Lou Reed

Lou Reed. . . . . . . . . .

By Michael Goldberg

New York City

     Lou Reed is dressed in black. Black leather pants. Black t-shirt. Black shoes. Electricity is, literally,
crackling off him, as he stands in his elegantly cool, private sixth floor office at the back of Sister Ray
Enterprises, overlooking Broadway in the Village.

"Did you hear that?" he asks, walking over to an open window and closing it.

I think he's referring to the street sounds, but I'm wrong.

At Sister Ray, there are Lou Reed and Velvet Underground posters on the walls, as well as framed gold and
platinum albums for New York. A rack holds copies of many of Reed's older albums; boxes of the recent
Velvet Underground boxed set sit on a bookcase. A photographer is setting up to shoot Reed up front.
Reed's publicist is on the phone, dealing from a couch at the back, just outside the room where Reed and I
are talking. Nearby is Reed's Internet expert, Struan Oglanby.

''I'm getting a shock every time I get up," Reed says with a grimace, taking a seat back at his desk. "That was
that snapping sound." Then, in that classic Lou Reed monotone, "I conduct a lot of electricity. It's really

Maybe not so strange. We are, after all, talking about Lou Reed, founder of the Velvet Underground. Writer of
such highly charged songs as "Heroin," "I'm Waiting For The Man," "Sweet Jane" and, of course, "Rock &
Roll." And "Lisa Says." And "Walk On The Wild Side." And "Satellite Of Love." And "The Blue Mask." And
"Romeo Had Juliette." And "Dirty Blvd." And....

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