990s onwards meant that he never again scaled the heights of New York and Drella. However, this proves an asset when it comes to what is arguably his last masterpiece: Ecstasy’s eighteen minute ‘Like A Possum’. Over a marauding, heavily distorted guitar riff (not a million miles away from Reed’s favourite piece of music, Ornette Coleman’s ‘Lonely Woman’) Reed gleefully announces, “It’s possum day!” before detailing…. what, exactly? A confession? A fever dream? A long dark night of the soul? Given Reed’s alcoholism and his substance-abusing past – and what he went through to get sober – the implication that he may have been “playing possum” (even if only mentally) is genuinely chilling. And a reminder how difficult it can be to conquer demons and desires. ”Shooting and coming till it hurts,” he sings, “calm as an angel.”
A new anthology titled Why Don’t You Smile Now: Lou Reed At Pickwick Records 1964-65 is out now
