He was an angry, heroin-taking, gender-fluid nonconformist, but it was Reed’s restless, vulnerable music that made him stand out
A few years back, I went to a 75th anniversary party for the venerable independent publisher New Directions. A series of authors took to the stage to read. Among the company was an elderly man in a leather jacket, whose relentlessly monotone rendition of the poet Delmore Schwartz’s “In Dreams Begin Responsibilities” numbers among the more gruelling performances I’ve ever seen.
It was Lou Reed, of course. Who else has been so willing to make art painful, to smash it over the threshold of enjoyment? Who else has possessed a career-long knack for pulling the rug out from under critics and audiences alike, thwarting expectations and spurning demands? Play “Sweet Jane”, they cried for decades, and in return he handed over Metal Machine Music, 63 minutes and 31 densely cacophonous seconds of guitar feedback unleavened by lyrics or tune; an act of sonic aggression matched by his facility for getting into brawls with everyone from journalists and band members to David Bowie (whom he slapped in a Chinese restaurant).
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