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Rating: This album is stunning, chiaroscuro and sadistic like few others. It is an album of pure plastic. Plastic because it is produced in an antiseptic, gray society; plastic because it is the debut work of a non-passionate genre, but murderous, cold as plastic. The music is dark, sometimes annoying and nightmarish. However, it allows itself some purely melodic and absolutely exquisite breaks.
Let's start with this minority; the introductory “Sunday Morning” is melodious polystyrene. It is a perverse music box that delights in deceiving us. It is a very sweet candy with poison inside. It's like covering a deep and infected cut with a bow. I find it fantastic, almost masochistic in its beauty. Already from here, one can sense that this album is pure excess, pure exaggeration; nothing holds back from being normal, everything is pushed to the maximum of its psychic and auditory power. Another melodic gem is “Femme Fatale”. Embroidered on a soft but at the same time cold fabric, it features Nico as the protagonist, in a sweet and sincere performance. Seemingly happy backing vocals accompany the chorus. That sensation of tar-covered romanticism that this track transmits to me is inexplicable, truly immense.
“I’ll Be Your Mirror” is the least subject to plastic and chemical contamination, it's the most classic and simple track of the album, the most natural. Pure sweetness, without the chance of reply from the group's sharp instruments. In between the first two pieces is “I’m Waiting For The Man”, a track I would dare call inertial, following a steady drumbeat interwoven with acidic and sweet sounds. The music here is not plastic, but iron, rusty iron that continuously scrapes against a rough surface. Reed doesn't seem to sing; he speaks in a very rhythmic and agitated way, with his brutal and no-frills voice, lashing. It's one of the group's most famous pieces.
“Venus In Furs”, a track with clearly sexual lyrics, is already pure desert. The electric viola sketches desolate landscapes with its funereal, oriental, desperate, and dark progression, like a sick dog. Then Reed thinks of building on this arid view his funeral chant, exciting and also liberating in airy bursts. It is a masterpiece, so beautiful and intense that it goes beyond mere auditory perception; this is a dark, perverse pleasure. It calls hidden senses from the depths, liberates them. Yes, it is liberating. In its oppressing, it gives vent to hidden desires and needs. I regard it as pure poetry of the 20th century.
“Run Run Run” is a more conventional piece, in the sense that it doesn't overthrow you like the previous one but is an excellent Rock n’ Roll track. The viola continuously embroiders over the bass and drum base. The eccentric and sick solo in the middle digs circular, spiral furrows, nails, restarts piercingly until it dissolves on itself and slowly disappears. The vocal part is excellent too; it feels distant, like singing in the city's fog, with notes dispersing among smoke and shadows. “All Tomorrow’s Parties” is like an anthem. The music here becomes less acidic and more enveloping, less suffocating and more dark, leaving us with Nico's melody, so undulating and uncertain, so precarious and steady…
“Heroin” is a drug. Not a song, but a journey made intravenously into the mind and muscles of a man who takes drugs, any man. The music is actually the heartbeat, and the words are nothing but the unconscious of that man. Reed and company have no shame. They also allow themselves to mock us, making us suffer, and they gently attack with slow beats and sweet notes. Beats that increase simultaneously with words that ignite, confess, and attempt a little to justify themselves, a little to revel in the harm. The viola notes are even joyful, it is a harsh contrast, inconceivable, a product of the rooted sadism in the musicians and thus in the music. The song continues like this until the word “heroin” is pronounced, said so slowly and with such relish that it gives you chills... The track rises in tone, gets lost in itself and in its distortions, in its frantic beats until it becomes like a blade which, however, immediately shatters and ends in nothingness… only the beats and sweet notes remain to make us seem as if nothing happened. A bit like the drug, it deluded us, played with us, and then denied everything…
Of lower significant level is “There She Goes Again”, also because after such a track it would be difficult to do better. However, it remains a beautiful semi-carefree song, it seems like a parody of the sixties beat. The musical line varies between fluid parts and rhythmic blocks; the contrast of the backing vocals with the often cold music is suggestive. Like trying to make a beach umbrella from concrete.
“The Black Angel’s Death Song” begins like a swarm attacking you; the music continually rises and falls, pressure builds, you lose your points of reference, you start to see everything blurred. It isn’t a sung track, it’s more of an invocation, a jagged speech interrupted by that sound of red-hot iron immersed in water. It’s a febrile track, it sincerely annoys. It’s clear that it wasn’t created as a track, but rather an anguished composition accompanied by the most revolting and repugnant, metropolitan, and raw music there is. It circles around you continuously, then stops, but you are so hypnotized that you keep spinning, absorbed by the sound, and when the music box turns off, you notice your stupidity, weakness, and senselessness. The music of Velvet Underground is like a big sadistic smile that mocks you for all this, delights in seeing you terrified and even tries to deliver the coup de grâce.
The album ends with “European Sun”, another ill-fated journey through human garbage and sadism. It starts cheerful, certainly with that cursed vein that distinguishes the group. Then a window shatters, there’s commotion, and the track starts running on spiny, shaky rails. This journey seems to have no return to hearing the distorted, confused, cursed cries. It proceeds rapidly, doesn’t look back, isn’t afraid of what it will encounter. It is a radical, noise-filled track, disheartening to exhaustion; there are moments when you beg for mercy, kneel, and ask for forgiveness, hoping this devilish punishment ends as soon as possible. Strident to the absurd, without head or tail, it's practically a nightmare…
It’s difficult to make general comments about the album because, given its richness and complexity, something would inevitably be left out. Only the eleven songs it comprises remain, sometimes bleak, sometimes seemingly sweet, but so sincere that they end up becoming the manifesto of an era, of a way of life, and ultimately, of a state of mind… I believe it is the best album ever made, certainly dependent on tastes, but it still remains among the most expressive, raw, and lucid musical works of the last century…
Tracklist Lyrics Samples and Videos
01 Sunday Morning (02:58)
Sunday morning, praise the dawning
It's just a restless feeling by my side
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It's just the wasted years so close behind
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Sunday morning and I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all
Sunday morning
Sunday morning
Sunday morning
02 I'm Waiting for the Man (04:41)
I'm waiting for my man
Twenty-six dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington, 125
Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive
I'm waiting for my man
Hey, white boy, what you doin' uptown?
Hey, white boy, you chasin' our women around?
Oh pardon me sir, it's the furthest from my mind
I'm just lookin' for a dear, dear friend of mine
I'm waiting for my man
Here he comes, he's all dressed in black
PR shoes and a big straw hat
He's never early, he's always late
First thing you learn is you always gotta wait
I'm waiting for my man
Up to a Brownstone, up three flights of stairs
Everybody's pinned you, but nobody cares
He's got the works, gives you sweet taste
Ah then you gotta split because you got no time to waste
I'm waiting for my man
Baby don't you holler, darlin' don't you bawl and shout
I'm feeling good, you know I'm gonna work it on out
I'm feeling good, I'm feeling oh so fine
Until tomorrow, but that's just some other time
I'm waiting for my man
03 Femme Fatale (02:40)
Here she comes, you better watch your step
She's going to break your heart in two, it's true
It's not hard to realize
Just look into her false colored eyes
She builds you up to just put you down, what a clown
'Cause everybody knows (She's a femme fatale)
The things she does to please (She's a femme fatale)
She's just a little tease (She's a femme fatale)
See the way she walks
Hear the way she talks
You're put down in her book
You're number 37, have a look
She's going to smile to make you frown, what a clown
Little boy, she's from the street
Before you start, you're already beat
She's gonna play you for a fool, yes it's true
'Cause everybody knows (She's a femme fatale)
The things she does to please (She's a femme fatale)
She's just a little tease (She's a femme fatale)
See the way she walks
Hear the way she talks
04 Venus in Furs (05:10)
Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather
Whiplash girlchild in the dark
Comes in bells, your servant, don't forsake him
Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart
Downy sins of streetlight fancies
Chase the costumes she shall wear
Ermine furs adorn the imperious
Severin, severin awaits you there
I am tired, I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears
Kiss the boot of shiny, shiny leather
Shiny leather in the dark
Tongue of thongs, the belt that does await you
Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart
Severin, severin, speak so slightly
Severin, down on your bended knee
Taste the whip, in love not given lightly
Taste the whip, now bleed for me
I am tired, I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears
Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather
Whiplash girlchild in the dark
Severin, your servant comes in bells, please don't forsake him
Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart
05 Run Run Run (04:24)
Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave
I sold my soul, must be saved
Gonna take a walk down to Union Square
You never know who you're gonna find there
You gotta run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy Death and you
Tell you whatcha do
Marguerita Passion had to get her fix
She wasn't well, she was getting sick
Went to sell her soul, she wasn't high
Didn't know, thinks she could buy it
And she would run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy Death and you
Tell you whatcha do
Seasick Sarah had a golden nose
Hobnail boots wrapped around her toes
When she turned blue, all the angels screamed
They didn't know, they couldn't make the scene
She had to run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy Death and you
Tell you whatcha do
Beardless Harry, what a waste
Couldn't even get a small-town taste
Rode the trolleys down to forty-seven
Figured he was good to get himself to heaven
'Cause he had to run, urn, run, run, run Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy Death and you
Tell you whatcha do
06 All Tomorrow's Parties (06:02)
And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
A hand-me-down dress from who knows where
To all tomorrow's parties
And where will she go, and what shall she do
When midnight comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown and cry behind the door
And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
Why silks and linens of yesterday's gowns
To all tomorrow's parties
And what will she do with Thursday's rags
When Monday comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown and cry behind the door
And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
For Thursday's child is Sunday's clown
For whom none will go mourning
A blackened shroud
A hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks - a costume
Fit for one who sits and cries
For all tomorrow's parties
07 Heroin (07:14)
I don't know just where I'm going
But I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
When I put a spike into my vein
And I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same
When I'm rushing on my run
And I feel just like Jesus' son
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I have made the big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
'Cause when the blood begins to flow
When it shoots up the dropper's neck
When I'm closing in on death
And you can't help me not, you guys
And all you sweet girls with all your sweet silly talk
You can all go take a walk
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man can not be free
Of all of the evils of this town
And of himself, and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Heroin, be the death of me
Heroin, it's my wife and it's my life
Because a mainer to my vein
Leads to a center in my head
And then I'm better off than dead
Because when the smack begins to flow
I really don't care anymore
About all the Jim-Jim's in this town
And all the politicians makin' busy sounds
And everybody puttin' everybody else down
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds
'Cause when the smack begins to flow
Then I really don't care anymore
Ah, when the heroin is in my blood
And that blood is in my head
Then thank God that I'm as good as dead
Then thank your God that I'm not aware
And thank God that I just don't care
And I guess I just don't know
And I guess I just don't know
09 I'll Be Your Mirror (02:16)
I'll be your mirror
Reflect what you are, in case you don't know
I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
The light on your door to show that you're home
When you think the night has seen your mind
That inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
'Cause I see you
I find it hard to believe you don't know
The beauty you are
But if you don't let me be your eyes
A hand to your darkness, so you won't be afraid
When you think the night has seen your mind
That inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
'Cause I see you
I'll be your mirror
10 The Black Angel's Death Song (03:13)
The myriad choices of his fate
Set themselves out upon a plate
For him to choose
What had he to lose
Not a ghost bloodied country
All covered with sleep
Where the black angel did weep
Not an old city street in the east
Gone to choose
And wandering's brother
Walked on through the night
With his hair in his face
On a long splintered cut from the knife of G.T.
The rally man's patter ran on through the dawn
Until we said so long
To his skull-shrill yell
Shining brightly red-rimmed and
Red-lined with the time
Infused with the choice of the mind
On ice skates scraping chunks
From the bells
Cut mouth bleeding razor's
Forgetting the pain
Antiseptic remains cool goodbye
So you fly
To the cozy brown snow of the east
Gone to choose, choose again
Sacrificials remains make it hard to forget
Where you come from
The stools of your eyes
Serve to realize fame, choose again
And roverman's refrain of the sacrilege recluse
For the loss of a horse
Went the bowels and a tail of a rat
Come again, choose to go
And if Epiphany's terror reduced you to shame
Have your head bobbed and weaved
Choose a side to be on
If the stone glances off
Split didactics in two
Leave the colors of the mouse trails
Don't scream, try between
If you choose, if you choose, try to lose
For the loss of remain come and start
Start the game I che che che che I
Che che ka tak koh
Choose to choose
Choose to choose, choose to go
11 European Son (07:46)
You killed your European son
You spit on those under twenty-one
But now your blue car's gone
You better say so long
Hey hey, bye bye bye
You made your wallpapers green
You want to make love to the scene
Your European son is gone
You'd better say so long
Your clouds drifting goodbye
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Other reviews
By 2+2=5
Heroin, may you be my death. Heroin is my wife, it’s my life.
I am content with man and his misery; with his soul and his pain; with his anger and his Art.
By miriamlovesrock1
"An album that swallows you, an album that is an entire journey... a journey made of colors and feelings more or less pleasant."
"This is my personal image of them... simply a 'charming band of lunatics'... ladies and gentlemen: Reed, Cale, Tucker, Sterling Morrison + the unruly genius and the icy beauty: Andy Warhol and Nico..."
By Dune Buggy
"For the first time, the underworld is sung, for the first time the undergrounds are colored with violet music."
"Heroin is death, a life companion, rather it is life — and only the silence of the soul remains, the chaos of the brain in almost epileptic convulsion."
By The Velvet Undergrou
Reed’s tracks are therefore almost all fast, full of distortions, difficult, probably dominated as writing by the avant-gardist Cale.
"European Son is the final delirium made up of noise and distortions that will see its masterpiece in Sister Ray the following year."
By andrea biacca
"Lou Reed’s voice enters my room without knocking, the drum and guitar lend a certain suggestive aura to the piece."
"An album that amplifies the bond between music and art. Songs like pieces of a mosaic, a mosaic of life, a mosaic of an entire generation."
