Lou Reed has left us, but the truths he took pains to show us about ourselves and our society – much as we try to cover them up – remain.

By Jason M. Rubin

The most disturbing song I know is “The Kids” by Lou Reed, from his noir masterpiece Berlin. The song is about a drug-addicted, sexually promiscuous woman whose children are being taken away from her. Toward the end of the song, a crying child screams for his mother over and over, causing anyone with half a heart and soul to cringe from the naked pain so convincingly portrayed on the recording. The lyrics to the first two verses follow:

They’re taking her children away
Because they said she was not a good mother
They’re taking her children away
Because she was making it with sisters and brothers
And everyone else, all of the others
Like cheap officers who would
Stand there and flirt in front of me

They’re taking her children away
Because they said she was not a good mother
They’re taking her children away
Because of the things that they heard she had done
The black Air Force sergeant was not the first one
And all of the drugs she took, every one, every one

It ain’t pretty, but that’s not what Lou Reed, who died on Sunday at age 71, was about. His Velvet Underground released their debut in 1967, the supposed Summer of Love. But like a photographic negative, the Velvets represented the reverse, the dark underbelly of the peace, love, and flowers revolution. The classic defense of pessimism – that it is in fact realism – applied to Reed’s music and lyrics. In the same way that John Waters’ Baltimore of drag queens and gentile deviants differs from Barry Levinson’s Baltimore of Jewish schlemiels and shysters, Reed’s New York of heroin addicts and, yes, more drag queens differs from the New York of (largely Jewish, as was Reed) Tin Pan Alley and, more significantly, the blissfully druggy San Francisco of the late ’60s.

For a long time, my love of Lou Reed was confined to the first Velvet’s album (with the Andy Warhol banana) and two of his solo albums: Transformer, with his only real hit, “Walk on the Wild Side”; and Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal, a blistering live album from the Transformer tour. To supplement, I owned a two-LP compilation called Rock and Roll Diary: 1967-1980. I felt I had all the Lou Reed I needed, but just for good measure I also bought a two-LP live album from 1978 called Take No Prisoners that has Reed lecturing while his band is playing, often taking pot shots at the audience. It’s a daring and dangerous album, and one that showed that Reed would give the audience what he wanted, not what they wanted (actually, it was 1975’s noise manifesto Metal Machine Music that proved he was willing to put his name on an album that many consider thoroughly unlistenable).

Fast forward to 2003. I’m married, not entirely happily, and I have a six-year-old daughter. Suffice to say, I’m not going to a ton of concerts. But behold, on one given night, my ex and my daughter are going away somewhere overnight. I can no longer recall where or why, but it’s my rare night of freedom that is important. I check out the local arts calendar to see what’s going on around Boston that night. I identify three possibilities: see a band I can no longer recall at a small club, watch a rare showing of Wattstax, or buy a ticket to see Lou Reed at the Orpheum Theatre. It’s the day before the show and the Reed ticket, of course, is the most expensive option. But I’ve never seen him before and it seems like I ought to, so I call and buy a ticket, get a very good seat, and look forward to the next night when I would show up at the Will Call window and experience for the first time a concert all by myself.

The night is June 7, 2003. I haven’t been aware of what Lou Reed has been up to for the last twenty years. So I go to his website and I find a video for a song called “Ecstasy” that I find very compelling. I decide to just go with an open mind and enjoy a performance by a classic artist.

The band featured Lou on vocals and guitar, a second guitarist named Mike Rathke, the brilliant bassist Fernando Saunders (whom I knew from his work with Jeff Beck, and who also handled drums on a few tunes), an amazing cellist named Jane Scarpantoni, and a vocalist known only as Antony. This last person sat the whole show and had very odd body language when he sang. I’ll be honest, I thought he was some developmentally challenged vocal savant; I later found out he is the leader of Antony & the Johnsons, a pretty remarkable group in their own right.

The late Lou Reed — he has earned the immortality that belongs to all who rouse the intellect and touch the soul.

The set list, to my great benefit, was diverse in terms of his discography, giving me insight into the consistent quality of his output over forty years. It served to direct me back to those albums and I hungrily consumed as many of his recordings as I could afford. It was then that I realized what a singularly important artist he was, how his literary vision and abilities distinguished him among post-Dylan songwriters, and how fortunate I was that I decided to splurge on what would be my only opportunity to see him in concert.

The set list was as follows:
Sweet Jane – Velvet Underground/Loaded
Smalltown – Songs For ’Drella
Tell It To Your Heart – Mistrial
Men Of Good Fortune – Berlin
How Do You Think It Feels? – Berlin
Vanishing Act – The Raven
Ecstasy – Ecstasy
The Day John Kennedy Died – The Blue Mask
Street Hassle (I & II) – Street Hassle
The Bed – Berlin
Reviens Chérie (Fernando Saunders song)
Venus In Furs – Velvet Underground and Nico
Dirty Blvd. – New York
Sunday Morning – Velvet Underground and Nico
All Tomorrow’s Parties – Velvet Underground and Nico
Call On Me – The Raven
The Raven – The Raven
Set The Twilight Reeling – Set the Twilight Reeling
Candy Says (sung by Antony) – The Velvet Underground
The Last Shot – Legendary Hearts
Perfect Day – Transformer

Many important artists covered him: Big Star, Bryan Ferry, David Bowie, R.E.M., U2, Eurythmics, Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs, and Mott the Hoople among them. One of my favorite bands, the Waterboys, took their name from the chorus of “The Kids”:

And I am the water boy, the real game’s not over here
But my heart is overflowin’ anyway
I’m just a tired man, no words to say
But since she lost her daughter
It’s her eyes that fill with water
And I am much happier this way

In later years, Reed mellowed in his life, if not in his art. He married performance artist Laurie Anderson (as a younger man, his parents forced him to undergo shock treatments to “cure” him of his bisexuality), he took up martial arts and meditation, and he indulged his love of Edgar Allen Poe in an album and stage performance of Poe’s works set to music. The live album that was recorded on the tour I saw, 2004’s Animal Serenade, confirmed my experience that he was an artist still taking chances (witness the ten minute version of the Velvet’s “Venus in Furs” complete with maniacal cello solo, or opening the show with a sharply abridged version of perhaps his most familiar song, “Sweet Jane,” just to show how few chords are required to compose a classic rock song).

And so now Lou Reed has left us, but the truths he took pains to show us about ourselves and our societ7mdash;much as we try to cover them up—remain. And thus he has earned the immortality that belongs to all who rouse the intellect and touch the soul.

The last words must be his. A few months ago, I made a mix CD for a woman who was at the time but no longer is my girlfriend. I included Lou’s song, “Perfect Day.” She didn’t like it. She thought it was creepy and negative. I found it beautiful and uplifting. Surely, it is both. But like all great art, we see in Lou Reed’s music what we want to see, or what best reflects what is within us. Thus it is that today is both a lousy day and a perfect day to spend with a great artist’s music.

Just a perfect day
You made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone good

Oh, it’s such a perfect day
I’m glad I spent it with you
Oh, such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on
You just keep me hanging on

You’re going to reap just what you sow.

Jason M. Rubin has been a professional writer since 1985. He is an award-winning copywriter and a novelist whose first book, The Grave & The Gay, based on a 17th-century English folk ballad, was published in September 2012. He lives in the Boston area and also writes CD reviews for Progression magazine.