Frank Zappa

Reed was shown to project palpable fury towards the avant-garde composer Frank Zappa in a recently recirculated magazine feature from the singer’s pomp. “He’s probably the single most untalented person I’ve heard in my life,” he said. Even for Reed, this assertion was on the fierier side of his comments. 

Their rivalry also reflected the broader fragmentation of the counterculture during the late 1960s and 1970s. Though often grouped together as avant-garde outsiders, artists like Reed and Zappa represented wildly different visions of what experimental rock should be.

Reed wanted confrontation and emotional honesty, while Zappa preferred irony and intellectual provocation. The fact that Reed later inducted Zappa into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame suggests that, with time, he came to respect the singularity of Zappa’s vision even if he never fully connected with the music itself.

Reed rarely slowed down when complaining about the unique musician: “He’s a two-bit pretentious academic, and he can’t play his way out of anything,” he added. “He can’t play rock ’n’ roll because he’s a loser. And that’s why he dresses up funny. He’s not happy with himself, and I think he’s right.”

It’s fair to say Reed wasn’t a fan at this point. However, it transpires that there was something of a feud between The Velvet Underground and their avant-garde rival in the ’60s, which evidently boiled over into the ’70s. Fortunately, the fury had abated by the 1990s. In 1995, Reed inducted Zappa into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, expressing a convincing degree of admiration.

The Doors

Where hippies sang peace and love on the West Coast of America in the late 1960s, Reed and The Velvet Underground were broadcasting the shadowy reality of rainy New York City warts and all. Naturally, Reed didn’t take too kindly to his rivals across the prairie. “We had vast objections to the whole San Francisco scene. It’s just tedious, a lie and untalented,” Reed asserted in his 1970s magazine feature. “They can’t play, and they certainly can’t write.”

In a 1987 interview with PBS, Reed angled this derision toward The Doors when asked his opinion on his rock ‘n’ roll peers of the 1960s. He said they “were just painfully stupid and pretentious, and when they did try to get, ‘arty,’ it was worse than stupid rock and roll.”

He then asserted, “What I mean by ‘stupid,’ I mean, like, The Doors.”

More often than not, comments on other bands can feel perhaps misdirected or misquoted; however, it is hard to dream of this barb as being anything but Reed’s scything tongue in full effect. 

Reed’s disdain for The Doors seemed tied to his long-running suspicion of theatricality in rock music. While Jim Morrison cultivated the image of a mystical poet and countercultural shaman, Reed preferred a far more grounded and abrasive form of songwriting that dealt directly with addiction, sexuality and street life. To him, The Doors likely represented the kind of self-serious rock mythology he spent much of his career resisting.

The Beatles

In his 1987 interview with PBS, Reed was asked for his opinion on The Beatles after he had spent a few minutes slating his 1960s rivals. “No, no, I never liked the Beatles,” he revealed. “I thought they were rubbish.”

However, it appears that Reed’s opinion on the Fab Four changed throughout his life, likely with the ebb and flow of his capricious and conflicted mindset. Perhaps by the 1980s, Reed was fed up with the eclipsing durability of The Beatles’ legacy, but in the 1970s, he was quoted as saying: “They just make the songs up, bing, bing, bing. They have to be the most incredible songwriters ever – just amazingly talented. I don’t think people realise just how sad it is that the Beatles broke up.”

His level of praise for The Beatles here is so positive that it’s almost out of character for Reed. It stirs my sarcasm radar a touch, but with Mr Reed, all bets are off. 

Reed’s contradictory opinions on The Beatles perfectly encapsulated his unpredictable relationship with popular music. On one hand, he often rejected anything that felt overly polished or universally adored, instinctively positioning himself against cultural consensus.

On the other hand, he possessed a deep understanding of songwriting craft and could clearly recognise the extraordinary melodic ability Lennon and McCartney brought to popular music when he allowed himself to speak without cynicism.

The Who

Lou Reed showed his disaffection with most of his 1960s rock rivalry over the subsequent decades. Nobody was as good as The Velvet Underground in those days, and he wanted to ensure everyone was aware of it.

The Who were one such band that took a hefty hit of Reed’s wrath, especially their guitarist and songwriter Pete Townshend. The six-string maestro was rarely subservient to the music overlords and was perhaps just as vocal as Reed when speaking about other bands. However, he likely didn’t see this bashing coming.

In his 1970s magazine feature, Reed took aim at The Who’s highly revered 1969 concept album Tommy. “Tommy is such – Jesus, how people get sucked into that,” Reed vented. “So talentless, and as a lyricist [Townshend is] so profoundly untalented, and, you know, philosophically boring to say the least… like the record ‘The Searcher’ [meaning ‘The Seeker’]; ‘I ask Timothy Leary…’, I wouldn’t ask Timothy Leary the time of day, for cryin’ out loud.”

What irritated Reed most about The Who was likely their embrace of grand concepts and rock opera ambition, something he often viewed with suspicion. While Pete Townshend sought to elevate rock music into something spiritually and philosophically expansive, Reed tended to favour directness and realism over lofty statements.

Roxy Music

After Reed quit The Velvet Underground in August 1970, he began to spend more time in the UK, where he would record his eponymous debut solo record and its more successful follow-up, the David Bowie and Mick Ronson-produced Transformer. This era saw Reed move toward a more glam-oriented sound – such was the fashion at the time. With his new style meshing so tightly with that of contemporary act Roxy Music, one might expect high praise from Reed.

“I don’t Like ’em,” Reed said in a mid-’70s magazine feature. Perhaps it was the fact that the group so neatly nestled themselves alongside Reed’s creative counterpart David Bowie, but the singer simply didn’t get on with Bryan Ferry’s band.

“I saw them at the Bowie concert and we were all there waiting to be impressed,” he continued. “They bored me, and I went out half-way to get a drink. I’ve heard some of the other stuff that’s supposed to be up my alley. But they don’t know what they’re talking about. I’ve been doing this stuff a long time, and all of a sudden people are starting to talk about it. They’re saying: ‘Hey, look, we’re civilised, man, and we want to know about it.’”

Reed’s criticism of Roxy Music may also have been fuelled by his complicated relationship with glam rock itself. Although his work heavily influenced the movement’s aesthetics and attitude, seeing younger artists transform those ideas into something sleek and fashionable perhaps left him feeling detached from the scene he helped inspire. Reed’s version of decadence had always been rooted in danger and underground culture, whereas Roxy Music presented glamour through sophistication and art-school elegance.