This is very overdue, but I went to the Lou Reed public memorial at the Lincoln Center and had a lot of feelings, so I wrote them down:
I arrived at Lincoln Center clad in black and unsure of what I was about to experience. I followed the low groans of guitars through the courtyard and to the Paul Milstein Pool & Terrace, where I saw about one hundred mourners congregating to the soundtrack of Lou Reed’s greatest works. When I arrived at the terrace, the two audio speakers set up in front of the crowd were blasting “Vicious,” my first ever-favorite Lou Reed song. Within the first 5 seconds of being at the public memorial service, I was already tearing up.
“Vicious / Hey, you hit me with a flower / You do it every hour / Oh, baby you're so vicious.”
The gathering was evidence Lou Reed’s extensive influence—there were old punks in leather jackets, millennial hipsters, and everyone in between. There were no speeches and no live performances, only an open space and a sound system. It allowed for a very raw experience, one in which Reed’s virtuoso lyrics and guitar playing were the sole centerpiece. The simplicity of the memorial allowed people to react honestly to his music, letting their years of inspired gratitude flow through their head nods and foot taps. I saw one particular man, probably in his late 50s, with long shaggy black hair and a beat up leather jacket, sitting directly in front of a speaker, facing the sound waves and singing every lyric.
“Here she comes, you better watch your step / She's going to break your heart in two, it's true”
When the beginning melody of “Femme fatale,” rang through the speakers, I was brought back to my first time with the album The Velvet Underground and Nico. I found each track on YouTube and listened in succession, studying the Warhol banana and taking in the various sounds of fuzzy pop of songs like “Sunday Morning” and the ragged punk of cacophonous anthems like “Heroin.” The Velvet Underground and Nico introduced me to the essence of rock—the music is a raw, and it served as a critical departure from synth-y and overproduced songs that dominated my library. After that first listen, I immediately asked my dad to send me all of the Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground songs he owned.
"This celebration really gets me down because I know you're not around"
Since moving to New York, I’ve been able to more fully grasp the breadth of Lou Reed’s influence. Independent music is thriving in the city, and we have Lou Reed to thank for his avant-garde artistry and punk philosophies. He wrote songs for the marginalized and challenged pop culture with these outcast themes. His work changed the way I listen to music and opened my ears to innovation. As I left the memorial (teary-eyed, of course), Lou Reed’s “Gimmie Some Good Times” echoed through the Lincoln Center’s courtyard. It followed me down walking down Broadway, into the D train, and back home to Lower Manhattan.
“Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie some good times / Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie some pain / No matter how ugly you are / You know to me it all looks the same”
His legacy lives on throughout the city: in the crevices of the sidewalk, in the bricks of the old buildings, in the polluted smog we breathe.
There is a certain air of intense creative energy in Union Square where Andy Warhol's Factory once stood. The ghosts of 70s punks drift through St. Marks Place, and a sense of complacent urgency lingers on. The Lower East Side harbors an atmosphere of amateur inspiration—it is almost as if you can hear the echoes of Reed's lyrics ringing through abandoned alleyways.
"New York City's the place where they said / 'Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side'"