Transformer

by Victor Bockris

  LR: Sinatra. Oh, sure.

  VB: Like the two of you onstage together, doing a number?

  LR: Oh, no. I’d like to write for him. I would love to put some lyrics to, you know, get to know him, then put the lyrics in his mouth, then all he’d have to do would be to sing them, wouldn’t matter if he understood ’em.

  VB: Well, are you at all confused by this friendship he has with Agnew, in relation to you? Obviously, a friend of yours is not George Wallace, or something. Do you think you look like Frank Sinatra, a bit?

  LR: Don’t say that to Frank Sinatra. I mean, he’s really so good.

  VB: You do, you look quite a bit like Frank.

  LR: It’d really be fantastic, I mean, can you imagine him, with his audience, at the Sands, laying down a song, with Nelson Riddle conducting and all that shit, can you imagine if he laid down ‘Heroin’?

  VB: Yeah!

  LR: And got very serious with them for a minute, what might happen? But the thing is, that wouldn’t be him. See, the way you’d have to do it with him is make it real.

  VB: Yeah, his lyrics and his style are not really serious.

  LR: Written by somebody else, but sounding like him. So, in other words, it’d be interesting to write that kind of style, that kind of song, you know, his Sinatra singing. Can you imagine that in Las Vegas?

  VB: You could write that song, right?

  LR: In about two minutes.

  LOU REED MEETS WILLIAM BURROUGHS

  BY VICTOR BOCKRIS

  I had always wanted to witness a meeting between William Burroughs and Lou Reed, for although they come from different eras, they live on the same edges, having both survived long, sometimes torturous journeys to bring their useful visions back to a large public. Indeed, there are many parallels in their careers. To start with, Reed’s most famous song is still “Heroin” (1966), Burroughs’s most famous book, Naked Lunch (1959).

  In the fall of 1979, we managed to squeeze the twenty-eight-minute meeting in between their equally busy schedules. At sixty-five and thirty-seven respectively, Burroughs and Reed were at a peak of their careers. The writer was leaving for Zurich the next day on the first leg of a month-long reading tour of Europe, the singer was passing through New York, playing four shows at the Bottom Line on a three-month international tour. We (Reed, half his band, Sylvia, and I) arrived at Burroughs’s headquarters, otherwise known as the Bunker, on downtown Manhattan’s notorious Bowery at 7:15 p.m. on a Monday evening, forty-five minutes late due to a problem at the sound check. Burroughs was having a drink with four friends. I was a little tense when I introduced them.

  LOU REED: (Entering Burroughs’s apartment, bottle of whiskey in hand) Well … what’s happening here?

  VICTOR BOCKRIS: Lou Reed—William Burroughs. (Burroughs stands up. They shake hands across the broad table.)

  LR: Well, shall we get some more chairs or are we all going to sit on the floor?

  VB: (Following Burroughs over to the fridge) Shall I help you with the drinks?

  WILLIAM BURROUGHS: (Pulling an almost empty bottle of vodka out of the fridge) Well, that’s all there is, man.

  VB: Well, Bill, is there a store nearby where I can get some more vodka?

  WB: Well, yes, there is if you turn left and go straight up the street a way.

  LR: Victor, you can’t go; you have to moderate this.

  VB: (After a long silence in which Burroughs and his entourage stare across the table at Reed and his entourage) So, what happened to you in Germany?

  LR: (Deprecating gesture with hand and mouth) Nothing.

  VB: We heard you were put in jail!

  LR: Oh, that was just, yeah, they put me … after some girl came up onstage and I didn’t know who she was, some irate roadie or something; I hardly saw her, man, and there were all these drunk GIs too. But yeah, the cops came.

  VB: And they arrested you?

  LR: Just me, yeah. They took me to jail after the show. I slept in the cell overnight, I was· tired. Then the next day they came to get me and I thought, “Oh, they’re letting me out.” But they came in and they said, “We want your blood!” I couldn’t believe it, it was like I said to the guy, “You must be an American or else all your life you’ve wanted to be an American so you could have a great line like that, and now you said it.” They drove me to Frankfurt to have blood tests and a urinology, to see if I had any drugs in my system, as they suspected I had. Of course … there was nothing. The guy was sort of nervous because on the way there he asked me for a light and his hands were shaking, but, you know my German’s good enough.

  VB: Did you play Italy this time? (Last time Reed played Italy he was attacked onstage.)

  LR: We played Germany instead.

  VB: No, but I mean I hear they want rock again in ltaly now.

  LR: Yeah, I hear that too. We played Basel, Switzerland, one night though and all the people from Italy drove up to see us there. They got there and there were no tickets, so they broke every door and window in the place and came in through any hole they could find. And they really looked weird, too, they had these hoods on, and I thought “Uh-oh, here we go all over again,” but they were the sweetest, greatest audience. The place was jammed full and they just sat there quietly and listened.

  VB: William’s going to Basel tomorrow.

  WB: Zurich. I’m going to Zurich.

  LR: Mr. Burroughs, I read somewhere recently, I think it was in a review of a book about the beat generation by Aram Saroyan, where the reviewer said the guy didn’t know anything about the beat generation, but anyway there was a quote where someone said about you that you are the only person they ever met who they felt was capable of murder and that you were a very cold person. Is that true?

  WB: (Short silence) I neither deny nor confirm these kinds of rumors. It doesn’t do any good to deny them anyway. Last week a visitor told me a story about when I was walking with Beckett in Paris discussing random and vicarious murder, and Beckett said, “If it’s random it’s not murder.” I said, “Sam,” as I suppose I would address him if I were walking along the banks of the Seine with Beckett—never having walked anywhere with him, I don’t know—“this is not correct at all and I will prove it to you,” at which point I am supposed to have pulled out a pistol and shot a passing Paris clochard, throwing her body in the water. Then “Sam” and I walked on.

  LR: Wasn’t Beckett James Joyce’s secretary?

  WB: He was for a while, yes. In fact it is obvious that this is what Watt (a novel by Samuel Beckett) is all about is his apprenticeship to Joyce. It was an apprenticeship more than anything else, the master telling the pupil how to do it, but he had to handle a good deal of typing and secretarial work too.

  LR: Can a pupil ever do better work than his teacher?

  WB: In this case, I believe so.

  LR: Really? Ah, you see … Really!

  WB: I think the whole body of Beckett’s work is wider in scope than Joyce’s.

  LR: Well, you wrote a book called Junkie, which I read and really liked very much, and in it you had a scene where a guy is shooting up with a safety pin, right?

  WB: Ah, that is correct, yes.

  LR: How is that done?

  WB: Look, man, see a lot of old junkies used to do this. You make a hole with the pin and then you put the dropper over the hole and the stuff is supposed to run in.

  LR: Oh, you put the dropper over the hole. ’Cause I thought in, see, ’cause I thought eugh …

  WB: Well, no, right, over the hole. It usually works. Sometimes you lose it though.

  LR: (Mutual laughter) Well, Mr. Burroughs, let me ask you, which one of your books is your favorite? I mean there must be one.

  WB: Well, authors are notoriously bad judges of their own work, so I don’t really know …

  LR: You published … you published … let’s see what was that book I was … what am I thinking of …

  VB: Naked Lunch?

  LR: Right. Naked Lunch. Now when that book came out, man
, I went right out and bought it, because there was nothing like that happening. So I wanted to ask you what you thought about two books like City of Night by John Rechy and Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby. Now, like, these two books, for example, couldn’t have been written without what you’d done. Do you know if these guys read what you …

  WB: Well, I admire Last Exit to Brooklyn very much. You can see the amount of time that went into the making of that book. It took seven years to write. And I like Rechy’s work very much too. We met him out in LA. Very pleasant man, I thought, we only saw him for about half an hour.

  LR: Did you know whether he’d read your work?

  WB: Well, I didn’t ask him, no.

  LR: Why did you use the pen name Bill Lee on Junkie?

  WB: William Lee.

  LR: Oh, yeah. But why?

  WB: Because my parents were still alive and I didn’t want them to be embarrassed.

  LR: But did they read it?

  WB: Well, they might have.

  LR: See, I know you wrote a lot of other books, but I think Junkie is the most important because of the way it says something that hadn’t been said before so straightforwardly … Is this boring you?

  WB: (Staring blankly at the table) Wha …?

  LR: Okay. Another thing I heard I wanted to ask you about, I also heard you cut your toe off to avoid the draft. Is this true?

  WB: (Chuckling) I would prefer to neither deny nor confirm any of these statements.

  LR: Well, I wanted to ask you … I read this great piece you wrote in High Times about Jack Kerouac, and it was really so great, you were right there with that. Why don’t you write more like that?

  WB: Well, I write quite a lot.

  LR: But have you ever written any more books with a really straight narrative line, like Junkie?

  WB: Certainly. Certainly. The Last Words of Dutch Schultz, for example. And my new novel Cities of the Red Night has a fairly straight narrative line.

  LR: (I hand Lou a copy of The Last Words of Dutch Schultz) Oh, this is really great, the last words, yeah; what is this, some kind of opera?

  WB: No, man, no. Well, you don’t know about The Last Words of Dutch Schultz? You obviously don’t know. They had a stenographer taking down everything he said. He was dying at the police station after he was shot, and these cops are all sitting around asking him questions. He’s saying things like, “A boy has never wept nor dashed a thousand kin,” and the cops are saying, “C’mon, don’t give us that. Who shot ya?” It’s incredible, man, the whole thing … Gertrude Stein said he outdid her. Gertrude really liked Dutch Schultz.

  LR: Is this the only copy you’ve got?

  VB: You can get it in the store, Lou.

  LR: I know that Victor. I can get anything in the store. Can you imagine what would happen if intelligence got confused with your mouth? (William gets up to fix himself a vodka; Lou whispers) I wanted him to give it to me. Listen, you ask him to give it to me.

  VB: Okay, I will. I will.

  LR: When are you going to do it?

  VB: Before you leave.

  LR: Oh, okay. No! I want you to do it now. (Raising his voice) Mr. Burroughs! Mr. Burroughs! I asked you if this was the only copy you had because I wanted to ask you to sign it and give it to me.

  WB: (Bemused, but then amused) Well … I can always get another copy … I suppose. Of course I will. I’d be delighted.

  LR: (Watching Burroughs take off his glasses) Oh! You have to take off your glasses to see?

  WB: No, man, it’s just like, I put my glasses on to see anything (putting them on) distant (looking across the table at Lou), but if I’m going to read (taking them off firmly), I gotta take them off.

  LR: See, because I wear contact lenses now like you can’t … you don’t ever take them out.

  WB: Ever?

  LR: Well, once a month to wash them or something, but they’re new. But I wanted to ask you … (Bill hands the signed book across the table) Oh, thanks. God, that’s really great. Thank you so much.

  WB: Not at all. Not at all.

  LR: About Kerouac: How could a guy that was so good-looking and romantic and writing that myth for generations end up a fat, dumb asshole—if you don’t mind my being crude—sitting in front of television in a T-shirt drinking beer with his mother? What happened to make him change?

  WB: He didn’t change that much, Lou. He was always like that. First there was a young guy sitting in front of television in a T-shirt drinking beer with his mother, then there was an older, fatter person sitting in front of television in a T-shirt drinking beer with his mother.

  LR: What do you think of what Patti Smith’s doing, if you don’t mind my asking.

  WB: Well, yes. I’ve always liked what Patti does. I last saw her I think it was out in New Jersey. Have you ever listened to any joujouka music?

  LR: My sole experience with joujouka is the Ornette Coleman record, which I have and play. The Ornette Coleman band with Don Cherry was the first band I followed around when I came to New York, so, you know, now when I’m playing with Don Cherry, that’s really something.

  VB: Bill was with Ornette Coleman during those sessions in Morocco.

  LR: Wait a minute, wait a minute. Is it Bill or William? ’Cause, see, a lot of people call me Lewis, even though my professional name is Lou, but my mother calls me Lou. Is that the way it is with Mr. Burroughs?

  VB: No, well, some people call him Bill, others William.

  LR: Well, Mr. Burroughs, let me ask you this. Did Kerouac get a lot of his books published because he slept with his publisher? I mean, is there a lot of that in the literary world? Sleeping with editors and publishers in order to get published?

  WB: Not nearly as much as in painting. No, thank God, it is not very often that a writer will have to actually make it with his publisher in order to get published, but there are a lot of cases of a young artist who will have to sleep with an older woman gallery owner or something to get their first show, or get a grant. I can definitely assure you that I have never had sex with any of my publishers. Thank God, it has not been necessary.

  LR: And you’re both really relieved … Do you know my work at all? Have you ever listened to any of my records?

  WB: Yeah, I was listening to it this afternoon.

  LR: Which one? Which one?

  WB: The latest one, of course.

  LR: Oh, The Bells, The Bells.

  WB: Yes.

  LR: Do you like it? I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind telling me if you didn’t like it.

  WB: Yes. I like it very much.

  LR: I can’t get over the fact that I believed … somebody told me, I don’t know who, maybe it was Dorothy Dean … do you know Dorothy?

  WB: Yes.

  LR: She loves you. “Oh, he’s great,” she says. “But cold.” No, no, I just added that myself. I can’t get over the fact that somebody made me believe you cut your toe off to get out of the draft. I mean, can you imagine why I would believe that?

  WB: I have no idea at all. (Burroughs is missing the top half of the small finger on his right hand, blown off in a chemical explosion when he was fourteen.)

  LR: (Looking at his watch) Well, we who play cannot stay. We have to get back to do the gig. Listen, I really enjoyed meeting you, it was a great pleasure for me and I want to thank you very much.

  WB: Well, it was my pleasure.

  LR: Do you mind if I have your phone number?

  WB: No. Sure.

  LR: Could we get together sometime and just have dinner together without all this …?

  WB: Certainly. I’d be delighted.

  VB: That’s a good idea. We should do that.

  LR: Who included you? What’s this we all of a sudden? I just want to have a quiet dinner and talk.

  Source Notes

  I really like people.

  Lou Reed

  The primary source for Transformer: The Complete Lou Reed Story is information that the author gath
ered from interviews with Cathleen Aiken, Penny Arcade, Jessica Berens, Gretchen Berg, Phillip Booth, Chris Charlesworth, Jim Condon, Tony Conrad, David Dalton, Henry Edwards, Mick Farren, Lenny Ferrari, Mark Francis, Bernie Gelb, Larry Goldstein, Mary Harron, Clinton Hevlin, John Holmstrom, Allen Hyman, Andy Hyman, Jim Jacobs, Alan Jones, Bert van der Kamp, Gary Luke, Gerard Malanga, Steve Mass, Earl McGrath, Legs McNeil, Miles, Phil Millstein, Richard Mishkin, Glenn O’Brien, Robert Palmer, Bob Quine, Matt Snow, Chris Stein, Andy Warhol, Michael Watts, John Wilcox, Barbara Wilkinson, Carol Wood, Mary Woronov, Doug Yule, and Tony Zanetta.

  Other interviews and articles drawn on in this book come from work by Bobby Abrams, Billy Altman, Katrine Ames, Thomas Anderson, Dan Aquilante, Al Aronowitz, Lester Bangs, Bill Barol, Steve Beard, David Belcher, Max Bell, Peter Blauner, Michael Bonner, Glenn Branca, Allen Brown, Peter Buck, Keith Cameron, Cath Carroll, Paul Carroll, Tom Carson, Chris Carter, David Cavanaugh, Robert Christgau, Jay Cocks, Scott Cohen, Mark Coleman, Jim Condon, J. D. Considine, Mark Cooper, Jonathan Cott, Richard Cromelin, Giovanni Dadomo, Stephen Dalton, Jim Derogatis, Dave DiMartino, Peter Doggett, Dan Durchholz, Ben Edmonds, Richard Fantina, Christian Fevret, Bill Flannagan, Emma Forrest, David Fricke, Stephen Gaines, Mikal Gilmore, Tony Glover, Danny Goldberg, Robert Greenfield, Paul Grein, Bob Gruen, Richard Guilliatt, John Harris, Richard Hattington, Martin Hayman, Gary Hill, Geoffrey Himes, David Hinkley, Brian Hogg, Stephen Holden, Scott Isler, Waldemar Januszczak, Betsey Johnson, Allan Jones, Cliff Jones, Nick Jones, Pat Kane, Lenny Kaye, Mark Kemp, Nick Kent, Mollie King, Jim Koch, Marek Kohn, M. C. Kostek, Wayne Kramer, Jon Levin, Kurt Loder, Andrew Lycett, Jim Macnie, Jessie Mangaliman, Greil Marcus, Dave Marsh, Kenny Mathieson, Annalena McAfee, Ed McCormak, Adam McGovern, Wayne McGuire, Legs McNeil, Helen Mead, Lisa Mehlman, Milo Miles, Jim Miller, Phillip Milstein, Mike Nicholls, Jeff Nisin, Richard Nusser, Sean O’Hagan, Robert Palmer, Anastasia Pantsios, John Pareles, Sandy Pearlman, John Peel, John Piccarella, Steve Pond, Edwin Pouncey, Ann Powers, Lou Reed, Simon Reynolds, Allan Richards, Jonathan Richman, Lisa Robinson, Marcia Resnick, Mick Rock, John Rockwell, Roderick Romero, Alex Ross, Robert Sandall, Ed Sanders, Mark Sadof, Jon Savage, Karen Schoemer, Robin Smith, Matt Snow, Jean Stein, Zan Stewart, John Strausbaugh, Caroline Sullivan, Barry Taylor, Ben Thompson, Nigel Trevena, James Walcott, Richard Walls, Peter Watrous, Michael Watts, Chris Welch, Kevin Westenberg, David Wild, Jane Wilkes, Richard Williams, Simon Williams, Ellen Willis, Emma Willis, Tom Wilson, and Carlo Wolff.