***Take A Walk On The Wild Side- The Velvet Underground's Lou Reed And Lou Reed’s Lou Reed Passes At 71...
...yeah, trying to be James Dean for a day-fretting those pale blue eyes lingering on, night dreaming about sweet janes, spouting perfect days and a million other great lines…
But that was not enough, not enough for a hungry New York boy, hungry to be making his mark out on the island, maybe on an island, trying to figure out, trying to figure out lots of things like how he fit into the red scare, cold war night with that beat in his head, that rock and roll beat that would not let him sleep, a beat that he knew he had heard somewhere maybe Coney Island, hell he later wrote a song about it, about how he, he of all people, was just another Coney Island baby, another unassimilated immigrant to a world that he did not create, and nobody asked him to help create.
Yes, and also trying to figure out in that same deadpan ice freeze 1950s night just what the hell that sex was all about, about that fairy princess dream embedded in the know-nothing kid night and was it worth a damn, about why he felt like swinging both ways but better keep that to yourself because baby, Coney Island or not, those very assimilated parents have a jolt for you, yes, you baby. And so he, once he found kindred spirits, found the Village village, found lots of brethren, some Judas brethren too so watch out, trying to figure things out too, sex, existence, musical muses, and how to break out of that ice freeze night began, began to be one Lou Reed, on that journey to be Lou Reed’s Lou Reed.
Yeah but being Lou Reed wasn’t so easy (hell being any baby-boomer with no silver spoon and sixteen tons of new wage angst and alienation wasn’t so easy, especially when they pulled the hammer down, and said, and I quote, “enough.” What was a hungry, a hungry boy from the island, to do. And so the sweet dreams came, came from an eye-dropper and who was to say that when the pain was deep, when the angst enveloped you, that a needle and a spoon would not open the doors of perception for you, damn, let you write a couple of things. Even goof things, even just telling you story just to tell a story and bring down the angels, bring down the avenging angels. Busted, dusted, lusted, disgusted, and so climbing from the slime we all came from, our homeland the sea, he formed an island, formed it real good and survived his junkie cowboy ride. Hell it was a close thing though.
Now that I think of it trying to be James Dean for a day-fretting those pale blue eyes lingering on, night dreaming about sweet janes, spouting perfect days and a million other great lines, yeah, they were enough …
Thanks Brother, thanks. RIP
...yeah, trying to be James Dean for a day-fretting those pale blue eyes lingering on, night dreaming about sweet janes, spouting perfect days and a million other great lines…
But that was not enough, not enough for a hungry New York boy, hungry to be making his mark out on the island, maybe on an island, trying to figure out, trying to figure out lots of things like how he fit into the red scare, cold war night with that beat in his head, that rock and roll beat that would not let him sleep, a beat that he knew he had heard somewhere maybe Coney Island, hell he later wrote a song about it, about how he, he of all people, was just another Coney Island baby, another unassimilated immigrant to a world that he did not create, and nobody asked him to help create.
Yes, and also trying to figure out in that same deadpan ice freeze 1950s night just what the hell that sex was all about, about that fairy princess dream embedded in the know-nothing kid night and was it worth a damn, about why he felt like swinging both ways but better keep that to yourself because baby, Coney Island or not, those very assimilated parents have a jolt for you, yes, you baby. And so he, once he found kindred spirits, found the Village village, found lots of brethren, some Judas brethren too so watch out, trying to figure things out too, sex, existence, musical muses, and how to break out of that ice freeze night began, began to be one Lou Reed, on that journey to be Lou Reed’s Lou Reed.
Yeah but being Lou Reed wasn’t so easy (hell being any baby-boomer with no silver spoon and sixteen tons of new wage angst and alienation wasn’t so easy, especially when they pulled the hammer down, and said, and I quote, “enough.” What was a hungry, a hungry boy from the island, to do. And so the sweet dreams came, came from an eye-dropper and who was to say that when the pain was deep, when the angst enveloped you, that a needle and a spoon would not open the doors of perception for you, damn, let you write a couple of things. Even goof things, even just telling you story just to tell a story and bring down the angels, bring down the avenging angels. Busted, dusted, lusted, disgusted, and so climbing from the slime we all came from, our homeland the sea, he formed an island, formed it real good and survived his junkie cowboy ride. Hell it was a close thing though.
Now that I think of it trying to be James Dean for a day-fretting those pale blue eyes lingering on, night dreaming about sweet janes, spouting perfect days and a million other great lines, yeah, they were enough …
Thanks Brother, thanks. RIP
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