by Harvard, Joe
At the Pickwick audition, Cale was flabbergasted to discover that “The Ostrich” was based on an open-tuned guitar part played by Lou Reed; with all the strings tuned to the same note (A#), the effect produced was the very same drone that Cale’s associates had been working with! Having instantly formed a very low opinion of the Pickwick operation, and having come to expect such technique only within his rarefied avant-garde circle, this was a shock akin to finding a monkey tuning his viola. His attention thus captured, Cale joined the Primitives. They played just a few shows, but the experience of standing on a stage with a bunch of teenage girls screaming at him had its effect on the young Welshman: he was hooked. Infected with the rock bug, chumming around with Lou Reed, Cale finally listened to some of the “real” songs Reed had been pestering him about. Once again, he was more than pleasantly surprised. The Primitives’ demise notwithstanding, the two musicians drew closer.
When fellow ex-Primitive Tony Conrad moved out of Cale’s Lower East Side apartment, Reed moved in. Typical high-spirited lads, they shared their love for music and chemically-assisted recreation … principally opiates. Sensing the need for a band, and an opportunity to do something truly different and important, they recruited Angus MacLise, a neighbor who provided percussion along with electricity for their amps. A true bohemian, he would die of malnutrition in Katmandu in 1979.
Soon, Reed ran into an old Syracuse acquaintance, Sterling Morrison. Sterling was a former trumpet player, a brilliant guitarist, and he shared Lou’s tastes in rock and roll. He believed rock music should make folks want to tear shit up, God Bless Him, and Reed immediately enlisted him. Together the four worked on songs throughout the summer of 1965, calling themselves the Warlocks, and then the Falling Spikes. When MacLise left the group, Morrison contacted the sister of an old friend, Jim Tucker, and Maureen “Moe” Tucker entered the picture. A keypunch operator who played to Bo Diddley and Stones records after work, Moe had developed a unique style, playing a bass drum on its side with mallets and a tom-tom, eschewing cymbals and busy parts for a super-simple, relentlessly pulsing beat. Tucker was on her way to becoming one of the few completely original drummers in rock. Over the next year she played a tambourine (and nothing else), then a set of well-used garbage cans turned upside down, before reverting back to her own weird-ass setup. The Velvet Underground was born.
The group agreed to a handshake management deal with pioneer rock journalist Al Aronowitz, whose middle name was “the man who introduced the Beatles to Dylan.” Aronowitz booked them as house band at a tourist trap, Café Bizarre, where they got to play six sets a night for five bucks a member. Success! People hated them. Just as another pain-fest loomed, in the form of six New Year’s Eve sets, in through the door walked Gerard Melanga, future whip dancer, and Paul Morrissey, business manager for Andy Warhol’s Factory.
ERUPTING, EXPLODING, ETCETERA
In the 1960s, an intriguing “art groupie” and critic, Barbara Rubin, began introducing talented people to one another with missionary zeal. It was on her advice that Paul Morrissey went to see the Velvets. Morrissey had just been given an opportunity to book a club—under the aegis of the Warhol name—and was seeking a house band for the venture. After seeing the Velvets he believed he had found one. The die was cast, and the next night Warhol himself returned to catch the band’s set. After some cat-and-mouse between Reed and Morrissey—the Velvets, after all, had already accepted Aronowitz as their manager—a deal was struck, and Warhol and Morrissey became managers of the Velvet Underground, eventually forming a corporation called Warvel under which to operate.
The band soon became part of the multi-media “happenings” that Warhol had been planning, but which had yet to materialize. The concept of showing films, adding live music and bathing it all in psychedelic light did not originate with Andy. Jonas Mekas had already featured the band playing behind a movie screen during shows at Cinemateque—but it was left to Warhol to develop the idea fully, incorporating confrontational theatre techniques as well. His concept evolved from a film-plus-band appearance at a psychiatrist convention, into the successful Andy Warhol, Uptight show at Cinemateque (including an Edie Sedgwick film retrospective). It was then further refined into the Exploding Plastic Inevitable (EPI), a format without precedent, which eventually included a dozen-plus members. Norman Dolph recalls:
The final decision on a name came during a meeting in my living room. I believe it was Paul [Morrissey] who ultimately chose “Exploding” as more suitable than the name that nearly stuck—the Erupting Plastic Inevitable.16
The Exploding Plastic Inevitable owed its existence to the public’s interest in Warhol. Andy was expected to appear at the shows, and with the level of interest in the pop artist at its peak, high fees could be sought and got. But with art and film projects putting constant demands on his time, Andy eventually (and inevitably) began to lose interest in the extravaganzas. The EPI strobe lights dimmed, and the first cracks appeared in the Velvets’ relationship with the Warhol/Morrissey team, leading to their break-up the next year.
MANAGEMENT AND THE ALBUM
Much might be said regarding Warhol and Paul Morrissey’s performance as managers, but we’ll stick to aspects that affected this particular album. Their most significant capital outlay to the band—i.e. as a group and not as part of the EPI—went toward the recording process. The outlay was probably around $3,000, though John Cale has named the sum of $1,500 more than once.17
Warvel’s ability to put the group into the studio early on, capturing their still-fresh sound intact, was no doubt their most important and successful managerial act. Ironically, they paid their share of the studio bill with money from a triumph that ended as their managerial nadir: the Dom. The EPI shows at the Dom, a former Polish social club on St. Mark’s Place, were the hottest ticket in New York in the spring of ’66. In just a month the EPI brought in $18,000, and a permanent club was planned. However, before they secured the lease on the Dom space, the team decided to accept a month-long gig in Los Angeles.
The West Coast tour was a bust. The logistics of traveling with the troupe’s dozen-plus members was formidable enough, but then the anticipated month-long booking evaporated when the club closed after only three days. The trip simply magnified the Velvets’ already healthy disdain for the West Coast. The only highlight was that the band was able to record for two days with Tom Wilson. After a demoralizing month, the group returned to New York, itching to regain the invigorating momentum of the Dom shows. On their arrival they discovered that the lease had been finessed out from under them by Bob Dylan’s manager—an associate of the very person who booked them on the LA trip. The decision to go west, which Warhol was sure was a perfect place for the Velvets, had been an unmitigated disaster. “Their” club, renamed the Balloon Farm (later the Electric Circus), rapidly provided their rivals with industry clout which the Velvets would never possess. It also made scads of dough for the new owners, and the lease was later sold for a small fortune.
While the failure to book a European tour or capitalize on tentative overtures from Brian Epstein stand out as other lost management opportunities, the loss of the Dom was a body blow, in hindsight, to the first album. The lost income could have funded marketing and promotional activities independent of MGM/Verve’s lackluster efforts: efforts so half-hearted that they all but guaranteed the commercial failure of the album. Without a reasonable budget, getting the record into stores and publicizing it was beyond the group’s abilities.
Despite the depressing conclusion to the Dom adventure, there were two significant consequences of their involvement in the venue. First, it was there that the band’s role grew from being just one element among many within the EPI’s chaotic framework, to becoming a central feature recognized as a viable entity in and of itself. Second, it was through the Dom that soon-to-be producer Norman Dolph was drawn into the band’s orbit … and along with him came the connection to the studio that the album would be recorded in.
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p; How do Warhol and Morrissey, as managers, come out on the balance sheet, particularly with regard to The Velvet Underground and Nico? David Fricke evaluates their association this way:
In the early years the band had the perfect manager and fan in Andy Warhol, someone who kept the biz wolves at bay through the sheer force of his own celebrity and who vigorously encouraged the band’s high-minded purism at the expense of his own investment.18
To his credit, Warhol created a bubble the band could grow in, and he never saw a dime from sales of The Velvet Underground and Nico. However, being utterly inexperienced at navigating record label politics, Warvel made rookie mistakes and proved unable to prevent delays or resolve problems that produced disastrous results. Many of the hold-ups in the release of the record were caused by fairly small issues—all of which could have been solved speedily if the arm that held the checkbook had been twisted sufficiently. But Warhol and Morrissey were either too green to realize this, or simply unwilling to do the twisting.
Warhol recognized that he could only offer the band limited aid in the specialized world of record companies, lawyers and publishers. He asked Reed if the band was really satisfied playing nothing but the art museums and school auditoriums Warvel could offer. Having long sensed Warhol’s waning interest, and painfully aware of the dismal treatment the album was receiving from MGM/Verve, Reed saw no future with Warvel, and responded by firing Warhol. He then hired a genuine rock manager named Steve Sesnick who’d been courting the group—with Reed’s approval—for some time.
Overall, any evaluation of Warhol’s managerial tenure has to acknowledge the dual role he played. His administrative shortcomings were certainly counterbalanced by the creative stimulus he provided the band. It was in that role that he was of inestimable value to them, and to their first album.
AT THE BOARD:
ANDY, NORMAN, JOHN & TOM
In “Andy Warhol” David Bowie sang, “Andy Warhol, Silver Screen, can’t tell them apart at all.” Bowie, a dedicated fan of all things Velvet and Warhol, describes a man whose desire was to surround himself with the interesting, the vibrant, and the talented, projecting them through his art and his films back on to the world:
Like to take a cement fix / Be a standing cinema
Dress my friends up just for show / See them as they really are…
Put a peephole in my brain / Two New Pence to have a go
I’d like to be a gallery / Put you all inside my show
Warhol was immersed in—and becoming known for—his underground filmmaking when he met the Velvets, and his personal and professional attraction to the subjects of his films (largely Factory regulars) was apparent in his work. He did “see them as they really are,” distilling on film the essence of the Superstar persona, revealing the face they most desired to show the public. He would help the Velvets do the same with their music. After their first meeting, Reed himself became a regular feature in the psychological theater of Warhol’s Factory, part of the scene yet detached from it. Like the journalist he studied to be, he could always step back and watch, becoming more an observer than a participant, and around Andy there was always much to see—and wonder at. Reed’s admiration for Warhol would be lifelong, and justly so. Warhol had a strong influence on the Velvets’ music. But he was no Svengali.
One hot day in June, as we raked leaves in my backyard, I asked Jonathan Richman about Andy Warhol. He answered: “You know that Doors movie, the one by Oliver Stone? Well, Andy was nothing like that whatsoever”—his tone clearly indicating how offensive he found that caricature of Warhol as an effeminate fop. “For one thing, he was … if there’s one word you’d use to describe him it would be ‘dignified’;” adding, “he didn’t talk a lot… he used very few words, very Zen.” Jonathan described a man who was generous with his time and his ideas. Upon first meeting him at the Boston Tea Party rock club, Richman—then an aspiring artist himself—confessed that he did not really understand Andy’s artwork. Warhol replied: “Yes you do.” The world famous artist then engaged in an unhurried conversation with the sixteen-year-old from the suburbs, discussing his work and art in general. “He was the perfect person for a sixteen-year-old to talk to,” Jonathan told me.
Warhol really did listen, even to an unknown kid. Some time later, Jonathan visited the Factory, making the climb up to the loft space via the stairs instead of the elevator. Remembering the kid from their Boston meeting, Warhol asked him “Why did you take the stairs?” Richman replied: “I like to exercise.” At each subsequent meeting—three months, then three years later—Andy would eventually get around to asking him “So, did you take the stairs again?” The picture that forms certainly isn’t of a cynical, catty creep, but of a considerate, compassionate, understated individual who genuinely liked people and had a healthy sense of humor: Bodhidharma with a twinkle in his eye.
Norman Dolph also describes Warhol in similar terms. “He wasn’t what I’d call a mover and a shaker, he was never loud or in your face. He’d be sitting quietly in the back of the room, observing, making the occasional wry comment … he was more of a presence, really.”19
As for Warhol’s reputation as a manipulator (for which former rivals, disgruntled Factory Superstars with tarnished auras, and the media are mainly responsible), it should be said that he almost certainly lost money on most—if not all—of his film work with the Superstars, and definitely when it came to the Velvets. When the band was about to be signed to MGM/Verve, Lou Reed suddenly announced that he wouldn’t sign the contract unless all monies went straight to the band, who would then distribute the agreed-upon 25% manager’s share to Warhol and Morrissey. Preoccupied perhaps with this coup d’état, Reed, neglected to have the rewritten contract stipulate what the band’s share of royalties would be, and consequently it was many years before anyone received anything from the sales of the first album. Andy himself never saw a cent from the record, and the degree of good will he felt for the group can be gauged by the fact that—despite Reed’s machinations—he immediately released them from their contract when they asked.
THE MEANS OF PRODUCTION
What does a producer do on an album? A producer can be anything from a hand-holder who baby-sits a band in the studio to an overseer who micro-manages every aspect of an album including the choice of songs, the final arrangements of those songs, the studio to use, even who gets to play what (if at all) on the project. An open-ended job description, it spans those who mix records, and those who mainly sit around mixing drinks. There are certain general types. My personal favorite is the transparent variety: the producer who adds little personal coloration, letting the band’s sound take precedence. Some producers are transformers, taking every song apart, bar by bar; then there are the fashionable star producers, the Phil Spectors and Trevor Horns, who mark their work with their own immediately discernible brand. My least favorite variety I call “dog-ballers”: producers who can’t resist tinkering with a song, simply because they have the record company’s authority to do so. (The name comes from an old joke: “Why do dogs lick their balls?” “Because they can!”) The best producers select the approach most suited to emphasizing the unique strengths of a band, fulfilling the prime directive of their profession: making the best possible record. In that respect, Andy Warhol—with no engineering or production experience, but buoyed by a solid team who did have experience—would prove to be a great producer.
In terms of a traditional production role (i.e. sitting at the mixing board, getting good sounds and choosing the best performances), for The Velvet Underground and Nico the Velvets worked with both a novice named Norman Dolph and an experienced, transparent pro, Tom Wilson. The original LP credits read “edited and remixed under the supervision of Tom Wilson by Gene Radice and David Greene. Recording engineers: Omi Haden—T.T.G. Hollywood.” Neither Dolph nor John Licata, the engineer he worked with, is mentioned—a travesty considering that they recorded the bulk of the record.
In 1966 Norman Dolph was 27, four y
ears out of Yale with a degree in electrical engineering. Although he’d given his notice he was still a Columbia Records sales executive (the job lasted 6 years) at the time of the sessions. Dolph worked in the Customs Labels Division, which handled the plastic moulding for scores of small record labels that had no pressing plant of their own. One of Dolph’s accounts was the independent Scepter Records. Scepter had moved into a new building the year before, and on one of his visits Dolph noticed that it included a new feature: its own recording studio.
In his spare time, Dolph had applied his engineering knowledge to a side venture:
I operated a mobile discothèque, if not the first then at least the second one in New York. I was an art buff, and my thing was I’d provide the music at art galleries, for shows and openings, but I’d ask for a piece of art as payment, instead of cash. That’s how I met Andy Warhol. Then one day I got a call, saying he was opening a new club—this was the Dom—and how would I like to provide the sound for it? We met at my apartment a few times to discuss it, but the main thing was going to be the records, we never even discussed the band. At the Dom—at first—the band were regarded as just one more thing happening in the room, but then there was so much going on. They’d show Andy’s films, and they actually had a 16mm projector that Gerard (Malanga) would carry around, flashing the movies on the audience, the band, all over … and this was no lightweight machine, either!20
With the amount of speed being taken by Warhol’s retinue at that time they could probably have juggled a couple of 16mm projectors, but drugging was decidedly not Norman’s scene: “My life was as far removed from heroin in the veins as it was possible to be.”21 Fortunately for the Velvets, his musical habits were more akin to theirs, and when Warhol mentioned that they were planning on making a record, Dolph signed on (“I was moonlighting, really”). The plan was that he would book the studio, help cover costs, produce, and when the project was done he’d use his connections at Columbia to help get the band signed. He accomplished three of those four tasks, and began by getting in touch with John Licata at Scepter.
