The Earth Squeals And Shudders To A Halt

When I was a senior in high school, my best friend gave me a mix tape. Well, it wasn’t technically a mix tape, it was just a dub of The Coctails’ Hip Hop Hooray. But because there was some extra space at the end, she added a few random songs. There was Science Friction and Statue Of Liberty from XTC. There was also Romeo Had Juliet by Lou Reed.

I’d never heard of Lou Reed. That song, romantic yet dirty at the same time, was enough for me to buy the entire album. As is often the case, your first taste of something tends to be the best. All these many years later, New York is still my favorite Lou Reed Album, even more so than any of his Velvet Underground work.

My Lou Reed addiction came on slowly. His music, a mixture of melody and dissonance, can be challenging, and it was several years before I discovered that his back catalog was more than just an inspiration for a Marky Mark song. But once I really started digging in, I was hooked.

I came of age with Lou Reed in my CD player. When my peers were listening to Ten, Under The Table And Dreaming, and In Utero, I was rocking out to Set The Twilight Reeling and Magic & Loss. I think it says pretty much everything you need to know about me that I was in my early twenties and it wasn’t Reed’s early works of rebellion that were shaping who I was, but the mature examination of his own mortality that most artists don’t experience until they hit middle age.

I wasn’t interested in being angry at everyone (though I went through that phase as well). I wanted to know why any of this nonsense meant anything. Lou Reed was an uncompromising songwriter who actually cared enough about what the establishment thought of his art to tell his critics why they were full of shit. He wrote iconic songs. He was responsible for entire genres of rock music. He wrote Sweet Jane and Heroin. But to me he was a guy, just like me, trying to understand this mess of a world we live in.

On the title track to Magic & Loss, Reed wrote:

They say no one person can do it all
But you want to in your head
But you can’t be Shakespeare and you can’t be Joyce
So what is left instead

It’s hard to find poetry that better encapsulates what it means to be an aspiring artist, someone who wants to leave a mark.

And it’s hard to better summarize what life is all about than the following:

There’s a bit of magic in everything
And then some loss to even things out

Ever since, Lou Reed has been on my Mt. Rushmore of musicians. He’s been there with me when I’m falling in love (Pale Blue Eyes, Hang On To Your Emotions), or experiencing heart break (Hello Its Me, Caroline Says II), or so angry I could spit (Waiting For My Man, anything from Take No Prisoners). I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for Lou Reed.

Whenever life gets too much, and I struggle to find a reason to care about anything, I remind myself of the magic. Lou Reed is magical. The Velvet Underground is transcendent. The great American novel that is Lou Reed’s songbook teaches us a lot about ourselves, but more than anything, it celebrates the beauty that’s to be found in the tragedy, that even though we have to die, at least we got a chance to experience life, with all its love, art, and magic.

I’m glad I lived in the same world as Lou Reed.

For Emily

Check out Decater's new novel, available now at Amazon. Plus, don't forget his earlier books: Ahab's Adventures in Wonderland and Picasso Painted Dinosaurs.