Commiseratory words after a death are uncomfortably trite, yet necessary. They enable our loss to be vocalised. We can say our piece – and through them seek peace.
A wild being from birth, Lou Reed breathed music: "My God is rock n’roll. It’s an obscure power that can change your life. The most important part of my religion is to play guitar."
His soul shone through, a little too brightly for some. In 1975 Rolling Stone journo Paul Nelson aptly designated Reed as 'poet of destruction', an epithet that became more truthful as time passed. By 2010, the time we saw him sing ballads in Santiago de Compostela's majestic praza da Quintana, his clear love for the poetry with music we call songs was made tangible in the night time air. His tender, vulnerable heart, open and plain to all who heard, shone as an exotic and mesmerising jewel – at the same time Lauri Anderson's wordy precision proved a perfect cerebral counterbalance. That night remains with me as no small wonder, of what can be done when honesty is made tangible.
He really knew everyone – sang with them, played with them or worked with them; and fell out with more than a few.
I don't know every Lou Reed song. There are so many. It's not just that they are good: they meet the point of experience with minimum fuss and brutal honesty – urban soundtracks from fucked up junkies, low life scum and free-floating souls. We may not recognise ourselves as their subjects, but his songs remain pertinent, resilient, resonant and, if allowed, will touch the soul. That's the job of a poet.
Recent Comments