Yes, I've finally returned from the wilderness and am ready to take up reviewing again. You know how it is when there's a family crisis while you're trying to have a vacation? That's the summation of my hiatus. So I've come back and my reviews shall now become even longer in compensation for the long wait. I can hear your applause from here. Introducing...
The Velvet Underground and Nico. Five stars.
Basically, this band was doomed to obscurity from day one, and the reason is easy to sum up: photo realism. Few wanted it in their music in the 60s. Marrying realism to rock music might have been enough by itself, but casting it through the prism of the New York City "underground" guaranteed their status as innovators. They told the story of the life they led without any apologies or hypocrisy (The Mamas and the Papas anyone?). At the same time, you can sense that they weren't trying to shock for the sake of it, they weren't making a statement about freedom of speech, and if it turned out that they never thought of how the public would react, I wouldn't be surprised.
As a matter of fact, the public never did react. The record didn't sell, though the people who did hear it (David Bowie for example) were inspired. So it slowly made the rounds among those in the know, until now it makes all the lists of great records...
On the album itself, New York made its presence known with uncompromising sincerity. Lyrically through the subject matter, musically through Andy Warhol's groundbreaking, still ahead of its time production style (basically non-production), and visually through Andy, who took them onboard the Factory and instilled some European flavour with the unwanted Nico. Meanwhile, Welshman John Cale threw in more of Europe with his feedback laced, demonic viola, and the musical training he received from a handful of avant-garde musicians.
Lou Reed, principal songwriter, could work with the avant-garde, yet was also capable of astonishingly savvy pop songcraft. Sterling Morrison was the guitarist, and nobody pays him any attention so neither will I.
But I've never understood why no one notices the drummer. Maureen Tucker, a rarely seen specimen at that time. Women in bands were generally for singing. This was 1967... How many drummers can you name at that time? They were all men. Once again, however, The Velvet Underground did not appear to be making a statement, and never drew any extra attention to their progressively unorthodox band member.
All that stuff about being influential and daring is nice, but the question really is if they're an enjoyable listen this late in the day. Naturally, they won't be everyone's cup of tea. Two unlovely voices (Lou with a penchant for sneering while he sings), music to match and some rather nightmarish production values, alongside topics ranging from heroin to S&M, with a fair number of weirdos and nutcases thrown in for good measure. All this does make it a window into that time and place, one devoid of patronizing window-dressing.
When I first heard the CD however, I was bemused, got a headache and only liked three of the eleven tracks. However, I was determined to crack the record and revisited it until I acquired the taste.
One of the three songs I enjoyed was the innocuous opener, Sunday Morning. Beneath the echoing drones a beautiful melody lurks, carried on bells and Lou's fragile singing. As misleading as any intro I've heard, yet the words speak of all "the wasted years so close behind." Mixed messages of light and dark, comfort and depression.
You can bid the light goodbye right away, as their signature tune about a junkie's relationship with his dealer is next. I'm Waiting for the Man features no bells or whistles of any sort, just the band pounding away on their instruments with some piano joining the cast later. It tells its story in gutsy, minimalist form, with nary a solo in sight.
Femme Fatale features Nico and the first of the bad, muddy production. The lyric is one of the least inspired, but her aura of ennui puts the whole subject across. She was barely tolerated in the band, but the mystique she provides and her mathematical placement on the album really adds to the cohesiveness. And I still think she was a remarkably brave woman to take up singing as a career.
Venus in Furs in (duh) the S&M song. It is a stroke of genius, thanks in large part to John Cale's viola, which has an evil pseudo-Middle Eastern vibe that Maureen's primitive drumming backs up perfectly. Doubtless the best song ever penned on the subject, the usually journalistic writing style juxtaposed with a poetic, almost non-sequiter chorus.
Run Run Run shifts gears into a generally straightforward bit of rock and roll, though featuring some ear-shredding feedback on the guitar. One of the most undemanding tunes.
All Tomorrow's Parties has Nico at her most stately and grand, backed by drums and keyboards, working with the repetitive sway of hypnosis. Nico sings slightly shifting meditations on a concept that will remain steadily in place from first to last, never mind the 6 minute length. A mood piece, essential for the European mystique to come to fruition.
The epic of the album is Heroin. Supposedly it mimics the effect of the drug; I'd have no idea, but it seems believable if you pay attention to Maureen's minimalist, two beat drum pattern. I can appreciate it more than I enjoy it; the sublime way it rises and falls, the heartbeat drum, Lou's insight into a junkie's mind (and he would know), the way he's drowned yet audible in a tide of white noise...is all undercut by the viola, which finally hits the excruciating point.
Things lighten up with There She Goes Again, a swinging little number about a woman walking the streets and the consequences thereof. The backup vocals may annoy the hell out of you on first listen, though it is a short, easy to digest song, if one ignores the strangely upbeat spin on rough living.
However, a reprise of Sunday Morning's gentleness is allowed with I'll Be Your Mirror. Nico's stilted voice becomes most moving when singing something uplifting, in this case a love song directed to a person filled with self loathing, and likely self doubt as well. So the light comes back for a moment before the final descent....
Demented viola introduces The Black Angel's Death Song, a hallucinatory, free associative poem set to music of a sort. Lou's fast diction reminds me of Dylan, which might explain how this is among my favorite songs on the album. It has the most verses and is easy to return to, struggling and almost finding meaning in the nonsensical rant.
European Son gets through two verses of freshly energized rock and roll before embarking on a jam, heralded by breaking glass. Its replay value is arguable, and the melody trickles away sooner than later. There are better soundscapes than this...on the other hand, there are worse. I'd listen to this twice over before I'd give a minute to Revolution #9. It has energy to spare, mimics hales of gunfire and is generally an avant-garde escapade. Runs to eight minutes.
To conclude, I find The Velvet Underground and Nico a five star CD, and not alone for its place in history. I honestly like the noncommercial sound of it and find it enjoyable as a journey to another time and place. If you don't want to visit the dark rooms and dirty streets of the Velvet Underground, this is not a CD you'll like. It's up to you.
