Lou Reed - Street Hassle

Arista Records

It is not often that an artist so shunned by polite society manages to carry on much farther then their longevity would typically allow them to. But Lou Reed keeps managing to restart the stopwatch, taking a gamble on whether or not his next record will be the one to see him out. This time, he beat the house.

Even though we are well past its relevancy, Reed is still locked in to his marriage with the Velvet Underground long after it stopped being convenient for him. He drags his feet and complains, but ultimately grits his teeth and bears it. The masterfully honed guitar of "Gimme Some Good Times" swirls around itself, drunk and dizzy, chasing its own tail. The dissonant vocals remind me of a terribly off-kilter middle school talent show performance, but knowing Reed, that was intentional. He sounds strung out on methadone, as per usual.

The dragging, lead-booted groove of "Dirt" slowly sucks you in, but the fact it sounds like every instrumentalist is playing at slightly different tempos does nothing to cauterize the tune and sear its rhythms into my head. Reed is trying to relive the glory of his glam days by painting a gloss of some Dylan and Bowie onto his vocals, but the acidic lyrics prove that the grit of city life isn't done with him yet. It was worn all the soft edges away. I can picture Reed writing this dirge of self-deprecation in a drunken stupor on a street corner whilst struggling to recall his address. "Uptown dirt". Is that all you are, Lou? Has fame finally caught up to you?

"Street Hassle" is far more competent of a suite then I expected from someone with a musical reputation such as this, but Reed proves he's still full of surprises. This is a sensitive side of Reed we're rarely privy to anymore--probably the most vulnerable we'll ever hear from him for the next five years (though the line "that bitch will never fuck again" momentarily ruins the immersion).

The use of an orchestra on a Reed record is extremely out of place, like he's trying to seem more sophisticated then he actually is; curious, but not entirely unwelcome. He's posing as a hopeless romantic, trying to rekindle the loveless marriage to the V.U., to harness that spark that made it so special. The bass work is otherworldly and surprisingly expressive, and the guitar lays down the blanket of sorrow as it kisses you goodnight. Like sticking your hand in a vat of cold water. And those synths, those damn underutilized synths are the salt on the rim of the margarita glass that makes it shimmer in the light.

Why Reed would follow up a song like "Street Hassle" with the tasteless satire of "I Wanna Be Black" I will never know, though it is exactly the kind of behavior I've come to expect from him. Christgau says he's parodying racism, though from which side I cannot determine. Completely disregard.

Merging the unwholesome marriage to the V.U. with the wiles of hot new thing (the) Talking Heads is "Real Good Time Together". It flutters like tissue paper in the wind, lost in the psychedelic fog as Reed tries to inject real artistry back into the stripped back stylings of punk, but whether the body has accepted the transplant is yet to be determined. Reed sings like he's high on the floor, making promises to a ghost in the ceiling, and me? I feel like I'm dying.

That same haze carries over to "Shooting Star", which I can imagine is little more then a jab in Bad Company's ribs. Reed wears his vitriol on his sleeve, which is a cryin' shame, 'cause when he's not behind behind that machismo veneer, he's pretty damn great.

"Leave Me Alone" is ragged. It's pulling teeth, sticking fingers down its throat just to get attention. It's Gorey. Marty Fogel's saxophone is bleeding--it's dripping onto the floor, I can see its guts poking out, waiting to join the mess on the tile. It's seeping into the grout, pooling at Reed's feet, splattering the wall. It's beautiful, and I'm oddly enthralled.

The early styles of Reed's career come back to pay us one final visit, but in emulating those styles, "Wait" is stripped of all the potential it had to be emotionally honest. It is a put-on, a pantomime. It sounds like a younger Reed is singing this to a girl, blushing and trying to make himself smaller, ultimately failing to win her over (bless his heart).

While Reed is still too zoned-in on his own suffering to give even a cursory glance to the world outside his rear-view mirror, his habitual navel-gazing has yet to melt into redundant drivel. Whenever he finally clocks out on that time card, I hope whatever idea stirs up in his poor diseased mind next fares better then when he tried to go ambient on "Metal Machine Music".

Rating: 4/5