Of the great stars of the 1960s still with us today, Lou Reed is the least affected by the passage of time; his problems transcend age. Many of his compatriots from those days are merely ridiculous; those who maintain some semblance of dignity–Neil Young, say–still must define themselves and be defined by others as fighters in an increasingly strained battle against time and irrelevance. As I’ve written before, age plays a unique role in rock. As in no other genre of creativity, rock restlessly, literally rejuvenates itself in an often convulsive way–indeed it’s actually defined by an ineluctable process that sees new generations disposing of their elders in order to form a new communicative bond with their peers. But Reed has managed to sidestep this phenomenon. He disassociated himself from his generation many, many years ago; very early on, just after the dissolution of the Velvets, he recorded a series of solo albums that were mercilessly reviewed by his onetime champions. It was a view held by Lester Bangs, for example, that Reed fatally held his audience in contempt. It wasn’t until the romanticist essay Coney Island Baby in 1976 that he regained some critical respect, which he consolidated with major works like Street Hassle and The Bells. Since then he’s been something of a punk lodestar, and he’s played the role agreeably, even cannily: his legendary snappish persona in interviews is always detailed by interviewers with a masochistic glee. Of late he’s churned out well-reviewed concept albums–on New York (New York, 1989), Andy Warhol (Songs for Drella, with John Cale, 1990), death (Magic and Loss, 1992), and now love–spelled L-U-V–(Set the Twilight Reeling).
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