Perhaps you're curious cause all the Lou Reed obits from last October kept referencing his first band like it was some sort of big deal; maybe you keep seeing The Velvet Underground and Nico on all those silly "500 Bestest Albums Ever" lists alongside the Beatles and Bob Dylan; or see its iconic Andy Warhol cover art on overpriced t-shirts from Urban Outfitters; more seriously, perhaps you learned that the Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia (which kicked off the trend of naming European revolts after colors) is a direct reference to the band that most influenced Czech dissidents; or perhaps as few people will actually read this post as bought the Velvet's first album in 1967. Whatever. This essay is as much about processing my own experience with the Velvet Underground as yours.
I do not present myself as some sort of expert, merely as someone who won't judge you for your ignorance, nor overwhelm you with minutiae or fanboying; I do not own any boxsets and haven't read any official bios; I've never shot up to "Heroin" or smoked weed to "Sister Ray" or dropped acid to "All Tomorrow's Parties"--in fact, I've never used drugs at all, and don't intend to; contrary to Brian Eno's famous declaration "only 30,000 people bought their first album, but everyone who did started a band," I myself did not rush out to start an alternative revolution upon hearing them; my total knowledge of The Velvet Underground comes from skimming scattered Wikipedia articles, from a graduate course on postmodern poetry that discussed Andy Warhol's Factory (the studio-collective of artists, activists, and all-purpose weirdos where the Velvets were the house band), and most importantly, from owning their four main studio albums.
But first, a Sub-Wikipedia Summary: The Velvet Underground were an early art-rock band based out of New York City in the late-60s. It was co-founded by songwriter Lou Reed (a non-practicing Jew who said that his god was Rock 'n Roll) and John Cale, a Welsh, classically-trained, avant-garde violinist. Sterling Morris played bass and Maureen Tucker was on drums, the latter of whom, decades later, ended up working for Walmart and joining the reactionary Tea Party; which I guess just goes to show that, with all due respect to the Czech dissidents and Brian Eno, revolutionary music will not intrinsically make one revolutionary. After John Cale left over creative differences, he was replaced by Doug Yule for two albums (or three, depending on what you count as proper VU records), though Yule was left out of their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which I frankly feel was kind of a dick move.
They are not my favorite band; I do not adore them; but I do really like them, and I am sorta fascinated by them. Rarely has a band existed so briefly and enjoyed so little commercial success yet still been so influential--or at least claimed as an influence--on so many bands (e.g. I still remember how back when The Strokes' first album came out in 2002, the Velvet Underground comparisons were bandied about like so much confetti by folks who had clearly never listened to 'em). If a classic, as Mark Twain defined it, is "a book that everyone talks about but nobody reads," then The Velvet Underground is a classic band indeed, one everyone talks about but nobody listens to.
But I'm an English teacher, and actually reading the classics no one else does is kinda my job. And beyond my fascination with a band that most everyone can name but can't name a song by, is the fact that The Velvet Underground produced four completely different albums. Their first album is kind of the iconic one (or at least the album art is), but I'm not sure I would recommend it as an entrance point; in fact, which album I'd start you off with would depend completely on what sort of music you like normally. Are you more of a '60s pop aficionado? Then start with last album Loaded. Are you more folksy or twee-Indie? Then start with their self-titled third album. Are you more more interested in the origins of Punk or noise-rock? Then definitely start with White Light/White Heat. Do you still take a juvenile thrill in "transgressive" lyrics? Then by all means, start with Velvet Underground and Nico--or at least parts of it, cause it ain't all as transgressive as it's reputed.
Cause here's the thing about the Velvets: no matter who you are, they guaranteed made songs you will not like--but they also guaranteed made songs that you will! It couldn't be otherwise, they were too much all over the musical map to be easily boxed in to a specific sound or style. Which songs are your favorites and which not will depend totally on who you are; they sing "I'll Be Your Mirror" on their first album, and that song is as much a statement of purpose as anything, for how you react to Velvet Underground songs will reveal far more about yourself than about them.
Part of the Velvet's appeal, I think, really is in the freedom of their music, in their insistence on trying everything, from the loudest to the quietest, the most experimental to the poppiest, the darkest to the happiest and everything in between, refusing to be defined and controlled by either the mainstream or the counter-culture. There really is something just a touch anarchic about their music, as made manifest in their influence on early Punk Rock, or on the dissidents who led Czechoslovakia's Velvet Revolution, or in the anarchic way they quickly self-destructed (Nico left after the first album, co-founder John Cale after the second, and founder Lou Reed after their fourth, all within five wild years).
But I still speak too much in generalities: let's take each of their albums one by one, evaluating them strictly on the only thing that should matter, the music.
First up: The Velvet Underground and Nico (1967)
Andy Warhol produced their first album, and naturally designed the album art, too, which is relevant to a discussion of its music: for next to the stem of that banana (reminiscent of the Campbell soup can Warhol once painted) you can read "peel slowly and see" in small print; and in fact, that banana can be peeled off, all to reveal...an unpeeled banana underneath. There's probably some sort of Warholian meta-commentary there about how art reveals no truth more profound than its own superficial existence. Or something. It's Warhol.
Warhol encouraged the Velvets to integrate into their band a German model named Nico (another regular at The Factory). In deferment to their patron, The Velvet Underground graciously let her sing with them, and even wrote a few songs specifically for her, but still made it clear to Warhol that she was not in the band by adding that and Nico to the title.
That instruction to "peel slowly and see" obviously doubles for the album itself, which only slowly reveals itself to you over multiple listens; in fact, when I first listened to it, I was frankly unimpressed, and it was only after several spins that its charms grew on me (this is the only thing that all four albums have in common: they are all acquired tastes that nevertheless reward your patience if you give them a chance).
"Peel slowly and see" also applies to the song cycle, which slowly eases you in to the weird stuff. I know I can't be the only person who was surprised to find, upon first putting on this disc so renowned for its audaciousness and experimentation, for being the originator and Ur-text for all Punk and Alternative to come, that the first track is this quiet pop number called "Sunday Morning."
The song really is quite sweet, and would not have been out of place on AM Radio of the time; it captures the malaise of a melancholic Sunday morning perfectly (in the grand tradition of Johnny Cash's "Sunday Morning Coming Down"), and I'll totally fess up to having played it upon waking up some lonely Sundays myself. I'm convinced it was the principle influence for Jimmy Eat World's "A Sunday," right down to the gentle xylophone intro. But it's hardly the harbinger of the avant guarde that one would expect from an Andy Warhol production.
But then you peel down a little further, and you are next greeted by "Waiting for my Man." It's about Lou Reed waiting for his drug dealer. That's it. There is no subtext here, no subliminal messages, nothing hidden. The words are as straight-forward as those 2 chords beating relentlessly into your head. When you consider how in that same year, The Beatles were accused of sneaking LSD into the title of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," or how Peter, Paul, and Mary took flack for a supposed veiled pot reference in "Puff the Magic Dragon," or how even John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" was banned from some skittish radio stations, then the blunt obviousness of "Waiting for my Man" is almost jarring, even a little refreshing.
And just in case you still didn't quite catch what that "man" is all about, Lou Reed makes it as clear as he possibly can with the album's centerpiece, "Heroin." Guess what it's about.
This would be a controversial song even by today's standards. Which is weirdly comforting to me--it's like when I taught Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal", written clear back in 1729, with its satirical yet still horrific baby eating. It's strangely encouraging to know there are certain things that, no matter how much society changes or how much time passes, will never be OK to discuss. Crossing a line can be reassuring that there are still lines. But "Heroin" is more than just shock-for-shock-value's sake.
See, here's the thing: when I was a young missionary in Puerto Rico, I did in fact encounter real life heroin addicts. There is nothing romantic about heroin addiction--I saw those poor wretches hide under dark bridges at night, melt down their smack on cut-out aluminum soda-can lids over lighters, then inject it while still boiling hot directly into their veins with a dirty needle, which was a sight that always made my heart sink. I remember seeing one addict stumbling zombie-like in the sun, and as I biked past him he suddenly leaned left and my shoulder collided right into his head. I stopped and said "Perdoname, perdoname!" but he just kept on walking by, as though nothing had happened. It was the most heart-breaking sight ever.
And maybe...I should've heard this song before my mission, in prep for that sight, I wonder? Seeing these addicts would've been just as heart-breaking, but I at least would've understood why they were willing to suffer such a crippling, tragic addiction, what wells of emptiness drove them to such a brutal drug. Cause while I don't think Lou Reed romanticizes addiction here, he does illustrate its euphoria, and thus its attraction to the desperate.
Over John Cale's quiet violin drone, two sparse chords are strummed slowly, repeatedly, then pick up in tempo to emulate the experience of getting high, then slow down again as he crashes. It's a story of a man trapped, desperate to feel good again, yet the very thing that "saves" him (for he "feels just like Jesus' son") is also what is destroying him. The song doesn't make an ethical statement on heroin use, but then, Reed's point isn't to preach, but to show that he understands. Everyone needs to feel understood, everyone needs empathy, even (maybe especially) heroin addicts.
But lest you think this is just some druggie album, I assure you, these two tracks I've played are far from representative! We have more straight forward '60s pop ("There She Goes Again", "Run Run Run", "Femme Fatale"), the original electronic drone ("All Tomorrow's Parties"), a violin-driven ode to sado-masochism ("Venus in Furs", a book I also had to read in grad school), and finishes with a self-destructive guitar jam ("European Son", which punctuates its anarchy with a sound of glass shattering), among others. You don't have to like all these songs--I don't even like all these songs--in fact, I don't think you're supposed to like all these songs! Again, this band is just so all over the map, that it's nigh impossible to make any sort of comprehensive statement about any of it.
The Velvet Underground and Nico is very much a product of its time and place; it's a time capsule that could only have been produced in the late-60s, a postcard that could only have been mailed from New York: in fact, when I visited NYC for the first time in ages a few months ago, I put on this album while waiting for the subway. Suddenly the restless, anxious energy of the album made perfect sense: it is the same restless, anxious energy of New York City itself.
Next up: White Light/White Heat (1968)
And now, in the words of Monty Python, for something completely different (which you wouldn't even think was possible after that first album!). For whatever reasons, the Velvet Underground had parted ways with Andy Warhol, and left Nico behind, too--the band was already starting to disintegrate. As if to underline that disintegration, the Velvets recorded their loudest, most abrasive record, "White Light/White Heat".
You have maybe heard how Velvet Underground had an incalculable influence on Punk and other alternative genres (which, again, is perhaps why "Sunday Morning" so confused you, as it did me); well, this album is what you were hearing about. It is fast, it is distorted, it is strange, it is experimental (that darkly comic short-story spoken-worded by John Cale over Lou Reed's wailing guitar is like nothing you've heard), it is simple in structure yet wild in execution, it is turned all the way up--that is, it is everything Punk would try to be. It finishes with "Sister Ray," a wild 15 minute jam based around an ecstatic, repeating guitar riff, one that makes "European Son" sound juvenile. (According to legend, influential 80's punk band The Buzzcocks first formed to perform a cover of "Sister Ray").
Some might tell you to start with Nico and then "peel slowly and see" until you reach White Light/White Heat; but frankly, if early Punk is why you're interested in the Velvets to begin with, then this album should be where you start. But if not...
Then Try: The Velvet Underground (1969)
And once again, something else completely different: Are you folksy? More Indie-acoustic, perhaps? Are you more into the quiet, the introspective, the gentle? Did you find the aggression of White Light/White Heat off-putting? Well then the Velvet Underground still have you covered, because their self-titled third album is the exact opposite of their previous.
In fact, I dare say that this album is perhaps the most relevant to the alternative music of today, of now. All those manifold Indie acoustic acts out there, your early Iron & Wines and Sufjan Stevens, your Elliot Smiths and Shins, your Him and Hers and Kings of Convenience and Swell Seasons and countless others of their ilk? This album just might be their original example, their great-grandfather, their progenitor and first template. In fact drummer Maureen Tucker, singing on "After Hours," sounds like the first twee female singer, 30 years ahead of the rest, and model for all her daughters after.
I almost didn't bother picking up this particular album--frankly, I'm kind of tired of all these twee, Indie acoustic acts cluttering up the scene. Too many wannabe-artists seem to think that just cause it's easy to strum a few chords, that it must therefore be easy to write a good song. (For what's impressive about the Velvet Underground or Bob Dylan or the White Stripes or what have you isn't that they're arrangements are simple, but that they can do so much with so little! They do what even ancient Israel could not, make bricks without straw; but too many acts seem to think that that must mean anyone can get by without straw.) Hence, when I learned that this was the Velvet's "folksy" album, I considered passing it up.
But good thing I didn't, for then I would've missed out on some of their most tender songs. Opener "Candy Says," about a young woman who hates her body, only resonates more today. "Jesus," I initially feared would be some blasphemous rendition from the same folks who brought you "Heroin." But instead, I heard this genuine, authentic, unironic, pleading to Jesus Christ to "help me find my proper place," to "help me in my weakness," to return to grace. Consider this, all you maudlin and unremarkable "Christian Rock" groups: a drug-addled alternative band from New York fronted by a Jew wrote a better Christian rock song than you ever will! But then, a heroin addict would understand better than anyone the need for redemption, wouldn't he.
In fact, you might think that Lou Reed was at last in a better place based on this album: "Jesus" is followed by the uplifting (and tellingly titled) "Beginning to See the Light" and "I'm Set Free." But those three songs, beautiful as they be, are but the build up to what is easily, hands-down, my all-time favorite Velvet song: "The Murder Mystery." What that says about me I don't know, and I don't even know (or care) if you like the song either; but after years of only casual fandom, this is the song that finally made me understand the hype about the Velvet Underground.
Try and look up the overlapping texts if you must (that is what the internet is for), but I doubt there is anything to decipher: the "Mystery" perhaps refers less to a crime than something like the mysteries of the Catholic Church, the incomprehensible miracles that you simply must accept to be a true believer. That this mystery is "Murder" perhaps speaks more about the existential dangers of this modern age than the lyrics ever will.
I think this is the song the marketers were referring to when they said The Strokes sound like the Velvets; but as much as I love The Strokes (or at least their first album--and one song off their second), they will never sound as perfect as this one song.
Last up: Loaded (1970)
This record was the Velvet Underground's sincere stab at making an actual commercial success--the title supposedly comes from MGM asking the band to deliver an album "loaded" with hits (though the obvious double and triple entendres are also obvious).
Of course if you were alive in 1970, you know full well that not a single one of these songs became a radio hit--but that's not for want of trying. Album opener "Who Loves the Sun" sounds like a lost Beach Boys song from Brian Wilson's later "Smile" period, complete with sunny harmonies and "bom bom boms". Third track "Rock and Roll" near-perfectly captures that naive yet empowering feeling we all once felt in our youth, that Rock 'n Roll really can save you life.
The closest I can compare that feeling to is of being a teenager discovering Classic Rock radio for the first time, and falling in love with these old songs like they were new, blissfully unaware and uncaring that these tunes were already played to death a million times before you found 'em and will be a million times more after you're sick of 'em. But the songs on Loaded have NOT been played to death yet--in fact, they may never be. That is, on Loaded, it is still possible to be swept away by the joyous romance of an old Rock song.
Epilogue
Lou Reed left the band shortly before Loaded was released (according to lore, Reed was surprised to even see the record on the shelves later). There's a fifth album called Squeeze that came out after, but without Lou Reed it isn't considered canon, and sold poorly even by Velvet Underground standards. I've heard of late some critical reassessment of it, that taken strictly on its own merits Squeeze ain't so bad; but life is short and art is long, and there's too much other art to invest my time and energy and money in, so I haven't bothered with it--nor with any of the live albums or anthologies or etc. I am content with the canon.
Lou Reed went on to finally find bona fide commercial success with his career-defining solo record Transformer, as "Walk on the Wild Side" became a genuine radio hit, and a mainstay on Classic Rock Radio to this day. "Perfect Day", from the same album, is now used in PS4 commercials, which just goes to show once more how everything edgy becomes safe in the end.
But although Lou Reed went on to become respectable enough for a New York Times obit, his first band can still sometimes feel as eclectic and dangerous today as they surely did in 1967. And though we may smile at the naivety of a band that sings about how Rock and Roll can save your life, the Czech dissidents who led the Velvet Revolution didn't think that very naive at all. Now, there wasn't a political bone in the Velvet's body (all due respect to Maureen Tucker), but then, to be free from politics is to be free indeed, and there is nothing more politically destabilizing to the powerful than a free mind.
I'm not going to tell you (like so many diehards) that the Velvet Underground was the greatest or most important band ever or whatever (that will always be the Beatles); but I will say that, musically, if nothing else, the Velvet Underground were indeed free, and for that reason alone they deserve your attention.
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