Lou Reed has died. He always meant a lot to me, and not just because I met my wife when she was singing backup in a Lou Reed/Velvet Underground cover band in a dive bar in South Bend, Indiana. Here's a poem of mine about Reed, Iggy Pop, and David Bowie that appeared some years ago in Absent magazine. It riffs on the photo of all three, above, and I hope it gets at what the nature of my admiration for all three performers.
Glam
Rock: The Poem
1
The man who was to fall
to earth in four years' time
still floated in his
cloud of silvered fame. His name
was David Robert Hayward
Stenton Jones.
He'd been a Kon-Rad,
King Bee, Manish Boy,
a Lower Third. He'd be a thin white duke.
He'd be a Christ, an
alien, he'd be a dance club king.
Remembering the
self-invented master whose factory
invented selves, he'd
play in film the man who
played the soup-can
trick on art, he'd play that man (not well).
He'd play the husband of
a wife -- she, born Somali,
she, born near
Greece. He, born in Bromley, had
one
real wife, she, born in
Bromley, her girl's-mouth his,
the marriage bed that
sweet narcissus mirror
where he'd play out all
his parts.
These fragments has he
shored against his gender, so.
His name was David
Robert
Hayward Stenton
Jones. Not David Jones, too close
to Davey
of the pre-fab
four. He'd change it first to Tom
Jones, then again
and then again. But this year he was Ziggy,
this year he played
guitar.
That's him on the
left. The man who'd fall to earth,
camp in his arm-crook,
his long neck's arch. Queer
in his gilded studied
falsely vapid stare.
Nervous: glam and poise.
The others? That year he'd save them both.
2
So New York and yet he's
called "L.A."
when he fronts the
Eldorados at a dance. He'd been a
Jade,
be mother nature's son,
but been a Jade who sang
a doo-wop plaintive
"Leave Her for Me."
And she was Lisa and
she'd say. And she was Stephanie
who'd also say. And she was Jane and Candy too,
or she would be. But he was Delmore Schwartz's
best student, gone to
smack and speed and hell,
and he'd come back. He'd play the White House
for two presidents, one
ours, and one
the velvet revolutionary
who'd call him the Velvet Underground's
own JFK, own wild-side
walking Mao or Che.
A three-chord Che? No martyr -- though he'd bottom out.
He'd always be the
cracked-id island suburb kid who double-coded
his libido's twists in
"CHD," his high school band: the backward-reading acronym
for Dry Hump Club: three
boys, a girl, and one guitar.
One guitar lesson's all
he'd need, a Carl Perkins 1-4-5 he'd play.
He'd play too much with
fire, the kind
his "mashed-faced
Negro friend, called Jaw"
sold him, with
hepatitis, early on.
He'd play five years
with his best band.
He'd leave and play out
on his own (not well).
He's on the right,
behind his shades, behind the junkie act
in which the junkie
hides.
Nervous: cold-edged
poise.
Bowie'd helped him make
Transformer.
Reed's cracked id made
his music well again.
3
He'd write "China
Girl," and he'd sing "Shades"
the second time the thin
man fell to earth
to scoop him up. His name was Pop. Had been Osterberg, had
been Prime Mover, had
briefly been Iguana,
would then be Pop. Twice called by Stooge, first
psychedelic, later
(times where changing) not.
The Idiot who'd Lust for
Life. Like the Velvets
but not all cerebellum:
all burnout, bastard, broke-ass bum.
A pack of Luckies in his
teeth. His arms around them both,
a drunken-sailor Jesus
carried, his forward thrust
and their support. His eyes say "yes" his eyes
say "now"
his eyes say "no
one drives this drunken car."
And they're in love.
The attraction? The man called Stardust, star-struck,
said
"not Iggy in but
Iggy and," and the Stooges drop to second bill,
while Iggy's resurrected
(still on smack).
The wonder of
attraction? Not his chops --
he tried for ten months,
played Chicago blues (not well).
And not his lyrics, his
"Mona" or his "TV Eye". Raw Power. For
this,
Ziggy'd play his
management, get Ig a gig, a big release.
Lou Reed gave his
producer: chops, technique, tribute, and joy.
The wonder of
attraction?
Not nervous, not with
poise, not him.
No one to drive the car.
4
Perspective's trick's a
little imp behind their shoulders:
Tony Defries. He, thinking
"Hammersmith
Odeon" thinking "aren't they
fun!" He, thinking, too " but will it
sell?"
and then he's smiling,
thinking,
"yes."
