Lou Reed’s death came as a complete surprise. I was at work last night when d texted me with the information.
It’s the following day now. I awoke, feeling numb and wrung out. As if Diana or Jade Goody had perished all over again. Which is ironic. I’ve laughed at imbeciles on both those occasions, pointing at cretins mourning someone who they’d never met and who had never heard of them. It’s strange finding myself in that position and experiencing something similar to a bereavement.
Lou’s been there since I was fourteen, I think, when someone gave me a copy of ‘Sally can’t dance’. I still have a soft spot – even now – for tracks on it. ‘Animal language’, ‘Kill your sons”, ‘NY stars, ach – all of it.
The next of his LPs I laid hands on was ‘Rock ‘n’ roll animal’. Now. By this point, I’d heard tell of – but never actually heard -the Velvet Underground.
Remember those ‘rock flashbacks’ compilations Polydor used to do, back in the seventies? There was a Zappa one, a Velvets one, a Pink Fairies one – Hendrix had two. I think I’ve owned all of these except, for some reason, either of the Hendrix.
Lewis Alan Reed’s work was the bedrock for glam, punk and industrial. Arguably, without him, these would never have happened – or at least, would have been very different. And a damn sight literate.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.