Playback: The Velvet Underground

Given that the words “mystique” and “myth” sit next to each other in the dictionary, indulge me the fantasy of envisioning the good folks at Webster’s deciding to illustrate both words by using a single picture—that of Lou Reed. After all, it’s been 34 years since he called it quits as leader of The Velvet Underground, yet the mystique as well as the mythology surrounding the band have never really diminished. If anything, they’ve grown and deepened over the decades. And they’ve certainly helped sustain Reed’s place in rock history far more than his inconsistent solo career. It also doesn’t hurt that, periodically, something happens—the 1993 reunion tour, the five-CD VU retrospective in ’95, 2001’s Robert Quine collection of old bootleg tapes—that serves to re-kindle discussion of the group’s influence and importance as one of the first (if not the first) groups to give shape and form to what would ultimately be deemed “alternative” rock. Especially since, decades later, there’s still nothing at all quaint about the envelope-pushing barrage—sonically and lyrically—that Reed and crew let fly at the conventions of rock over the course of their five years (and four studio albums).

Because of this, it’s instructive on a number of levels to return to the scene of, literally, Reed’s final moments with the Velvets, which can now be heard in their two-set entirety with the expanded reissue of The Velvet Underground Live At Max’s Kansas City. Those familiar with the original 1972 release of the August 23, 1970 shows—a humble mono cassette recording made from a table in the audience by fan/friend Brigid Polk during the group’s summer-long residency at the chic downtown New York night spot—will no doubt be impressed by both the technologically improved sound quality and by the complete representation of all the music performed that night. For this listener, it’s an especially welcome document—particularly because about a month before these recordings were made, I was there myself.

I was in New York City for the weekend from college (primarily to visit my folks). Picking up the paper, I discovered—completely by accident—that the Velvets were playing in town. I called Max’s on Sunday afternoon, and when the person on the phone asked if I wanted to make a reservation I said ‘sure,’ figuring the place would be jam packed. But when I arrived about a half-an-hour before the scheduled start of the first set, I was shocked to discover that the club was not even half full. And when I told the person at the door I had a reservation, they escorted me to a table all the way up front to the right of the stage. And there I sat by myself for the next few hours, watching one of the most heroic groups of my then-young life performing songs that meant the world to me in front of a very small audience—some of whom (feel free to think I hallucinated this) were actually dancing, and to songs like “I’m Waiting For The Man,” “White Light/White Heat” and “Candy Says” (cheek to cheek on that one), no less.

Interestingly, the by-rep arched, difficult Reed was as friendly and chipper as could be—joking between songs, even encouraging the six or so couples dancing in the open space in front of the stage. (I do have one transcendentally indelible memory of Reed that evening: between sets, someone threw some coins into the ultra-cool Max’s jukebox and out came the Velvets’ 1966-recorded debut single, “Sunday Morning”—and as it was playing, he suddenly emerged, plugged in his guitar, sat down at the side of the stage and gently strummed along.) Lead guitarist Sterling Morrison—besides Reed the lone member of the original band still in the group at the time—played with the same dignity that emerged so vividly on songs like “I’m Set Free” and “Pale Blue Eyes” on the band’s self-titled third album (1969). Bassist Doug Yule, far more Reed’s surrogate than John Cale’s replacement, ably sang the slower new songs—it was hard not to be captivated by the then-unreleased “New Age”—while his teenaged brother Billy, filling in for drummer Maureen Tucker (who, it was announced, had just had a baby), furnished muscular, straight ahead rock ’n’ roll drumming.

In fact, that was the overall vibe the night I was there—that of a straight ahead rock ’n’ roll band playing adventurous but, nonetheless, accessible music. As evidenced by the Live At Max’s Kansas City CD reissue, that vibe stayed there all summer, right up until the very end. As Lou Reed notes at the end of one of the real treasures here—the then rarely performed and ever-poignant, “Candy Says”: “On a good night, we can doo-doo-wah with the best of them.” No myth about that.