There is a video, complete with slightly dodgy German subtitles, of an interview with Lou Reed, circa 1993, looking still almost impossibly young and with the very same Brooklyn drawl. I am never quite sure if Reed’s voice sounds like the hiss of a cigarette being extinguished in the dregs of a dram of whisky, or whether that is only the surroundings in which it is best experienced: regardless, it constitutes one of the more memorable baritones of the last fifty years of pop music. He leans in to the camera, and says: ‘The advantage of having Andy Warhol as a producer was that, because it was Andy Warhol, they would leave everything in its pure state.’ Cue a vaguely hilarious impression of Warhol, and an earnest acknowledgement to the camera that, with Warhol’s input, or lack thereof, the Velvet Underground’s records were able to come out ‘exactly like they’d been made.’
Reed was only 23 when, in 1965, Andy Warhol became the band’s manager and producer to spectacular effect. Warhol’s unique cachet of cool afforded the Velvet Underground an incredible quantity of artistic freedom, such that, even though The Velvet Underground and Nico (arguably the best record of the 20th century) only sold 10,000 copies, as Brian Eno puts it, ‘everyone who bought it formed a band.’ Indeed, artists as disparate as Kraftwerk, David Bowie and My Bloody Valentine have cited the group as an influence. This is not to say that Warhol simply placed his stamp on the band and left them to it: between 1965 and 1967, they formed an integral part of his technicolour multimedia roadshow, Exploding Plastic Inevitable. It is tempting to think of this as ‘The Andy Warhol Show: he sings, he dances!’ – and certainly there was an element of self-promotion to the roadshow, which showcased performances from more glamorous members of Warhol’s factory, screenings of Warhol’s films and music by the Velvet Underground, as curated by Warhol.
However, what this meant in practice was a secure recording contract with MGM’s Verve Records – exceptionally good shoulders to rub with and unprecedented free rein over the sound they created. Warhol controlled the image. The first step to establishing this was introducing ridiculously beautiful German model-turned-singer Nico. The second was, inevitably, the banana. The image is lurid and almost obscene (heightened by the rather unsubtle pink peeled banana revealed by ‘peeling [the sticker of the banana skin] slowly’) – and remarkably powerful. Warhol’s name is in the bottom right hand corner, in late 30s script typeface Coronet: a mass-produced signature. The band’s name is nowhere to be found. The disappointing sales of this album led to the deterioration of their relationship with both Warhol and Nico, with their subsequent album recorded with Tom Wilson as producer. The proof of the partnership, however, lies in the pudding. Lou Reed looks into the camera once again and says, ‘We’re all alive to see history validated somehow. Not only us, but Andy’s faith in us. We have time to point to as the real judge of who or what did what first, best and always. The proof is in the work, and the work is on the record.’
There is a video, complete with slightly dodgy German subtitles, of an interview with Lou Reed, circa 1993, looking still almost impossibly young and with the very same Brooklyn drawl. I am never quite sure if Reed’s voice sounds like the hiss of a cigarette being extinguished in the dregs of a dram of whisky, or whether that is only the surroundings in which it is best experienced: regardless, it constitutes one of the more memorable baritones of the last fifty years of pop music. He leans in to the camera, and says: ‘The advantage of having Andy Warhol as a producer was that, because it was Andy Warhol, they would leave everything in its pure state.’ Cue a vaguely hilarious impression of Warhol, and an earnest acknowledgement to the camera that, with Warhol’s input, or lack thereof, the Velvet Underground’s records were able to come out ‘exactly like they’d been made.’
Reed was only 23 when, in 1965, Andy Warhol became the band’s manager and producer to spectacular effect. Warhol’s unique cachet of cool afforded the Velvet Underground an incredible quantity of artistic freedom, such that, even though The Velvet Underground and Nico (arguably the best record of the 20th century) only sold 10,000 copies, as Brian Eno puts it, ‘everyone who bought it formed a band.’ Indeed, artists as disparate as Kraftwerk, David Bowie and My Bloody Valentine have cited the group as an influence. This is not to say that Warhol simply placed his stamp on the band and left them to it: between 1965 and 1967, they formed an integral part of his technicolour multimedia roadshow, Exploding Plastic Inevitable. It is tempting to think of this as ‘The Andy Warhol Show: he sings, he dances!’ – and certainly there was an element of self-promotion to the roadshow, which showcased performances from more glamorous members of Warhol’s factory, screenings of Warhol’s films and music by the Velvet Underground, as curated by Warhol.
However, what this meant in practice was a secure recording contract with MGM’s Verve Records – exceptionally good shoulders to rub with and unprecedented free rein over the sound they created. Warhol controlled the image. The first step to establishing this was introducing ridiculously beautiful German model-turned-singer Nico. The second was, inevitably, the banana. The image is lurid and almost obscene (heightened by the rather unsubtle pink peeled banana revealed by ‘peeling [the sticker of the banana skin] slowly’) – and remarkably powerful. Warhol’s name is in the bottom right hand corner, in late 30s script typeface Coronet: a mass-produced signature. The band’s name is nowhere to be found. The disappointing sales of this album led to the deterioration of their relationship with both Warhol and Nico, with their subsequent album recorded with Tom Wilson as producer. The proof of the partnership, however, lies in the pudding. Lou Reed looks into the camera once again and says, ‘We’re all alive to see history validated somehow. Not only us, but Andy’s faith in us. We have time to point to as the real judge of who or what did what first, best and always. The proof is in the work, and the work is on the record.’
