Further to my list of Lou Reed favourites I forgot to mention that one of my Reed Rediscoveries has been his 1992 album Magic And Loss. It's a series of songs about ageing and death, in places reflecting directly on the deaths of a couple of his close friends.
It's an album that really didn't grab me when it was first released. I was only 25, and, I suppose, too young to fully comprehend what Lou was singing about. Back then, to me the album was something of a downer, sung by a man who was only 50 but was clearly looking ahead and seeing darker times, facing up to his mortality. It's not something you want to consider at 25. And so it's an album that has been very rarely played since. But now, perhaps alarmingly, it all makes a lot more sense to me. The moods, the emotions, the whole approach - now I can see where he's coming from, and where he's going, too. The title track concludes the album in a wonderfully moving manner, and ends with the utterly brilliant line:
It's an album that really didn't grab me when it was first released. I was only 25, and, I suppose, too young to fully comprehend what Lou was singing about. Back then, to me the album was something of a downer, sung by a man who was only 50 but was clearly looking ahead and seeing darker times, facing up to his mortality. It's not something you want to consider at 25. And so it's an album that has been very rarely played since. But now, perhaps alarmingly, it all makes a lot more sense to me. The moods, the emotions, the whole approach - now I can see where he's coming from, and where he's going, too. The title track concludes the album in a wonderfully moving manner, and ends with the utterly brilliant line:
"There's a little magic in everything, and then some loss, to even things out."
And frankly I never heard a truer statement.
Magic And Loss prompted me to dig out another album that reflects heavily on ageing and loss, Iggy Pop's Avenue B. In 1998 Iggy found himself alone for the first time in years. His wife had left the previous year, and Iggy, then hitting 50, had embarked on some ill-judged affairs with much younger women. None of which brought him happiness, just more grief. So he retired to his apartment on Avenue B in New York, called in a couple of musician friends and recorded Avenue B, a predominantly acoustic album (because much of it was recorded in either his apartment or his guitarist's apartment and they couldn't turn things up or the neighbours would've complained!) Many of the songs were autobiographical, and were interspersed with instrumental passages over which Iggy would intone a few short narratives. The extremely moody opening one goes:
It was in the winter of my fiftieth year when it hit me.
I was really alone.
And there wasn't a hell a lot of time left.
Every laugh and touch that I could get became more important.
Strangely, I became more bookish, and my home and study meant more to me as I considered the circumstances of my death.
I wanted to find a balance between joy and dignity on my way out.
Above all, I didn't want to take any more shit.
Not from anybody.
I was really alone.
And there wasn't a hell a lot of time left.
Every laugh and touch that I could get became more important.
Strangely, I became more bookish, and my home and study meant more to me as I considered the circumstances of my death.
I wanted to find a balance between joy and dignity on my way out.
Above all, I didn't want to take any more shit.
Not from anybody.
Interestingly, I 'got' this album immediately. I was 32 when it was issued, but the ageing process and the loss of youth, looks and energy that Iggy touched on seemed somewhat more relevant to me than Lou's requiems to dead friends had seemed, just seven years earlier. I, too, have become more bookish as I've got older, and I'm also becoming more determined not to take any more shit - not from anybody.
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