Aidan Levy - Dirty Blvd. : the life and music of Lou Reed

When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.

James Joyce

This is the way that night passes by, this

Is the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomable

abyss.

Delmore Schwartz

Ellen Willis said it best: Heres a man I think is such a genius that once when I was face to face with him in a hotel room I couldnt say a word (what I wanted to say was Your music changed my life, which would have been most uncool). It was March 19, 2013, and there was Lou Reed himself, on the bimah at the Downtown Seder, and I was starstruck. If I told him how he had changed my life, I can only imagine what he would have said. Plans for this book were already in the works, and if I had known it was my last chance to see himmy rabbiI might have told him how many times listening to The Blue Mask on evening commutes home made me understand something about myself that I thought I knew intellectually but couldnt quite grasp emotionally. And how many times it helped me get back on the train the next day. Then again, some things are better left unsaid. Yet Lou was one of the great risk-takers. So here is this book.

Lou Reed seemed to know exactly what to say; the way he turned a phrase could be immensely gratifying or beyond devastating, could make a week or ruin a year, and I wasnt surprised to discover how many people remembered things he had saidverbatim. This project was enriched immeasurably by the help of the numerous interviewees who shared their remembrances, insights, and intimate details. I am indebted to Shelley Albin, Aram Bajakian, Angel Balestier, Rick Bell, Randy Brecker, Ray Colcord, Tony Conrad, Marty Fogel, Nick Forster, Danny Frankel, Sean Fullan, Gail Garcia, Elliot Garfinkel, James Gorney, Chuck Hammer, Phil Harris, Barbara Hodes, Allan Hyman, Steve Katz, Reba Katz, Bettye Kronstad, Vinny Laporta, Jan Machacek, George Manney, Dr. Irwin Mendelsohn, Richard Mishkin, Martha Morrison, Steve Nelson, Judy November, Wendy Oxenhorn, Terry Philips, Sylvia Ramos, Jim Riswold, Jeff Ross, Arthur Scheer, Jonathan Shebar, Richard Sigal, Karl Stoecker, Lydia Sugarman, Alan Walters, Merrill Weiner, Doug Wieselman, Barbara Wilkinson, and Victoria Williams for their candid, moving, and frequently hilarious accounts that enlivened this story. A biography of Lou Reed would be nothing without some classic Lou Reed anecdotesthose piercing moments of infamy, ecstasy, and debauchery that created the legend, at once so deeply human yet beyond belief.

Even when he wasnt speaking or singing, or speak-singing, Lou could chew the scenery like few others, and he had a way of evoking an atmosphere just by being in the room. This book attempts to capture that scene-stealing quality with a selection of photographs and memorabilia generously provided by David Arnoff, Martin Benjamin, Gene Ching, Richard Conde, Melanie Einzig, Chuck Hammer, George Manney, Steve Rossini, Richard Sigal, Alan Walters, Barbara Wilkinson, the William J. Clinton Library, the Montreal Jazz Festival, and the Syracuse University Archives. It is impossible to fully encapsulate Lou in any one image, article, or monograph, but the photographs represented here illuminate his poetic spirit, if only for a frame.

Surviving as a writer in New York is no easy feat, and I am exceedingly grateful to my extended family in film production that has facilitated my efforts along the way, especially to Steve Lawler, Dana Hook, Pepe and Joey Bird, and Rob Ackerman. I am also grateful to Richard Eder at Brown University for inspiring me to pursue arts journalism, and for the encouragement and guidance of Steve Molton at Long Island University as I began this process. Thanks for the incisive remarks and flexibility of my professors and colleagues at Columbia University during the course of this journey.

I began as a journalist, and as deadlines come and go, I always remain a journalist in spirit. I would like to express my appreciation to the editors I have worked with over the past decadeStacey Anderson, Phil Freeman, Evan Haga, Rob Harvilla, Maura Johnston, Nick Lucchesi, Nick Murray, Andy Newman, and Brittany Spanosand to Stephen Buono and Matt Merewitz for being early supporters of this project. I dont get to say it enough, but a good editor makes all the difference, and these are some of the best.

Apropos of that, I am immensely thankful for the continuing support of my editor at Chicago Review Press, Yuval Taylor, for his depth of thought and constructive comments that have shaped this book, as has the commitment of Devon Freeny and the entire staff there. Many thanks to my literary agent, Russell Galen, for his persistence and vision, and for believing in me over the years. None of this would have been possible if it were not for the love and support of my family, Patricia, Harlan, and Allegra, and my friends and relatives, whose thoughts have been enormously helpful throughout this process. Special thanks go to my two cats, who sat patiently for untold hours listening to the Velvet Underground as they watched me write what eventually became this book. Finally, thanks to my caring, infinitely patient partner, Kaitlin Mondello, for including Lou Reed in our lives and discussions for the past two years. I could not have done this without you.

Somewhere in the suburbs, a listless teenager turned the key in the ignition of his parents car and shifted into gear. It was Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, and there was nothing to do but drive to the McDonalds parking lot where people from school sometimes got together, hoping for anything to happen that would pass the time. When he pulled up, he saw that no one was there. McDonalds wasnt even open; all was dark but a flickering neon light at the liquor store next door. It was the most boring night of the year in the most boring town on Earth. All he had was the glow of the radio and the eerie desolation of a strip mall past 9 PM.

When the bass came in quietly, with its mellow glide underneath a laid-back guitar strumming two repeating chords and the insouciant shuffle of a hi-hat, he hardly noticed. Then he heard that voice, a gravelly, nasal baritone, half-singing, half just telling it like it is for all us misfits, the truth and nothing but, even if it didnt happen:

Holly came from Miami, FLA

Hitchhiked her way across the USA

There, sitting in that parking lot, he heard the raw sound of a world he knew he would one day escape to if it was the last thing he dida world free of SAT tests, trigonometry, and disapproving looks. He didnt know it yet, but his life had just been saved by rock n roll.

Years earlier, another teenager sat in a Ford Fairlane idling in neutral, thinking about unrequited love and the meaning of the blues as the Long Island Rail Road coasted by on its lonely eastward journey. Alan Freed was playing a new tune by Dion and the Belmonts: