Lou Reed

by Anthony DeCurtis

  When the time came for the October event, at which Reed and Rock were to be interviewed by John Varvatos, Rock offered Reed the opportunity to back out. “He was very sick, and I remember saying to him, ‘Lou, you don’t have to come and do this,’” Rock said. “He said, ‘No, I want to. I want to do it for you. This is your book, Mick. It’s not my book.’ I remember thinking, ‘I’m not sure I need to take that burden on, because I don’t think it’s helping Lou’s health.’ But whatever. Nobody could tell Lou what to do. I went to meet him coming in, and it was very difficult. Laurie was helping him along. You could see how weak he was at first, but the minute he got aggravated by people talking, then he perked up. His strength seemed to come for a while. Anger somehow seemed to fuel him. And then I never saw him after that.”

  27

  THE AFTERLIFE

  LOU REED DIED ON October 27, 2013—poetically enough, a Sunday morning, a beautiful, haunted time eloquently captured in one of his sweetest ballads, “Sunday Morning,” on The Velvet Underground and Nico. Despite his liver transplant, not to mention the excesses of his early life, his death came to the world as a shock. Reed’s declaration that he was a “triumph of modern medicine” after the transplant in May proved to be more an expression of what he needed to believe than a statement of fact. Actually, he had been ill for months after the operation, and growing frailer. As his health faded, Reed returned to the Cleveland Clinic, where the transplant had been performed, for further treatment, but options had run out. Dr. Charles Miller, who had performed the transplant, said, “We all agreed that we did everything we could,” and Reed decided that he wanted to return to the Hamptons home that he and Anderson shared. The young rebel who had despised Long Island and spoken about it with the bitterest contempt had come to love his life there, near the ocean, with Anderson. And the defiant reprobate who walked on a ledge for decades had lived to be seventy-one. On a lovely, ironic, and extremely unlikely note, the last song Reed streamed on Spotify was Hall and Oates’s sweet 1983 number two hit, “Say It Isn’t So.”

  Reed spent his final days calmly, at peace, with friends and family. “I was with Lou the morning he died, and he knew exactly what was happening,” Anderson said later. “He had described this feeling the week before of slipping down through the body, through the inside and out. And that Sunday morning, he said, ‘It’s happening again now.’ And then he had an expression on his face that I had only seen once before, when my mother died.… It looked like inexpressible wonder and incredible joy.” Hal Willner said that he believed Reed had given up his “battle to live and keep working, to keep going out,” only two or three days before his death. Willner and Jenni Muldaur were with Reed on the Friday night before his death. “This is so hard,” Reed said, referring to his acceptance of his inevitable death. “Jenni and I were just lying on the floor with him,” Willner said. “He asked me to play one of my New York shuffles, but I wasn’t prepared, so we just played records. We put on things he loved—Nina Simone, stuff like that. He heard Valerie June, and he started to get excited. He wasn’t familiar with her and he could hardly talk, but he said, ‘I want to know about her.’ Then when Dion came on, his version of the Doc Pomus song ‘Troubled Mind,’ he grabbed me and said, ‘I am so susceptible to beauty.’ It was insane. I could still see the goose bumps on him. And at the end of that run of songs, we sat him up and we watched the movie Naked City. Perfect. But I think it wasn’t until then that he accepted that he was going to die.”

  Anderson described this experience in a piece she wrote for Rolling Stone after Reed’s death. “I have never seen an expression as full of wonder as Lou’s as he died,” she said. “His hands were doing the water-flowing twenty-one form of tai chi. His eyes were wide-open. I was holding in my arms the person I loved the most in the world, and talking to him as he died. His heart stopped. He wasn’t afraid. I had gotten to walk with him to the end of the world. Life—so beautiful, painful, and dazzling—does not get better than that.”

  The night before his death, Reed and Anderson had stayed up talking, and in the morning, Reed asked to be taken outside, onto the porch of the couple’s home. “Take me into the light,” Reed had requested. Anderson later remarked, “It was only a few days later that I realized that light was his very last word.” But all was not beauty and tranquility during those final days. In some ways, Reed remained haunted by his own version of his past. One of Reed’s close friends, the painter Julian Schnabel, also visited him in East Hampton that week. “We were in the swimming pool and I was holding him in my arms, and he said to me, ‘You know, I was on the beach with my dad, and I put my hand in his hand and he smacked me in the face—and he drew the line right there.’ And I thought that was really a crazy thing for a guy who’s seventy years old. I mean, he’s thinking about that all these years [later].”

  We can’t know the ultimate truth about Reed’s relationship with his father—and people who knew his father describe the idea of his slapping Reed that way as inconceivable—but it is significant that, like Kafka, Reed carried the image of his father as a tyrannical monster to his grave. “My father didn’t give me shit,” he bluntly declared in his final interview in September of 2013, a little over a month before he died. But justifiably or not, intentionally or not, Reed’s father had bequeathed his only son an image of himself as punishing and denying.

  PERHAPS THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY consequence of Reed’s death was the revelation of how profound and ranging the impact of his life and music had been. Undoubtedly, Reed’s stature had been assured. But even some of his most long-standing and devoted fans were stunned by the deep, lasting, ongoing response his passing evoked. If the importance of the Velvet Underground had been concealed for years, until all those people who had bought the group’s first album formed bands, Reed’s own importance during the last decade or more of his life had been assumed, but rarely expressed. As he and Anderson made their nightly rounds of art openings, plays, movie premieres, and avant-garde events, it was as if he was hidden in plain sight, a ghost haunting the aesthetic worlds he had so much helped shape, but in which he had ceased to be a vital force. Reed was never elected to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a solo artist during his lifetime, however much he had deserved to be. He had made too many enemies in the industry.

  As with every significant rock death, tributes immediately poured in and media coverage abounded. A front-page obituary in the New York Times declared that Reed’s work with the Velvet Underground “had a major influence on generations of rock musicians,” and that as a solo artist, he “remained a powerful if polarizing force” whose “early work assured him a permanent audience.” That emphasis on his “early work” would have enraged Reed. Rolling Stone put him on its cover—he’d occupied that spot only once before—and in the magazine’s extensive coverage, Mick Jagger dubbed him the “Johnny Cash of New York rock: he was always the man in black.” Bono, living up to Bruce Springsteen’s declaration that “you always want an Irishman” to speak about you at important moments, hailed Reed as “a still figure in the eye of a metallic hurricane, an artist pulling strange shapes out of the formless void that is pop culture, a songwriter pulling melodies out of the dissonance of what Yeats called ‘this filthy modern tide.’” David Byrne said that Reed’s “work and that of the Velvets was a big reason I moved to New York, and I don’t think I’m alone there. We wanted to be in a city that nurtured and fed that kind of talent.” Morrissey recorded a gorgeous version of “Satellite of Love” and wrote that he had “no words to express the sadness at the death of Lou Reed. He had been there all my life. He will always be pressed to my heart. Thank God for those, like Lou, who move within their own laws; otherwise, imagine how dull the world would be.” Ryan Adams, one of Reed’s musical descendants, tweeted, simply and tastefully, “Lou Reed.”

  Tributes came in from closer to home as well. On his Facebook page, John Cale wrote, “The world has lost a fine songwriter and poet.… I’ve lost my ‘school yard buddy.�
�” Cale also issued a statement saying, “Unlike so many others with similar stories, we have the best of our fury laid out on vinyl, for the world to catch a glimpse. The laughs we shared just a few weeks ago will forever remind me of all that was good between us.” Maureen Tucker told a journalist “Lou and I had a special friendship. I loved him very much. He was always encouraging and helpful to me and a good friend.” David Bowie termed Reed “a master.”

  Artists also honored Reed onstage. Playing in Baltimore on the night of Reed’s death, Pearl Jam blasted “I’m Waiting for the Man.” That same night in Eugene, Oregon, Gov’t Mule performed “I’m Waiting for the Man,” along with “Walk on the Wild Side” and “Sweet Jane.” In Hartford, Connecticut, Phish opened its show with a rollicking ten-minute version of “Rock and Roll.” At Neil Young’s annual Bridge School benefit concert for disabled children at the Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View, California, Young joined My Morning Jacket, Elvis Costello, and Jenny Lewis to end the evening with a nine-minute version of the Velvet Underground’s “Oh! Sweet Nuthin’.”

  But it soon became clear that’s Reed’s impact extended much further than former bandmates and rock stars. “nooooooooo nottttttttt LOU REED,” tweeted Miley Cyrus, punctuating her lament with a broken heart emoticon. Ricky Gervais wrote, “RIP Lou Reed. One of the greatest artists of our time.” Lena Dunham wrote, “We love you Lou. We love you Laurie.” Cyndi Lauper declared, “I still can’t believe Lou Reed passed away. I’m sorry for his family’s loss. greatful [sic] for his music and the influence he had on my music.” Samuel L. Jackson mourned, “R.I.P. Lou Reed… The music of my generation. Still Relevant!” Said Susan Sarandon, “NY lost one of its originals with Lou Reed’s passing. So sad.” Mia Farrow offered, “Deepest gratitude Lou Reed. Peace.” Sarah Silverman, poignantly, quoted lyrics from “Perfect Day” (“I thought I was someone else, someone good”), while Kesha confessed that she was “so sad with the loss of Lou Reed—such an incredible visionary and songwriter, so inspirational. transformer on repeat.”

  On Thursday, November 14, a brisk fall day, a public memorial, arranged by Laurie Anderson, was held for Reed. The outdoor event took place by the Barclays Capital Grove and the Paul Milstein Pool and Terrace outside Lincoln Center Theater and the Metropolitan Opera House, from one until four in the afternoon. Along with its obvious cultural relevance, the site was not far from where Reed had joined an Occupy Wall Street demonstration a couple of years earlier—and where he had debuted as a solo artist in 1973. Billed as New York: Lou Reed at Lincoln Center, the memorial was neither widely publicized nor exclusive or secret in any way. It seemed premised on the assumption that anyone who was likely to want to be there would find out about it and come. It was announced on Reed’s Facebook page as “a gathering open to the public—no speeches, no live performances, just Lou’s voice, guitar music, and songs—playing the recordings selected by his family and friends.”

  The event adhered precisely to that description, and somewhere between one and two hundred people attended. Reed’s music played for three hours through an impeccable sound system overseen by Hal Willner that lived up to Reed’s unrelenting sonic standards. The selection of songs kicked off with the roaring guitar feedback alarum of “The Blue Mask,” after which the set list, curated by Willner, touched every phase and style of Reed’s career, ranging from “Femme Fatale” to “Set the Twilight Reeling,” from “Candy Says” to “Waves of Fear.” The afternoon finally crashed to a close with an excerpt from Metal Machine Music.

  At Anderson’s insistence, there was no VIP area of any kind, so she mingled with friends like Julian Schnabel, Master Ren, Philip Glass, and Salman Rushdie but also chatted with whatever fans approached her with their condolences and good wishes. A few reporters were present and were under no restrictions. People listened to the music, danced by themselves, chatted with one another, and let their thoughts and emotions run to whatever meaning Lou Reed had brought to their lives. One attendee wrote to a friend that “while ‘White Light’ played, some odd homeless dude with Down’s syndrome was swaying next to Schnabel and Rushdie. As he should be.” As David Chiu wrote at rollingstone.com, “The event didn’t feature any large signs, banners, photographs of Reed, or any other markers indicating it was a memorial. For three hours, it was just about letting the songs speak for themselves.”

  FOR A FEW WEEKS, it seemed as if that might be it. And somehow, that felt about right. An important artist who never had an enormous following had died, and he was suitably, movingly honored in his death. He had not produced essential work for some time, but as the media in all its forms reflected on his life, the impact of his most vital contributions had become clear again. People assumed that Laurie Anderson would organize a memorial for family and friends but that, since Reed was such a private person, it would likely be kept small and private. Certainly, Reed would be heralded once again as the year ended and attention turned to notable figures who had died within the last twelve months. As so often was the case throughout his career, Reed would have received something like his due, though nothing more.

  All that made perfect sense, except that the grieving for Reed never ended. The real impact had taken place in people’s hearts and required time to find expression. Dean Wareham of Dean and Britta, who had recently written songs to accompany some of the screen tests (including Reed’s) commissioned by Andy Warhol, recalled that he was on the road when he heard that Reed had died. “I think at first I was like, ‘Oh, well, that’s not really a shock because I know he’s been ill, and I don’t think it’s going to affect me that much,’” he said. “But driving home, I started listening to some of his older songs, like ‘Love Makes You Feel,’ and some of the obscure ones.… There’s a lot of records, a lot of good ones, a lot of bad records, but even the bad ones have gems on them, too.” Singer-songwriter Joseph Arthur wrote that six weeks after Reed’s death, “I was tired of mourning him and it felt like I was done, but in truth, the real mourning was only just beginning.”

  That proved to be the case not only for Arthur, who would go on to record an album of Reed’s songs titled Lou, but for just about everyone else who loved Reed’s music. Even staunch admirers were struck by the ongoing public acknowledgments of Reed’s significance; the accolades simply never stopped. Tribute concerts were organized in cities around the country, as well as in Canada, the UK, and Australia. Most notably, at the South by Southwest music conference in Austin, the musicians Richard Barone and Alejandro Escovedo put together an evening devoted to Reed’s music that featured the likes of Lucinda Williams, Suzanne Vega, and Sean Lennon. Remembrances of Reed by friends, acquaintances, and fans cropped up repeatedly in magazines, newspapers, websites, and blogs. Versions of his songs flooded the Internet. “It was fucking huge. Lou would never have believed it,” said his friend Eric Andersen, smiling and shaking his head. Andersen lived in Europe and was stunned to see that “the Norwegian media, the French media, the Italian media, the German media all covered his death. He would not ever have believed that this could be true.”

  Reed’s first wife, Bettye Kronstad, was struck by the depth and complexity of her feelings after hearing about her ex-husband’s passing. After their bitter, final breakup, they had not been in touch for forty years. “One of my daughters texted me and said, ‘Mom, I don’t know if you’ve seen the news, but I wanted to get ahold of you beforehand: Lewis died,’” she recalled. “My initial reaction was, ‘I knew this would happen.’ You knew he would go early, and you knew it would have something to do with his liver. Of course, I didn’t want to see him go. You know, I loved him. I believed in him. It was a shame. I was very glad to know that the drugs and drinking were gone and he had a good relationship. It settled things for me to a certain extent. Still, it was totally unexpected how much it hurt me to hear that he died, how much it hurt to know that he’s no longer walking around on this planet.”

  LAURIE ANDERSON SAID THAT a minute after Reed stopped breathing, she contacted Mi
ngyur Rinpoche, the couple’s Tibetan Buddhist instructor, “to set in motion the forty-nine days of prayers of powa, which are prayers translated as ‘the practice of conscious dying’ or the ‘transference of consciousness at the time of death.’” According to Anderson, The Tibetan Book of the Dead reveals that “after death, all beings spend forty-nine days in the bardo. And the bardo is a place, or really a process, that lasts forty-nine days as the mind dissolves and, as the Tibetans believe, the spirit or, let’s say, the energy prepares to take another life-form.” To commemorate that seven-week period of the bardo, Anderson organized a series of memorials at the apartment that she and Reed shared on West Eleventh Street. Each Sunday afternoon, specially invited friends of the couple gathered to discuss Reed’s many interests, including technology, photography, film, music, writing, meditation, tai chi, and New York Shuffle, the satellite radio show he had cohosted with Hal Willner.

  “During the last seven weeks, I’ve heard literally hundreds of stories, mostly about Lou’s kindness and generosity,” Anderson said. “‘He put me through college,’ ‘He gave me two cameras,’ ‘He listened to my problems.’ But most of all the stories were, ‘He changed my life by making me do whatever it was better—music, writing, planning.’” Indeed, that seemed to have been Reed’s most immediate legacy: providing an example and encouragement to people to, as his song put it, do the things that they want to, regardless of anyone else’s opinion.

  On Monday, December 16, the fiftieth day after Reed’s death, Anderson hosted a memorial for him at the Apollo Theater on 125th Street in Harlem, for invited family members and friends. “We wanted to be here at the Apollo near Lexington and One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth because that was a place he really loved,” Anderson explained, nodding to the street corner and subway stop cited in “I’m Waiting for the Man.” She explained that the event was meant to celebrate the end of the bardo, and that the invitees were there to “join us in this most important moment of all—the liberation into the cosmos and into eternity of [Reed’s] power and his sweetness.”