lou, laurie, and me: a missed walk on the wild side

Installation shot of Lou Reed exhibit at New York Public Library (photo by Max Touhey/courtesy NYPL)

In March 2017, in honor of what would have been his seventy-fifth birthday, the New York Public Library hosted a series of special programs celebrating the life and career of Lewis Allan Reed, one of the godfathers of punk; the Freeport-born icon better known simply as Lou Reed had died of liver cancer in October 2013 at the age of seventy-one.

One of the events was a presentation of “Drones,” in which Reed’s longtime collaborator Stewart Hurwood activated six of the Velvet Underground cofounder’s guitars, creating an immersive soundscape while people sat or lay on the carpeted floor of the NYPL’s Celeste Bartos Forum. Reed’s widow, multidisciplinary artist Laurie Anderson, played violin in the space, and at one point Master Ren GuangYi, whom Reed had studied with, began a tai chi chuan demonstration that my wife and I joined — until we realized it was a performance, not an interactive experience. We sat back down, tails between our legs.

Over the years, I had several encounters with Reed himself, including one particular moment that I will take to my grave as one of the biggest regrets of my life. It came to mind recently as I was making my way through the expansive exhibit “Lou Reed: Caught Between the Twisted Stars,” continuing at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts through March 4. The free show is named after the opening words of Reed’s 1989 song “Romeo Had Juliette” from his lauded New York album: “Caught between the twisted stars, / the plotted lines, the faulty map / that brought Columbus to New York / Betwixt between the East and West / he comes to her wearing a leather vest / the earth squeals and shudders to a halt / A diamond crucifix in his ear / is used to help ward off the fear / that he has left his soul in someone's rented car.”

The exhibition is a treasure trove of Reed memorabilia, from rare videos and photographs to instruments, handwritten lyrics and letters, explorations of individual albums, original banners from the summer that Lou and Laurie were King Neptune and Queen Mermaid at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade, a motorcycle helmet, a studded dog collar, Reed’s astrological chart, tour receipts, promotional items, and listening stations where you can hear, among other things, a never-before-released demo tape that Reed mailed to himself in 1965. Dozens of monitors play an endless, random stream of Reed interviews. Live videos from his Transformer tour show a different side of Reed and how he was always ahead of his time.

“I’m really dedicated to how much fun I get from performing,” wall text quotes Reed as saying. “I love playing guitar with other people. I love it. And I love doing it in front of a crowd that gets off on it. Nothing can match that.”

I saw Reed perform at the Tower Theater in Philadelphia (his name was spelled “Reede” on the tickets), BAM, the Ritz, and other venues, and I bumped into him numerous times. One evening I stupidly called out “Lou!!!” as he and Anderson were stuffing luggage into the trunk of a taxi. He gave me a huff.

Another night, we were watching a show at BAM when my wife, who rarely complains about anything, was upset that the person sitting behind her kept kicking her seat. At intermission, she turned around to ask the person to please stop, only to find Reed fast asleep, Anderson smiling at her. (Anderson and Reed were regulars at BAM, either onstage or in the audience.)

NYPL show is filled with treasure trove of Lou Reed artifacts (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

In April 2009, Reed, on guitar and live electronics, teamed up with Ulrich Krieger on tenor sax, Sarth Calhoun on live processing and fingerboard continuum, and special guest John Zorn on alto sax for “Metal Machine Trio: MM3: An Evening of Deep Noise” at the Gramercy, a sixty-minute concert hearkening back to his much-maligned 1975 double album, Metal Machine Music, consisting of experimental feedback and noise, with no vocals or traditional “songs.” I had never seen Reed happier; he was loving every second of it.

A few weeks later, I was standing in front of an elevator in Chelsea, waiting to go up to a friend’s studio. Also waiting was Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson, and a few other people who were with them.

I have a habit of talking to celebrities when I chance upon them. I don’t ask for autographs or selfies but say hello or bring up something not obvious that they might not mind talking about. I spoke to Mikhail Baryshnikov at BAM about a photo exhibit of his on Fifty-Seventh St. I talked to David Byrne at the Guggenheim about his dance show at Park Ave. Armory. I greeted Paul McCartney, who was walking under a white umbrella near his Midtown office, and he responded, “Lovely to see you again.” (I had never met him before.)

At the Jewish Museum, I told Elvis Costello that we had a good friend in common and he put his arm around my shoulder. I yelled out, “Compañero!” to Peter Falk near the Garden, and he yelled back his quote from Wim Wenders’s Wings of Desire. The third time I said hello to Allen Ginsberg within a two-week period he did a double take, wondering if I were a stalker.

So there I was with Lou Reed, waiting for an elevator. Reed was notorious for not exactly getting along with journalists, so I decided to just be a fanboy and instead mentioned that my wife and I had just seen MM3 at the Gramercy.

His eyes lit up.

“Oh, what did you think?” he asked, seemingly truly wanting my opinion.

I told him how much we enjoyed it, that it was great seeing him playing with Zorn and that we really got into the music.

“Glad to hear that,” he said. “We were worried about how it would go, if it would be a disaster.”

I assured him that it wasn’t a disaster and that I was thrilled that he had revisited the record.

The elevator came and we all got on. Reed turned to me and said, “We’re going to this party on eight. You should come.”

I hesitated — oh, how I hesitated — and said, “Thanks, but I’m visiting a friend at her studio.”

“Too bad,” Reed said.

I got off at my friend’s floor, wondering about what I had just done.

Three years later, Reed was dead.

This past summer, I ran into that friend in Chelsea and told her the story.

“OMG, you should have gone,” she said, practically chastising me.

I had a chance to take a walk on the wild side with the man himself, but I spectacularly blew the opportunity; to this day I feel like that guy from “Romeo Had Juliette”: “The perfume burned his eyes holding gently to her thighs / and something flickered for a minute and then it vanished and was gone.”