“We’re civilised, man”: the band who bored Lou Reed live
Lou Reed is the purest example of an artist’s artist. Such is his genius that artists from all along the spectrum cite him as an influence—from Charli XCX to Joy Division, Prince, and everyone in between. But it’s a wonder how he would have received such praise, given his reputation for musical genius alongside a well-earned legacy as a cantankerous contrarian.
Worshipping his work didn’t automatically grant artists a reciprocated level of respect from Reed, who didn’t shy away from letting his true feelings be known. In keeping with that fidelity, if he liked an artist, then his praise would be suitably lofty and, as such, would leave those who lurked in the shadows longing even further.
For example, when asked about his former Velvet Underground partner, Reed said, “I only hope that one day John [Cale] will be recognised as… the Beethoven or something of his day.”
He continued, “He knows so much about music, he’s such a great musician. He’s completely mad—but that’s because he’s Welsh.”
Maybe his high praise was for in-house only, as Maureen (Moe) Tucker, The Velvet Underground’s drummer, received a similar level of god-like praise from Reed, who said, “She has to be one of the most fantastic people I’ve ever met in my life. She’s so impossibly great, but I can never believe it, you know, when we’re walking round the studio, and I run into Moe, I just can’t believe it.”
To Reed’s credit, The Velvet Underground were arguably the most influential band of the late 1960s and 1970s New York. They were perhaps only eclipsed later in the decade following the emergence of the Talking Heads. Blending Reed’s enigmatic vocals and profound lyricism with their avant-garde rock experimentation, they carved a path for mainstream bands who wanted to blend the catchy with the alternative.
During that journey, Reed collected influential artist friends like Pokémon, with Andy Warhol, Iggy Pop and David Bowie joining his alumni of irreverent Manhattan dwellers. Together, they shaped the course of popular art and music. And perhaps, a sense of protectiveness over that is what drove Reed’s particular dislike of one band.
“I don’t like ’em,” Reed had said in a mid-1970s magazine feature when asked about Bryan Ferry’s Roxy Music. It was at this time Reed had packed up his things and was headed to London to collaborate closely with David Bowie on his post-Velvet Underground solo record, Transformer.
It was a record that saw Reed dabble with glam-rock tendencies with the help of his famous collaborator, Bowie. But in a decade dominated by Bowie’s experimentalism, Reed wasn’t his only collaborator; no, he had similarly been working with Ferry on work that existed in a soundscape much the same, and clearly, that had Reed bristled.
“I saw them at the Bowie concert, and we were all there waiting to be impressed,” he concluded. “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.’”
