Lou Reed

by Anthony DeCurtis

  In the course of their lengthy and frequent conversations, Reed would occasionally express opinions about other artists. When Bowman compared the guitar interplay on a live version of “Sister Ray” that Reed had performed with the Tots to the Rolling Stones, Reed dismissed the idea, saying, “The only thing I ever liked about that band was Keith Richards.” He also told Bowman that he would find listening to a full album by Muddy Waters “boring.”

  Yet Bowman knew enough not to read too much into the closeness that seemed to have developed between him and Reed. “I was told by somebody that worked closely with him for many years that Lou eventually x-ed out everybody in his life,” Bowman said. “At a certain point, people would cross him or he’d feel they crossed him in some way, and he would just cut them off. They’d be gone. And this person said, ‘This will happen to you, too, eventually. Be prepared. But in the meantime, if he likes you, he’ll be your best friend.’ And that’s exactly what happened.”

  The first significant point of contention had to do with the track listing Bowman assembled. Bowman understood that, in order to generate the kind of excitement that was essential to motivate fans to purchase an expensive box set, it needed rarities to make it more than a greatest hits collection. Then fans could justifiably feel that they were purchasing new material, not simply remastered tracks that they already owned or that were already available. Rarities also helped generate the sort of reviews that would push the box commercially, as well as further establish the notion of Reed as a serious artist worthy of such elaborate treatment. Just as albums like Rock n Roll Animal and the Velvet Underground’s 1969 had done, this box set could, ideally, excite interest in Reed’s catalog. And from a purely aesthetic standpoint, rarities deepen and add texture to fans’ understanding of an artist.

  Bowman was well aware of all this. “I put together cassettes of what I thought the CDs in the set should look like, including all the outtakes,” he said. “I sequenced everything. Lou phoned me back and he was pretty excited, but he said, ‘You know, I’m not sure I want all these outtakes on here.’ His basic attitude was that if they were good enough to come out in the first place, he would have put them out. I tried to explain that I understood that he had made choices and that those choices say a lot about his artistic vision at any given moment.… I said, ‘This is a celebration of your work. This is like looking at Bach manuscripts that are not the final version of a given fugue but are close, and show the kind of genius where Bach took something that was already really good and made it something fucking unbelievable.’

  “Lou had a very hard time getting to that place. He felt that he had been mistreated and fucked over by various people in the music industry. And by the time the Velvets were over, if not before, he had become a control freak. So the idea of allowing these things out of the vault went against that instinct. His gut told him his original decision had to be right and no alternative version should be presented.”

  The two men went back and forth on the issue. Finally, Reed agreed that of the forty-five tracks on the three-CD set, five rarities could be included. The irony is that Reed himself loved to hear rarities by the artists he was interested in and valued the deeper understanding such tracks brought. He just could not allow himself to be similarly revealing. “I was pretty disappointed,” Bowman said. “I thought he’d compromised the box pretty heavily, but I did the best I could. We were still going ahead with the project and there were still some cool things on there.”

  Once the track listing was set, Bowman needed to arrange an interview with Reed for his liner notes. Bowman had been awarded a Grammy for his liner notes for the Stax/Volt box set, and he had earned a reputation for the accuracy, thoroughness, and carefulness of his writing. Indeed, the quality of Bowman’s work was one reason Reed had agreed to move forward with the project in the first place. It was agreed that Bowman would fly to New York and interview Reed at the West End Avenue apartment that Reed and Sylvia lived in and used as a work space. Bowman asked Reed who else he thought should be interviewed for his liner notes essay. Reed responded, “No one. Everyone I worked with was an asshole or else I’d still be working with them.” Bowman grew exasperated. “Come on, Lou,” he said. “Every musician, every producer, every engineer was an asshole?” According to Bowman, “Lou said, ‘Yes. Or else I’d still be working with them.’ And he got that Lou Reed aggressive tone.” Eventually, Bowman was permitted to interview Bob Ezrin, Michael Fonfara, and Clive Davis, along with Reed himself.

  When Bowman came to New York, he and Reed initially met at a restaurant for breakfast to do the interview. Bowman began his first question, “I want to start by talking about when you were growing up,” and Reed interrupted him. “Rob, I don’t talk about anything personal,” he said. “You know that.” Bowman was taken aback. “I wasn’t going to ask you anything personal,” he responded. “I wanted to ask about musical experiences: what you’re hearing on the radio, what records you’re buying.” Bowman reported that “you could see him physically calm down and relax. It was interesting because, despite our relationship at that point, which consisted of nearly daily conversations for four months, the interview really had him uptight. At the first question, he was immediately ready to pounce.” Once Reed relaxed, the interview went smoothly. After a while, the two men decided to continue their conversation in the West End Avenue apartment.

  “On the way there, we stop to buy cigarettes for Lou, and then we go to the bank because Lou needs to use the ATM,” Bowman said. “It was kind of funny lining up with Lou Reed at an ATM behind three or four other people. Nobody takes notice of him, but he’s pissed off that there’s a line. Meanwhile, there’s a homeless person sleeping in the vestibule where the ATM is. Lou goes, ‘That’s disgusting!’ I said, ‘What?’ Lou gestured toward the homeless person. I didn’t say anything, but I felt like, ‘Fuck, Lou, it’s cold out. This poor guy—what’s wrong with him being here?’ Lou was fuming. Finally, he says, ‘Come on,’ and he grabs me and we go into the branch. Lou wants to see the manager. He tells the manager that there’s a homeless guy in the vestibule and he wants him kicked out immediately. I’m stunned. This is Lou Reed doing this to this person. For what reason? It wasn’t the most pleasant thing, he smelled a bit—big fucking deal. Especially given that Lou Reed chronicles the underbelly of New York, right? Anyway, security comes along, shuffles the poor homeless guy out of there, we get back on line at the ATM, Lou gets his money, and we start walking to his apartment. And I’m still a little bit stunned.”

  There has long been a homeless population in New York, and Reed’s response, while far more extreme than most people’s, was not incomprehensible. No question: the image of Lou Reed, of all people, kicking a needy person out of a bank into the freezing cold is like something out of Dickens—just so that he could have a more pleasant experience as he waited to withdraw his money. It’s as potent a symbol of 1 percent selfishness as can be conjured, and a reflection of the distance—emotional, psychological, financial—that Reed had traveled since his years as a junkie. It’s certainly possible to speculate that his outsize response to the sight—and smell—of the homeless man was generated by the specter of a fate that he had come too close to suffering and that he needed to have immediately removed from his presence. Also striking is that Reed either had no idea how his actions would look to somebody else or didn’t care. This was, after all, the man who wrote in “Dirty Blvd.,” “Give me your hungry, your tired, your poor, I’ll piss on ’em / That’s what the Statue of Bigotry says”—a fierce indictment of how our society has abandoned the ideals expressed on the Statue of Liberty. Regardless of whether they might have shared Reed’s feelings about the homeless man, most artists would have been too savvy and image-conscious to behave as he had in public, let alone in front of a writer. It’s another example of Reed’s inability or unwillingness to play by anyone else’s rules—or of his lack of a clear sense of how he was being perceived.

  On the way back to Reed’s ap
artment, Bowman couldn’t contain his feelings, but because he was in the middle of interviewing Reed and needed to complete the box set project, he couldn’t be as direct as he might otherwise have been. As they were walking, Bowman asked Reed, “So, ten years ago, would you have gone to the bank manager and had that guy removed?” Reed spat back, “That’s a stupid question.” Bowman remained calm. “Well, I don’t know if it was a stupid question,” he said, “but I’m just curious. Given your lyrics and the things you’ve talked about, it might not have bothered you at a certain point.” Next, Bowman recalled, “Lou started going on about how somebody had been shot a day or two ago in New York for seventeen cents, which shows you how cheap life is in the city, blah, blah, blah. It was clear that he was pissed off that I brought it up. It was probably a mistake on my part and I tried to do it gingerly, but I still just couldn’t believe it. Whatever.”

  When they arrived at Reed’s apartment, Reed showed Bowman the bedroom in which he had set up a small home studio. Then they sat down at the dining room table to continue their interview. Bowman was drinking Coca-Cola—a choice that Reed disapproved of for health reasons—and Reed drank water and tea. Bowman had a hard time leading Reed into the sort of conversation that would make for a strong liner notes essay. Reed’s reluctance to credit others was very much on display. “Lou was cooperative but occasionally short,” Bowman recalled. “I remember talking about Transformer and some of the incredible arrangements that Mick Ronson had done. Lou said, ‘Well, I’m sure Mick would be happy to hear you say that. You got a question?’” Reed then began to respond with one-word or yes-or-no answers. This was standard Reed behavior with journalists, but with Bowman? The guy who was collaborating with him on what was meant to be—and what Reed had seemingly wanted to be—a major career statement? It was very much in Reed’s interest to speak as compellingly as possible about his own work. After about ninety minutes of resistance, Bowman said, “Lou, you don’t really seem like you’re into this. Would it be better if we picked this up another time? We’ve spent months on this project, so let’s do it right.” According to Bowman, Reed’s reply was, “‘Rob, you know I hate doing interviews. Let’s get it done.’ I said, ‘All right, but it would be helpful if sometimes you wouldn’t just say “Yes” or “No.”’”

  The interview ended up lasting six hours, from late morning to late afternoon, no doubt a record for Reed, who was squeezing a stress ball throughout the conversation. At one point, Reed left for half an hour to run an errand. Bowman recalled, “I remember when he left thinking, ‘Thank God.’ I really needed a break, because it was agony. By the time I left there, I was more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life from an interview. I had a splitting headache. He was so fucking difficult.” Oddly, Reed did not share that assessment. About three or four hours into their conversation, Reed said, “Rob, thank God this is you and you’re so organized. With anybody else, this would be beyond excruciating.” In fact, the interview proved substantive and revealing. Bowman had more than enough material to work with for his essay. “I knew I got great stuff,” Bowman said, “but it felt like our relationship was rocked a little bit compared to what it had been.”

  As Bowman prepared to leave, the gentler Lou Reed emerged, as if on cue. It was pouring rain and Bowman was headed downtown to try to score a ticket to see the Grateful Dead at Madison Square Garden. Earlier in the day, Reed had grabbed Bowman around the chest and physically pulled him back as he attempted to cross the street against the light. “You don’t know New York drivers,” Reed said. “You’re going to get killed!” He was similarly protective of Bowman as he set off (unsuccessfully, as it happened) in search of a miracle. Reed was concerned about the rain—would Bowman be able to get a cab? Should Lou come downstairs with him to help hail one? “He was really sweet, really kind,” Bowman said.

  Bowman returned home to Toronto, and after a few days, the calls from Reed resumed once again. “We were best friends again,” Bowman said. “He would talk about what he had done that day, ask what I had done. We would talk about the set, but he’d always want to know how soon he could see the liner notes.” Bowman was known for lengthy, thorough essays, and along with going through the six-hour interview he had done with Reed, he needed to complete the secondary interviews that Reed had finally sanctioned. The liner notes for Between Thought and Expression ended up being more than twenty thousand words—after Reed’s extensive edits. The idea that Bowman would have something to show Reed after a few days was not rational. When Bowman completed the essay, he promptly sent Reed a copy by Federal Express. Reed read it immediately.

  “That’s when things went to hell,” Bowman recalled. “He phoned me and just started yelling. He was angry because of a couple of things that Michael Fonfara had told me. One was about Lou leaving for vacation and giving him the tapes for what would become Take No Prisoners and telling him to turn it into an album. When Lou came back, he didn’t like what Fonfara had done and made him do it over again. That story pretty much stayed in the notes.

  “The other thing was about a violinist Lou had hired while Fonfara was leading the band. They’d gone through rehearsals, and the violinist would often show up on a unicycle, which to Lou was like, ‘What the fuck is this?’ They were about to go on tour and were at the airport in New York, ready to fly overseas. As the flight starts to board, Lou goes up to the violinist and says, ‘You’re not coming.’ The guy’s got his boarding pass, his luggage was on the plane, but Lou decided the guy wasn’t coming. I realize that story doesn’t make Lou look good, but my idea was, here was a man that had absolute confidence in his decisions and would make them no matter what the cost. But Lou wanted that story out, and it’s not in the notes.”

  At this point, Reed also returned to the issue of the track listing for the box, which he had already approved after much debate. He noticed that the set did not include a single track from The Bells—“I think it’s a terrible record,” Bowman said—and he wanted that emended. “The idea of having one album in the whole body of work that’s not included is kind of odd,” Bowman admitted. “But I came to that conclusion, and it never came up in my conversations with Lou. Fonfara told me about the sessions for The Bells and Growing Up in Public—that they were chaotic and Lou was hammered the whole time. I included stuff in the notes to the effect that it was not a great time. To me, that doesn’t diminish Lou as a great artist. It explains a moment in his career. Lou was furious about that, too. It was midnight, one in the morning, and he was yelling. He had never yelled at me before. He said, ‘Typical. I didn’t think you’d be this way, but it’s, oh, yeah, let’s paint a picture of big bad Lou.’ He was really flipping out. He also said, ‘The Bells is the best record I’ve ever made.’ As a result, ‘The Bells’ is now on the set.”

  Bowman attempted to calm Reed down. Privately, he had sent his draft of the notes to Bill Bentley, who had worked closely with Reed for many years, and to M. C. Kostek, who ran the Velvet Underground Appreciation Society and was deeply knowledgeable about Reed. Both men had told Bowman that his notes were perhaps the best writing they’d ever read about Reed. But Reed’s paranoia had kicked in hard. At one point, Reed heard a sound on the phone line and accused Bowman of recording their call. Reed insisted that Sylvia was the only person he trusted and that he would have her read the notes and he’d call Bowman back. At 7 a.m., Bowman’s phone rang. “Lou wakes me up, and he says, ‘Guess what? Sylvia hates them.’ He just started ranting and raving again. This is, like, six hours after we last spoke. So Sylvia read the notes between one a.m. and seven a.m.? Maybe, but I’m suspicious.”

  Technically, Reed did not have final approval over either the track listing or the liner notes. Record companies, however, try to accommodate artists as much as possible on such projects, out of regard for the artist’s wishes about his own work and to avoid creating bad blood. In this case, even though Reed was no longer signed to RCA, the company no doubt believed there would be more catalog projects down the
road, and they also would have wanted Reed to help promote Between Thought and Expression. Bowman had acquiesced to Reed on the track listing, but he resisted making all the changes Reed demanded on the liner notes. His feeling was that the music was Lou’s, but the liner notes were his. Soon after, Bowman got a call from the record company, explaining that Reed had offered to take a lower royalty rate on the box set in exchange for control over both the track listing and the liner notes. In order to keep Reed happy, the company agreed to the deal. “Ultimately, Lou edited the liner notes and took out all sorts of stuff he didn’t want in there,” Bowman said.

  Reed finally saw the box set as a means of getting greater recognition for work that had already been released but that, in his view, had been overlooked or had never gotten its due. For example, six tracks from Berlin appear on the set. “If the box was going to be representative,” Reed told Rolling Stone, “I wanted to maintain a level of integrity with it and not just have this plethora of unreleased garbage on there.” If not out of print, much of Reed’s solo work was difficult to find in the early nineties. His great admiration for it aside, Reed himself did not own a copy of The Bells. Despite his difficulties with Bowman, Reed called him up to ask if he could borrow Bowman’s copy. (Realizing that he would likely never get the album back if he loaned it to Reed, Bowman suggested that Reed scout around New York’s many used record stores for it. Reed did, eventually finding a copy.)

  At the time of its release, however, Between Thought and Expression did not make much of an impression, either commercially or critically. “The goal of the album was not just to do a greatest hits,” Reed said. “I was trying to put down stuff in a way that was representative and that would really be meaningful to a collector.” But that is precisely what he didn’t do. Collectors would primarily be interested in exactly the sort of material that Reed pulled out of the set. As for critics, they are more inclined to write about an anthology when it significantly deepens their understanding of a major artist, or offers a meaningful look at his creative process. Between Thought and Expression did neither. As a result, it was not so much attacked as ignored. There really wasn’t much to say about it. As for its taking its place alongside groundbreaking collections like Dylan’s Biograph and Eric Clapton’s Crossroads, that did not remotely happen. In his effort to control what the set would be, Reed blunted whatever impact it might have had.