By Lars Trodson
When I read about Lou Reed the past day or so all I hear is
that he sold no records, that he was more influential than he was popular and
that he was dark dark dark. We hear these names that he was often associated with,
Hubert Selby, Jr. and Nelson Algren and the others, particularly out of the New
York scene, and one soon gets the impression that Reed was unpopular because he
was so dark. And then everybody brings up “Metal Machine Music” to sort of seal
the argument as to how weird he was.
Now, it would be useless to deny any of that. But that is
not the whole story.
Listen to “Rock and Roll” — the Velvet Underground version —
or “Waiting on My Man” and you hear at least two songs with undoubtedly strange
lyrics (what is this business about amputations?) but also two songs that are some
of the most joyous in the rock and roll pantheon. They’re street smart and
funny. It’s like listening to two guys sitting behind you at Yankee Stadium.
Those cats were both profane and hilarious, and that was Lou Reed.
And about that other song, the one song that everyone knows
and the one song that everybody quoted when they found out he died (“Lou’s
taking his final walk on the wild side…”), it’s also full of love and
compassion and, in that old weird Lou Reed way, hope. So, you know, that old
trope, that he was so dark was a comfortable fit only for those people who wanted
to see Reed in that light. But by the time he was on the cover of Rolling Stone
in 1989, Reed had distanced himself from that persona. (He had even put out a
poppy record, “New Sensations,” about five years before.)
I guess I have this worldview of Reed because I first became
truly aware of him during one of the sunniest periods of my life. In fact, I
received news of his death because my friend Jimmy Allen texted me about it,
and then I called him up and we reminisced a little while. We worked together
one summer more than 30 years ago mowing lawns for this company that owned a
series of apartment complexes. It was me, Jimmy, Frankie O’Hara, Johnny Cook,
and a couple of other guys.
We never got around to mowing the lawns very much. I
remember one time we rode out to one of the apartment complexes and we unloaded
the lawn mowers and then laid on the grass all afternoon and Frankie suddenly
got up and said, “We gotta go!” So we loaded up the truck and went back to
headquarters and when we asked Frank what was so urgent that we needed to get
back, he said, “It’s break time!”
On certain extra lazy afternoons we’d head out over to a
tiny little bar called St. Pete’s that had draft beer for 10 cents, a little
6-ounce glass, and shots for 50 cents. It had a miniature pool table. We called
it “The Basilica.” “Hey, let’s head over to the Basilica.” And off we’d go. It
was a summer of perfect light and accommodating temperatures and there was a
beautiful woman who used to come down to the pool in the afternoons who had a
tattoo on her shoulder and we called her Lydia. No one ever talked to Lydia.
And then there was Lou Reed. I would go over to Beacon
Records in Providence and scoop up all the old records, because I didn’t have
any, and I remember thinking that “Coney Island Baby” was one of the most
beautiful records (not just the title track) that I had ever heard. I even
loved “Sally Can’t Dance” even though I knew Reed hated that record. And of
course there was the electric jolt of “Rock and Roll Animal” and the surreal
genius of the live “Take No Prisoners.” It was all part of a unique career and
an important American voice.
Reed always stated that if people put his records end to end
you’d end up with his version of the great American novel. I’m not sure that
the records coalesce quite that neatly, but why not? Or at any rate I hope so,
because now there aren’t going to be any more songs.
Reed’s death came as a shock because you figured that if
what he had done to himself as a young man hadn’t killed him nothing would. What
is old age but an inconvenience compared to drug addiction and all that? And
the statements he made after the liver transplant seemed to indicate this was
just a speedbump.
But alas.
“When you're all
alone and lonely
in your midnight
hour
And you find that
your soul
has been up for
sale
And you begin to
think about
all the things
that you've done
And you begin to
hate
But remember the
princess who lived on the hill
Who loved you even
though she knew you was wrong
And right now she
just might come shining through
and the glory of
love… glory of love
glory of love…
just might come through…”
— From “Coney Island Baby”
