Lou Reed

In February 1982, Lou Reed's “blue mask” sings: If you need to kill someone, I'm a man who lacks the will.

Truth be told, at 64 years of age, the "rock and roll animal" still has plenty of willpower to spare.

No new album to promote, and certainly no intention of staging a rock reunion like the recent one from the Pink Floyd: Lou Reed is no human jukebox, nor a nostalgic minstrel living off past glories. The spirit of punk still lingers in his utter indifference to what people might actually want to hear at one of his shows.

More than thirty years have passed, but the gigantic ego of "Metal Machine Music" remains intact. "One of my days is worth one of your weeks."

Sure, there are more wrinkles on his face, but the cold indifference is as alive as ever; he's grown a fine belly, but his self-awareness hasn't dulled one bit.

It's all these traits that lead someone like him to fill concert halls across half of Italy, even while snubbing entirely any song by Velvet Underground or from his shape-shifting glam period.

It's hardly surprising, then, the extreme half-heartedness with which he performs "Sweet Jane" at the end of the night at Rome's Auditorium. Reed seems almost to be telling his audience: "Ok... I get it... but I'm only doing this as a favour to you."

Among the crowd at Sala S. Cecilia, disappointment and nostalgia linger in equal measure. Sixty-somethings in leather jackets, witnesses of a generation that refuses to let go of the present; oddly well-dressed twenty-somethings sitting there to pay homage to the "grand old man", unsettled by the real threat of "never being able to see him live again". Generations united by the hope of hearing the same songs: "Heroin", "Venus In Furs", "Perfect Day".

But tonight, Lou Reed is neither "the ex-Velvet" nor the depressed Frank Sinatra of "Berlin", nor the nihilist of "Street Hassle". "The man from New York" is simply himself: a complete, subversive artist, a decadent rock poet determined to forcefully assert his own multifaceted musical identity.

It's past nine when "our man" takes the stage and, shy as ever, launches into the Stones-like gallop of "Paranoia Key Of E". Backing his "Winter Rock Tour" are the trusted companions of a thousand sonic adventures: the precise guitar of Mike Rathke, the thunderous, elephantine drums of Tony Smith, the superb bass of Fernando Saunders, and the welcome return of old Rob Wasserman on double bass.

The idea, then, is to go back to the roots of scorching rock, driven by feedback and distortion, for a punk-inflected reinterpretation of his more recent repertoire.

The renditions of "Sword Of Damocles" and "Gassed And Stoked", from "Magic And Loss", shine, with the whole band launching into on-the-spot improvisations bordering on jazz territory.

True, Reed has never been a guitar virtuoso and, at times, he may have even overdone it, but he nailed that piercing, screeching effect that assails you so sharply it forced one fur-coated lady in the audience to cover her ears with her hands.

Long solos are the guiding principle of the evening, helped along by Reed's own satisfaction with the hall's acoustics.

Less effective, on the other hand, were the blander moments in the setlist, when Lou hands lead vocals over to Saunders (and the bassist can be truly saccharine, bordering on tedious). "The Day John Kennedy Died", "Tell It To Your Heart" and "Why Do You Talk" drag on too long and never really manage to move the audience.

The performance reaches its peak in two specific moments. "Rock Minuet" stretches out endlessly between pauses and returns, distorted accelerations, furious and gentle, melodic chords. "My Red Joystick" (from "New Sensations", one of Reed's weakest records) surprises with a jam teetering between punk, metal and funk, featuring a superb Rathke on his first extended solo.

Finale with “Who Am I”, ruined by the pointless display from Master Ren (a martial arts expert).

Thunderous applause, bows: the concert seems well and truly over.

Then the “grand old man” comes back. Here it is, the favor he's doing for Rome: “Standing on the corner… suitcase in my hand”.

It may well be that a day of his is worth more than a week of ours, but, listening to these three immortal chords, our two hours are worth an entire lifetime.

Ride the wave of great music

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