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This is not a sad song
Arezzo is still a medieval city: narrow streets flanking stone walls that open onto evocative scenic backdrops like Piazza Grande, the concert venue. Yes, the concert. What can I tell you, now I'm here listening to the story of two junkies in 1970s Berlin and watching Emmanuelle Seigner on the screen playing the part of the bad mother, oh yes, I really think they're going to take her children away.
Berlin is being staged for the first time 34 years after its release on record; to be cynical, it’s more of an (auto)celebration and the collection of thirty years of royalties from an album that has had mixed fortunes. Panned on its release, it will go down in history as one of Lou Reed's darkest and most desperate works. On stage, the more rock-oriented pieces gain power, if not to say redundancy, while the slower ones dry tears that have been hidden for too long. About thirty people are trying to (re)write history, and the simultaneous presence of producer Bob Ezrin underscores this. Lou seems more relaxed than ever, even though this does not prevent him from making a few too many mistakes on the guitar, but, luckily, he has an overly indulgent audience in front of him that just moments before was furiously disgruntled due to his delay. The moment of the encore arrives, or "bisse" as they say around here, and looking at the setlist, it still feels like the days of Rock'n'Roll Animal: Sweet Jane, Walk On The Wild Side, and Satellite Of Love. Perhaps time has never passed, and we have never moved from here, and if we haven’t, certainly neither have the stone walls.
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