my nonsexual man-crush

Oh Lou. Bless you, chile.

On this, the eve of my fifth Lou Reed concert, I’m spinning V.U.—the “lost” Velvet Underground album—and reflecting on four years of crippling Velvets addiction, for which there is no cure.

Ireland, spring semester, ‘03: an art student aboard my Belfast-bound bus hands over his well-stickered discman and earbud headphones, granting me first exposure to the group. The Velvets leave nary an impression—my small, small mind can’t make sense of this crude band operating so flagrantly wide of my preferred tastes. At the time I was listening to lots of CSNY, Radiohead and Jeff Buckley like other polite Americans.

Well over a year later, at a friend’s urging, I purchase Loaded. Everything changes. I go off the deep end. White Light/White Heat and the Nico album follow, and later the self-titled. I read two key books on the band and one on Lou, all three of which I highly recommend:

1. All Tomorrow's Parties: The Velvet Underground in Print (1966-1971) (edited by Clinton Heylin)

2. Uptight: The Velvet Underground Story (Victor Bockris and Gerard Malanga)

3. Transformer: The Lou Reed Story (Bockris)

Lou, being the greatest Velvet (Cale admirers might dispute this), becomes my core subject of study. I obtain a great deal of his solo material, even the godawful crap, and begin sifting thru all the rubble, trying to figure out what this dude is all about. Turns out I loathe a great deal of his post-Velvets stuff—an admission that pains and confuses me, because his work from '66-'70 is positively flawless—but something about that ol' swashbuckler keeps me coming back.

Upon moving to New York for the first time in the fall of ’06, I vow not to leave the city before meeting him in the flesh.

Well, I’ve since had the pleasure—four times. What follows is a (salivating, maniacal) fan’s notes:

a) First meeting: outside of St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn following his opening night performance of Berlin. My first Lou concert. Show ends and everybody files out, giddy and drunk. Exactly three people—myself included in the three—wait outside the exit door for an autograph/sighting. I make small talk with the elderly Norwegian guy (who, incidentally, flew to New York just for this concert) and an obnoxious girl with crazy eyes and far too much makeup. Early December and about 6 degrees outside but who cares let's say hi to Lou. Hour later this small person with a radio—his assistant, I think—pokes out and real fast she gives it straight: “If you want to meet ‘im, he’ll be out that door in about ten seconds.” We scuttle over, breathless, pathetic, lemmings all of us. Lou bangs the door way the hell open with his elbow and there he is. Signs the obnoxious girl first. I’m next. Hand him ticket and pen and speak to him, probably, “love you Lou.” Lou doesn’t like my pen. Drops it on the ground. Grabs Sharpie from white-knuckled fist of the obnoxious girl, who’s still drooling on his shoulder. Signs my ticket, grunts at me (I’m not kidding). I skip home.

b) Second meeting: one night later. I arrive after the show for another signature, this time on a Nico t-shirt, right across the fat part of the banana. He signs without incident, smiles even. I make plans for framing shirt and ticket in a nice way.

c) Third meeting: the best. Though I'm not all that familiar with her music, I attend a Laurie Anderson performance at Joe’s Pub because I figure she’ll probably invite Lou out for a track or two. She does. Lou plays a few licks, watches Laurie, plays a few more and leaves the stage. Break for the bathroom. I turn the corner and there he is. Alone. Lou’s sitting on some steps back behind the stage. Of course I approach, of course I shake his hand, of course I say all the things that fans say. Clearly overstaying my welcome, I offer one more brilliant insight before parting: “Lou,” I say, “Lou, it’s been forty years, and no one—no one—has touched White Light/White Heat. It’s the greatest album ever made.” Lou smiles, thanks me. We pose for the attached photograph a few minutes later.

d) Fourth meeting: immediately following a David Byrne concert at Carnegie Hall. I’m outside in the cold again, pen in hand, waiting for David. Lou exits. I shout: “Lou!” He looks at me funny.

I'll leave you with some classic Lou footage: