The Velvet Underground
The Velvet Underground & Nico

THE REVIEW

I am sitting with my jagged suit under the dim iconoclastic light of a broken streetlamp, but I don't really care that much, because man is perpetually torn between going and staying, and in between there is the "doing" which sometimes is synonymous with "pain", but it's life, mom, just life; around me, there are few people who have learned to say yes to life.

A kind of blind fury pervades the dusty cheeks of the night, tonight, and your lips are no longer so familiar, by now: the marble has conquered you, and now the darkest corner awaits me in silence, the trembling "me" and I completely wrapped in the shattering loss of hope, but this doesn't matter either, because the world has erased everything, the end has been lost, and progress has dethroned the simplicity of Thought, only opinions matter, and by now the world is a black ardor.

The trains of irrationality derail and in the superficial sea that humanity has become, there are shipwrecks of awareness: are we or are we not evolution par excellence?

This is the base camp on which Art operates: the art of those who do not want to carry its name as a flag of vanity and prestige, the art of those who do not know and are not interested, the art of a New York, or a 1980s Berlin, the Chariot of Jupiter that is intuition, crumbling the world's most famous skyline, dragging every story, every syringe, every moment, every heartbeat, into the deepest and muddiest vortex, everything, and it doesn't stop, it continues, it takes over the eyes, that vain turning of the grooves lets you listen with your ears, clogs them from the carefree summer of love, but it is here that you learn to live, cradled by the immaculate lullaby that materializes gently from the murky morning waters, the murky waters of a day that has now passed and seems to have left you nothing: it is here that you can finally water the flowers of evil with your filthy sighs, and the castle you leave behind is a poorly assembled ice cream flavor - you want to start over, and destruction leads to the final baptism, which this canvas does not offer you, and you are forced to wander for years until the sweet nothing, the bitter candy that knows you and visits you often.

But you don't want to, you don't want to, and so you disappear, alienated, and it's half past seven in the morning but you're still lying a few steps from your bed, only because you lacked the strength and had to close your eyes, but you didn't want to, and so you have once again opened the shutters that God imposed on you: and you were a little scared.

You cling floundering to the iron railing, because everything is made of metal, and you suspect that after real experiences, no one among men can still delude themselves and smile genuinely.

Progress has rendered everything in black and white, and colors are timid lies, which continue to work. Why destroy everything?

Because it is necessary. Because she doesn't love me. Because we will not see each other again. Because I don't love her, and if I did, it wouldn't be spiritual love, but lacquer, skin, something plastic, which at first would have frightened me: you made me run away, and you hated my texts... bonfire of bones revealed, the arrogance that has swallowed you is now a leaden memory.

These are songs that create a world and destroy it before your eyes, it's not music, they are not notes, Lou Reed doesn't exist, John Cale neither, Nico is the incarnation of that spectral and caramelized contrast that bathes all the centuries of all men in light: the beautiful, and the ugly, but they are definitions that take away the cosmic immensity of the matter at hand. And Warhol is a mere onlooker, conscious of having led a group to the realization of a black hole, which swallows, and swallows, and will swallow, until the sea closes over us.