The Velvet Underground were named after a sadomasochistic sex manual and changed the face of rock and roll forever.
Their moniker, ripped-off from a book found in a New York City gutter in 1965, speaks obvious volumes for a band who, as hippy idealism and hedonism wept across the world, stuck two twisted and tainted fingers up at everyone and anyone.
Not that anyone was actually listening. In this age of re-package, re-market, re-assess and reap again and again, this is the story of a band who no-one cared about, and yet, over thirty years later, everyone namedrops. A band who did as much for rock and roll as The Beatles, the Stones, Bowie, The Beach Boys, Dylan and anyone else from wherever else.
Back in 1966, Lou Reed, John Cale, Sterling Morrison and Mo Tucker plugged their instruments and distorted visions in, and proceeded, over four albums, to chart a journey to the heart of all experience, both pleasure and pain. During their turbulent, almost fruitless (commercial) time together, The Velvets invented attitude, copyrighted the primal scream blitzkrieg of sonic noise, and captured, with peerless style, the dark tales of urban life that paved the way for pretty much every band since. Armed with a wardrobe of black, a face covered in shades, a mind dismantled but driven by adrenalising drugs, and a sleazy, Andy Warhol-patronised glamour, The Velvet Underground, at least originally, wanted to subvert, hate and be hated.
The evidence is here chosen - wisely - and delivered randomly from four periods, detailing a passage through their four studio recordings - 'The Velvet Underground and Nico', 'White Light/White Heat', 'The Velvet Underground' and 'Loaded'.
From the Warhol 'produced' debut album of 1966, you get the raw, devastating whiplash of 'There She Goes Again' and 'Run, Run, Run', the glacial, detached Nico-voiced romance of 'I'll Be Your Mirror' and the still daunting smack and drone of 'Venus In Furs'. Within are guitars fed through broken and bloodied skulls, primal, repetitive drumming, doomed drug deals and deluded love affairs, extracts from possibly the greatest debut album ever, the result of eight days' recording.
Just a year later, The Velvets' volatile and frighteningly paranoid core - Reed and Cale - was in abrupt and terminal decline, a bitter power struggle between the avant-garde, forever challenging sensibilities of the classically-trained Cale and Reed's determination for a more basic beauty, and, importantly, his desire to control.
The result was a terrifying collision of deranged, deviant sounds and subject matter, here represented by the frazzled, virtual groove of the under-the-knife death reportage of 'Lady Godiva's Operation', the amphetamine anthem 'White Light/White Heat' and the strangely melodic orgasm of 'Here She Comes Now'. Interestingly, it was a cover of 'White Light/White Heat' that propelled The Velvets on the path to fame in the early Seventies, as David Bowie launched his very public homage to Reed's previous life. Perhaps more interestingly, there is no room on the compilation for the unbelievably obnoxious, 17-minute apocalyptic climax of 'Sister Ray'.
From here on in, The Velvet Underground would never be the same, with Reed back-stabbing Cale out of the band, bringing in the unknown Doug Yule to bend to his will and re-sculpt their recordings, beginning with the eponymously-titled third album. However, though certainly less exciting, abrasive and confrontational, the closing two albums say plenty for Reed's unquestionable talent, alongside Morrison and Tucker's inspired support.
The numb but gloriously lovelorn pulse of 'Candy Says', 'Stephanie Says' and 'Pale Blue Eyes', played against the trash-can crash of 'Foggy Notion' and the phenomenal organ trail and twin-guitar assault of 'What Goes On' - one of The Velvets' finest moments - document this period and show that they were anything but a spent force without Cale.
However, by the turn of the decade and 'Loaded', Reed was finally beaten-down by further internal difficulties, and seemed to be looking towards his approaching and frequently compelling solo career. Despite the band's problems, sealed by the fact that no-one bought any of their records or went to any of their gigs, 'Rock and Roll' and 'Sweet Jane' are recognised as untouchable.
Both are presented here as live recordings and, in the former, amplify pure magic. On 'Rock and Roll', Reed sings: "Jenny said, when she was just five years old, there was nothing happening at all. Two TV sets and two Cadillac cars, they ain't gonna help you at all. And then one fine morning, she heard a New York station, she didn't believe what she heard at all. She started dancing to that fine, fine music, you know her life was saved by rock and roll!"
Which is what, however you wrap it up, The Velvet Underground and rock and roll were, and are, all about.
by Ben Gilbert