Transformer: The Complete Lou Reed Story

When Andy met the Velvets, they were unglamorous and unknown. “Andy, the problem is these people have no singer,” said Paul Morrissey. “There’s a guy who sings, but he’s got no personality and nobody pays the slightest attention to him.” In the following days Warhol and Morrissey transformed them from a four-piece unit led by Lou to a band fronted by the stunningly beautiful singer-actress Nico, a statuesque German blonde who had walked into Warhol’s studio a week earlier. Lou initially didn’t want her to be their chanteuse, but the arrangement was worked out under the convincing influence of Warhol’s business manager, Paul Morrissey, who “just didn’t think Lou had the personality to stand in front of the group and sing. The group needed something beautiful to counteract the screeching ugliness they were trying to sell, and the combination of a beautiful girl standing in front of all this decadence was what was needed. Right away that sour little Lou Reed bristled. He was hostile to Nico from the start. I told them I thought that Nico could be part of the Velvet Underground and just fit in there under that name.” Quick to grasp the essence of the problem, Lou replied, “Let’s keep Nico separate in this. The Velvet Underground—and Nico.”

“Andy was this catalyst, always putting jarring elements together,” Lou noted. “Which was something I wasn’t so happy about. He wanted us to use Nico. Andy said, ‘Oh, you’ve gotta have a chanteuse.’ I said, ‘Oh, Andy, give us a break.’ But we went along with it at the time. Andy wanted her so he got her.” Unbeknownst to Lou, back in 1963 Andy had tried to put together his own rock-and-roll band with none other than La Monte Young and Walter De Maria. Now, in as much as Warhol saw himself in Nico, Andy could fantasize that he was fronting the band.

The most remarkable thing about Lou Reed’s progress in 1966 was his uncharacteristic willingness to accept Warhol’s control in order to achieve the extraordinary success it would bring him. But, in the process, Lou made something of a Faustian bargain with Andy. Warhol had miraculously pulled the group out of the toilet, elevating them to his level when he was at the height of his fame. In exchange, however, Andy demoted Lou from fronting the band to being, employing a phrase by Nico, its “janitor of lunacy.” Imagine what would have happened if Andrew Loog Oldham had tried to pull the same moves on Mick Jagger, promoting, for example, Brian Jones over his head as the front man, or indeed if Brian Epstein had suggested to John or Paul that they take a backseat in the Beatles and let George Harrison come up and front them. It is very rare that rock groups in their first flush of success find lead singers and songwriters willing to bow into a background role at the very moment of their initial triumph. It revealed several sides of Lou. First, his ambivalence about being in the spotlight. Second, his unusual ability to accept what would be best for the band without thinking about his own fame. Third, his discipleship to Andy Warhol.

Andy choreographed his group within a context that had been predicted by one of Lou’s favorite writers, Edgar Allan Poe, who wrote one hundred years earlier, “The next step may be the electrification of all mankind by the representation of a play that may be neither tragedy, comedy, farce, opera, pantomime, melodrama or spectacle, as we now comprehend these terms, but which may retain some portion of the idiosyncratic excellence of each, while it introduces a new class of excellence as yet unnamed because as yet undreamed of in the world.” It was also based on—some people said ripped off from—the 1965 multimedia performances of La Monte Young and Piero Heliczer as well as the “happenings” that were rife in the art world of the early sixties. In the band’s first performance, at a dinner for a psychiatrists’ convention at the elegant Delmonico’s Hotel on Fifth Avenue in New York on the night of January 13, 1966, the group turned the tables on their audience, putting on an act of resentment and rage that Lou characterized as “fun.”

Originally, the psychiatrists had invited Warhol to give an after-dinner speech at their convention. When the artist who had enraged the underground film community by screening epics like Sleep and Blowjob asked if he could show some films instead, they indulged him. Now, as one hundred of the leading psychiatrists in America settled behind coffee and snifters of brandy ready to analyze the contents of the blank screen at the far end of the dining area, their tranquillity was shattered by Barbara Rubin, who came screaming into the room brandishing a movie camera with a powerful sun-gun lamp atop it. The seemingly crazed woman rushed from table to table shoving the camera into their faces and baraging them with questions like, “Do you eat her out?” and “Is your penis big enough?” No sooner had they been blown out of their after-dinner stupor by this horrible spectacle than an unbelievably loud cacophony erupted at the far end of the room, and they swiveled in their seats to see a brand of mangy-looking young men in dirty denim jeans and jackets performing a howling song about heroin. Behind them was a starkly lit, high-contrast black-and-white film of a man tied to a chair being tortured, in front of which a real man was brandishing a whip. Embarrassed, insulted, and perplexed, the psychiatrists reacted by grabbing their partners and storming the exits, or sitting forward with benevolent smiles trying to “understand” the spectacle in front of them. As Warhol stood off to the side, staring impassively at the panicked throng with a trace of a smile, and Nico stared impassively from the stage, Lou reached the climax of his paean to nullification, intoning, “And I guess that I just don’t know, and I guess that I just don’t know.” The event was reported in the New York Times the following day under the title “Shock Treatment for Psychiatrists.”

The tension between the band and Nico was somewhat ameliorated in the following weeks when Lou fell madly in love with the tall European with long flaxen hair. According to Richard Mishkin, to whom Lou expressed his emotions about her, Lou loved the fact that Nico was big. According to Lou, “Nico’s the kind of person that you meet and you’re not quite the same afterwards. She has an amazing mind.”

Lou, John, and Sterling had all moved to 450 Grand Street at the end of 1965. Now Lou would often stay at the apartment Nico was subletting on Jane Street, where he wrote three songs for her. “One night Nico came up to me and said, ‘Oh, Lou, I’ll be your mirror,’” he recalled. “A close friend of mine always said that I bring out the idiocy in people, but I can also bring out something in them which is the best they’ve ever done. It’s like with Nico and John Cale. They were fantastic with the Velvet Underground. They helped produce a great sound then. When I gave Nico a song of mine to sing, I knew she would totally understand what was being said and perform it from that standpoint.” Nico described Lou as “very soft and lovely. Not aggressive at all. You could just cuddle him like a sweet person when I first met him, and he always stayed that way. I used to make pancakes for him. Everybody loved him around the Factory; he was rather cute, you know, and he said funny things.”

According to Cale, “We had no idea what Nico could bring to the band, it was just something Andy came up with and it was very difficult to accept. Lou kind of fell in love with the idea, but we didn’t understand it.” In fact, with Warhol’s encouragement, Nico became something of an inspiration for Lou. “Andy said I should write a song about Edie Sedgwick. I said, ‘Like what?’ and he said, ‘Oh, don’t you think she’s a femme fatale, Lou?’ So I wrote ‘Femme Fatale’ and we gave it to Nico.” But this also caused conflicts within the group. The tough-minded Moe felt Nico “was a schmuck, from the first. She was this beautiful person who had traveled through Europe being a semistar. Her ego had grown very large. The songs Lou wrote for her were great, and she did them very well. Her accent made them great, but there was a limit! I kept to myself until she wanted to sing ‘Heroin.’ But then I had to speak my piece.” “There were problems from the very beginning,” added Sterling, “because there were only so many songs that were appropriate for Nico, and she wanted to sing them all—‘l’m Waiting for the Man,’ ‘Heroin,’ all of them. We said, ‘No, no!’ She wasn’t very egotistical, she was out of it. I always explained it by saying she’s not very good at English.”

“When I started with the Velvets, I wanted to sing Lou’s song ‘I’m Waiting for the Man,’” said Nico, “but he wouldn’t let me. I guess he thought I didn’t understand its meaning, and he was right. And we had the song ‘Heroin,’ which I thought was a provocation. But I have to say that Lou and John took heroin, and those songs were songs of realism.” Cale looked on at what transpired with Welsh amusement. “Lou and Nico had some kind of an affair, both consummated and constipated,” he said. “At the time he wrote these psychological love songs for her like ‘I’ll Be Your Mirror’ and ‘Femme Fatale,’ which gave the band a new dimension. It was a difficult situation, I must admit, and sometimes I don’t know how we accepted it. Still, Andy brought her into the band, and we nearly always accepted Andy’s decisions. He was so much on our side, so enthusiastic about everything we did, that we couldn’t help it.”

“My favorite Lou Reed song is … aah … ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties,’” Warhol told an interviewer many years later in a mild put-down. “By Nico. She wrote it, I think.”

Lou himself recalled most vividly two memories of Nico and Andy that had an eerie similarity: “I sat in an ice cream shop late one night watching Andy take the hand of a less than ordinary person sitting opposite him and slap his [Andy’s] own face with it. It somehow reminded me of Delmore raging in a bar, asking me to call the White House to tell them we were aware of the plot.

“I loved after-hours bars. It’s where I first saw someone beaten to death. The woman I was with, Nico, threw a glass that shattered in a mob guy’s face. He thought the man behind me did it.”

January to April 1966 was the golden period for the Velvet Underground and Andy Warhol. After the psychiatrists’ convention, Warhol shot a scintillating film of the band rehearsing at the Factory, Symphony of Sound, which remains the single best visual record of the Velvet Underground. They also recorded soundtracks for two of Warhol’s best movies shot at the beginning of the year, Hedy and More Milk Yvette.

In February 1966, Andy appeared on WNET TV in New York, coyly announcing in his usual deadpan voice, “I’m sponsoring a new band. It’s called the Velvet Underground. Since I don’t really believe in painting anymore, I thought it would be a nice way of combining music, art, and films all together. The whole thing’s being auditioned tomorrow at nine o’clock. If it works out, it might be very glamorous.” That week, with the help of Barbara Rubin, he launched the Velvets at the underground film center Cinémathèque, as part of a multimedia show called Andy Warhol Uptight, a paean to conflict, which developed out of the psychiatrists’ convention. Gerard Malanga came into his own as the whip dancer, improvising a series of story dances that illustrated Lou’s songs. Behind the band was a backdrop of Warhol films, most of which starred Edie Sedgwick, like Beauty #2. Nico sang three songs and rattled a tambourine. “They also played the record of Bob Dylan’s song ‘I’ll Keep It with Mine,’” she said, “because I didn’t have enough to sing otherwise. I had to stand there and sing along with it. I had to do this every night for a week. It was the most stupid concert I have ever done.”

According to one disappointed observer, these shows amounted to nothing more than “ritual dances devised by dope fiends with nothing better to do.” But as the photographer Nat Finkelstein, who was working on a photo documentary of the Factory, remembered, “From the first time I saw them I said, ‘Wow! Wow! Wow! They’re going to kick these guys out on their ass for the next ten years!’ Everybody hated them. The whole macho East Village group really hated the Velvets—just put-down after put-down—the hatred had nothing to do with their music; a lot of it had to do with the gay image. Also, Lou and John were really good musicians, whereas Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg [of the Fugs] wouldn’t have known music if it bit them on the ass.”

The engagement was a hit on every level. Warhol successfully launched his multimedia show, and the group managed to make some money while sending shock waves through the city. “They made twelve thousand dollars, I think,” recalled Morrison. “A lot of people would come to see any kind of Warhol endeavor. The first time we played ‘Heroin,’ two people fainted. I didn’t know if they OD’d or fainted. So that was our real debut—playing in Manhattan.” Reed characterized the band’s performance at the Cinémathèque as “a dog whistle for all the freaks in the city.”

Outside of a small coterie who recognized him, Lou was not seen as the leader of the group. Nico became the Mick Jagger of the Velvet Underground, while Lou took the more humble Keith Richards role. This initially caused some tension, but Lou may not have minded being left out of the spotlight since he often felt uncomfortable onstage. “At the age when identity is a problem some people join rock and roll bands and perform for other people who share the same difficulties,” he later wrote in a revealing essay on the pitfalls of pop stardom. “The age difference between performer and beholder in rock is not large. But unfortunately, those in the fourth tier assume those on stage know something they don’t. Which is true. It simply requires a very secure ego to allow yourself to be loved for what you do rather than for what you are, and an even larger one to realize you are what you do. The singer had a soul but he feels he isn’t loved off-stage. Or, perhaps worse, feels he shines only on stage and off is wilted, a shell as common as the garden gardenia.” Also, by this time Lou was so taken by Andy and his world that he would probably have done anything Andy suggested. The same month Andy signaled Lou’s acceptance into his domain by making him the subject of one of his Screen Tests—three-minute films focusing on the frozen gaze of a Factory citizen.

Film frame enlargement from Screen Tests by Gerard Malanga and Andy Warhol. (Archives Malanga)

Warhol’s studio, a large, floor-through single room in a factory building on West 47th Street in Manhattan, was called the Factory. Here Warhol painted his pop pictures, made his movies, and held court as the hippest, hardest bellwether of his times. The famous room was painted and tinfoiled silver. The people who worked with him and hung around him were the most hard-core group in New York at the time. They all dressed in black jeans and black T-shirts. Their drug of choice was amphetamine. The majority of them were gay. They were exotic, talented people, young, full of energy and ideas, satellites.

When Lou Reed joined Andy Warhol, Warhol was thirty-six, wealthy, and the successful driving force behind a devout cult of artistic collaborators. Reed was twenty-three, strong as stainless steel, confident, and as ambitious as his new mentor. Lou Reed had been described by friends and enemies over the years as “a control freak,” “a schizophrenic,” “an asshole.” Not one of those descriptions was “fun.” Andy Warhol had been described as “a mad queen,” “a Zen warrior,” “a creep.” None of them was “fun,” either. And yet, essentially, over the next four months, from January to April 1966, fun was exactly what Lou and Andy had together. Their relationship was exemplified by a photograph at the Factory that year in which they stood eyeballing each other with face-splitting grins in front of a life-size, full-figure Warhol painting of Elvis Presley with a drawn six-gun. Andy, the Lionhearted Leo—his head, with its strong, high cheekbones and muscular jaw, cocked slightly to one side—revealed the Draculian character he possessed in the pencil-thin, sinewy body beneath his trademark black outfit. He looked, one observer later noted, like Sylvester staring at Tweety Pie. Lou, the uncharacteristically shark-hearted Pisces, stared in turn at Andy with all the gaminlike love he had been withholding from his father since he was twelve, with the adoration of a disciple who has just met the master who will open the gates of heaven and hell.

Andy seduced Lou by showering his prodigious ego with the highest compliments. “Andy told me that what we were doing with music was the same thing he was doing with movies and painting, i.e., not kidding around,” Lou recalled. “To my mind, nobody in music was doing anything that even approximated the real thing, with the exception of us. The first thing I liked about Andy was that he was very real. His ideas would stun me. His way of looking at things would stop me dead in my tracks. Sometimes, I would go for days thinking about something he said.”

Lou seduced Andy into spending the next five months trying to make Lou into a marketable persona that would make the most money in the shortest time—in short, a rock-and-roll star. “If Andy had been able to achieve the Walt Disney Hollywood status, Lou would have been able to change his persona to be like an Elvis,” pointed out Factory manager Billy Name. “Andy would have put out Lou Reed movies: Lou in Hawaii, Lou in the army, Lou as a half-breed trying to decide whether he should like the Comanches and stay with the family that raised him.”

Lou would make a career out of finding mentors. In Warhol, Reed found the all-permissive father-mother-protector-catalyst-collaborator he had always craved. In turn, Warhol saw his younger self in Reed and wanted to recapture that vitality. They were both isolated people who kept their innermost thoughts to themselves, and each could empathize with the other’s masked vulnerability. Each had had nervous breakdowns. For Lou a whole new world of possibilities opened up.

He made himself completely available to Warhol—just as he had done with Delmore Schwartz at Syracuse—without selling him his soul. For a time he was able to drop his need to be the only genius in the room. Warhol taught Reed that an artist was a person who had to work hard and not waste time. Whenever Andy asked Lou how many songs he’d written that day, whatever the answer, he would urge, “You should do more.” He taught Lou that work was everything, and that Lou came to believe that his music was so beautiful that people should be willing to die for it. It was the kind of effect Andy Warhol often had on his followers.

Lou’s position at the Factory was significantly different from that of the other members of the band. “When the Velvets came over to the Factory, Lou was the only one I talked to,” recalled Factory manager and photographer Billy Name. “Sterling rarely talked much. John would talk occasionally, and Moe was fun—she would talk—but Lou and I always had the bond thing.” Of all the Velvets, Lou spent the most time at the Factory and was the closest thing to Warhol.

Warhol was not, however, an easy man to work with. Despite taking great joy in his success, he had, like Reed, a resentment of the conditions of his life that never stopped bugging him. “He was an artist who was neither understood nor accepted at the time but who, having been ridiculed and laughed at, had perseverance and ambition for success and “la gloire,” as strong as that of any king in Shakespeare’s history plays,” wrote Gerard Malanga in an introduction to his Secret Diaries. “It was a desire that neither his coterie nor his celebrity could satisfy. Warhol was a man of parts, most of them contradictory, which accounts for his nickname, “Drella,” composed equally of Dracula and Cinderella. He was a person of much generosity and kindness—yet he could slice a person at a glance. Warhol would try to organize other people’s emotions in the same way he drew up shopping lists. He had the unique power of playing people off one another. He could be kind, cruel, friendly, catty, humane, overriding, passionately wild for “la gloire.” And he was also all that was truly vulnerable. Warhol was painfully shy, which accounted for the group of young people he surrounded himself with. He was possessed by the people he had gathered around him, yet he was habitually exploiting, betraying, or otherwise mistreating those who were close, or seemed close to him.”

In an essay, “From the Bandstand,” he wrote about music that year, Lou drew attention to one of the key concepts they both emphasized in their work, repetition. “Every head in America must know the last three drum choruses of ‘Dawn’ by the Four Seasons. Paradiddles. Repetition. Repetition is so fantastic … Andy Warhol’s movies are so repetitious sometimes, so so beautiful. Probably the only interesting films made in the U.S. Rock and roll films. Over and over and over. Reducing things to their final joke. Which is pretty. ‘Sally go ’round the roses / roses they won’t hurt you.’”

“The real idea was to listen all the time,” Reed said. “He had great ideas at the drop of a hat. But so did I. The thing was, he was there. There were a couple of people who were floating around who were there who always seemed to get in touch with one another one way or another. In other words, no other band could have been able to hold it up. It would have been overwhelmed by the lights or the movies. That’s not, in fact, what happened. And that’s because what we did was very strong.”

“You scared yourself with music,” Warhol told him. “I scared myself with paint.”

“It was like heaven,” said Reed of his early days at the Factory. “I watched Andy; I watched Andy watching everybody. I would hear people say the most astonishing things, the craziest things, the funniest things, the saddest things. I used to write it down.”

All the Velvets seemed equally snowed by Andy. “It was like bang!” Warhol superstar Mary Woronov recalled. “They were with Andy and Andy was with them and they backed him absolutely. They would have walked to the end of the earth for him. And that happened in one day!”

Gretchen Berg, who often visited the Factory to interview Warhol, noticed that Reed maintained a strong position there. “Lou was very quiet. He almost never spoke to anyone, and when addressed, he would not answer,” she recalled. “He would act as if you weren’t there. I respected him. I saw that he was an artist of some kind and he had his group around him. They were always quite nice, but they always kept their distance. It was a bit snobbish. I also had the feeling that Mr. Warhol created the atmosphere of a family around him and there was a certain amount of competition. He had a lot of power with Andy on a one-on-one basis. You had the feeling that Lou was someone rather special. He was the brother who was away for many years and had to be caught when he came in. The father must now speak to Lewis, who’s just come in, because Lewis will not speak to anyone else but father. It was exactly that feeling. No one else must speak to Lou. And then Lewis would speak to father and then leave. If you came up to him, it was not as if he was rude exactly, but he would just look at you and take a puff of his cigarette. Lou was very much in the background, but he kept himself in the background. There was always something that was being created in the background. While everyone else was going through their thing and living and having all this attention, this in the background was going on very quietly and very steadily. He was like Paul Morrissey in a way.

“There was tension between Paul and everyone. I think he felt that he must not say anything about Lou Reed because he had no power over Lou. Lou Reed came in when he liked, left when he liked.”

In Warhol’s Factory, Reed found a laboratory for his artistic and sexual explorations, a milieu full of psychodrama providing endless fodder for his songs, and a nurturing environment through which he could bring music to the world. “Everyone was very campy,” Cale said. “There was a lot of game playing. Lou felt at home in that environment. I didn’t really.” Before the Factory, Reed had created scenarios for his songs; Warhol provided the cast and the telling details. More importantly, the Factory laid bare all the sexual fantasies and taboos that Reed had been struggling to conceal since his days on Long Island. In Warhol’s light Lou metamorphosed from a rock musician with a negative attitude and a host of complexes into a glamorous member of the Warhol entourage. The fragile, gamin Reed was equally attractive to men and women, looking on the one hand like a pretty girl with his curly brown hair and tentative smile, and exhibiting on the other hand an insouciant attitude regarding sex that presented an ambivalent challenge. Reed soon abandoned the sweaters, casual jackets, and loafers he’d worn since leaving Syracuse and took on the Factory image—Warhol-inspired black leather jacket, boots, and shades. Like Warhol, Reed masked his vulnerable side within the armor of a tough, impenetrable image.

Warhol had often gone on the record saying that sex was too much trouble, but he was fascinated by the idea of sex, and many of his films were semipornographic in a distanced, ironic way. Reed also maintained a detached stance with regard to sex. As a friend recalled, “Lou was mostly a voyeur. In my experience he never had any sustained interest in either sex. Sex didn’t offer Lou enough—he was just really bored by it.” One budding transvestite, Jackie Curtis, tried to have sex with Lou. “He was very tall and heavily built, a big boy,” recalled a mutual friend. “He was eighteen, but he looked about fourteen. And he would come right up to Lou and say, ‘Hi, gee, how are you!’ And Lou would not respond at all. And Jackie would say, ‘Well, thank you very much.’ And then he’d come back to me and say, ‘God, what did I say?’ He was very funny. Then he would go rushing up the next time and Lou would put his head back in an aloof manner.”

Lou was not, however, always aloof. “Lou tried to put the make on me once,” Malanga remembered. “It didn’t go anywhere. He was the aggressor and I was gentle with him but … We came back from a gig real late—we were traveling somewhere and we came back to New York really late and he called up Barbara Hodes and Barbara put the two of us up that night. And I remember Lou making advances toward me under the sheet. I think in the end we ended up just hugging each other. I kind of sent him the signal that I wasn’t interested.”

Reed was more interested in the sexual role-playing of transvestisms and S&M. Yet this didn’t stop him from having a number of friendships with men and women. At the Factory he met Danny Fields, a young medical school dropout with whom he developed a connection that lasted over thirty years. “I first heard ‘Heroin’ and I thought it was beautiful music,” Fields recalled. “But I was terrified of Lou. I was always trying to figure out things to say to him that would be sharp. Everybody was in love with him back then. Around 1966, he was the sexiest boy in town.”

“Lou’s relationship with Danny Field was collegial,” explained Gerard Malanga. “They were in the same business and there was a lot of history between them. Lou and I may have crashed at Danny’s one night. Danny’s pad was basically a crash pad. Thank God for Danny. We would have been homeless. We always knew he could be relied to put us up. He was living on West 20th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues above a coffee shop, which in those years was a very unfashionable place to live. So Danny was a pioneer. He had a floor-through loft in a two-story building. There were couches and pillows and mattresses on the floor with a few people staying there.”

In the midst of all the ego collisions and role-playing, screaming guitars, and parties, Fields observed, “We all had this feeling about Lou—that he would bury us. He was much too smart to get sucked into the whirlpool. Others may have been too fragile, too beautiful to survive—but he knew what he was doing. I was ever so in love with Lou. Everyone was in love with him—me, Edie, Andy, everyone. I thought he was just the hottest-looking, sexiest person I ever had seen. He was a major sex object of everybody in New York in his years with the Velvet Underground. The Velvets were ahead of everybody. It was the only thing that ever, ever, ever swept me off my feet as music since early Mahler. They were a revolution.

“The anguish Lou was reflecting upon was not his own. He was personalizing what he’d seen. As an artist he kept his distance and refused to be destroyed by it. Oh, he’d had his ups and downs, but he’s in no way a tragic figure. He simply had the brilliance to turn it all into art.”

Another Factory denizen, Tally Brown, said, “Lou is one of the most interesting lyricists of urban life in the world. He also is one of the best theoreticians about rock and roll. I mean, he can write about it and talk about it. He’s very verbal. Besides that, he’s a fascinating, fucked-up guy.”

After Warhol and Fields, Reed made strong, long-term connections with Billy Name, Ondine, and Gerard, the three strongest influences on Warhol. Each man had his separate function for Lou. Factory manager, photographer, and permanent resident Billy Name provided an outlet for Lou’s mystical side. Lou and Billy spent hours hanging out and talking about their favorite subjects such as Eastern religion and matters of the occult. “When I first met Lou, we immediately bonded as if we were guys who grew up on the same block,” Name recalled. “He’s from Long Island, I’m from Poughkeepsie, with the same experience. We just got along so great we were like best buddies. We had a good love for each other and great respect. Lou was a great conversationalist, very congenial, very interested, never the type of person who would just say what he wanted to say—he explored what you were and heard what you said, always with camaraderie.” Lou saw Billy as “a divinity in action on Earth. He did pictures that were unspeakably beautiful. Just pure space. For the people who have one foot on Earth and another foot on Venus, they would like that kind of picture because it was out-and-out space.”

Gerard Malanga was a widely published and well-connected poet who was familiar with many of the poets Lou was interested in, including Delmore Schwartz. “I identified more with Lou on a poetry level than on a rock-and-roll level,” said Malanga, “even when I was choreographing for the Velvets. I identified with Lou as a fellow poet as opposed to someone making music. Lou was a good guy to bring around. If you tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Let’s go here,’ he would go. He wouldn’t ask, ‘Where are we going?’ and ‘What for?’ and all that. He was good to have with you. He was good to hang out with. But he wasn’t very humorous, and he didn’t speak much. He wasn’t an articulate person.”

If Billy and Lou connected on a metaphysical level, and Gerard and Lou connected through poetry, then it was with Ondine that Lou shared his love of drugs. Like Lou and many denizens of the Factory, Ondine had chosen amphetamine as his drug of choice, and he became Lou’s main supplier. “He was intelligent about his use of drugs,” said Ondine. “He knew what he was doing, he studied it. I always thought that the whole heroin thing was an artistic expression. A lot of people experimented with heroin.”

Lou’s most famous song may be “Heroin,” but the drug most associated with his image was undoubtedly amphetamine. It’s easy to see why. According to the Amphetamine Manifesto by Harvey Cohen, “It is a drug for those who despair: shy, retarded, unhappy creatures who need love and had been rejected and had their natural instincts rejected and almost atrophied. Amphetamine is very much an overachiever’s type of chemical. Methedrine rolls back the stone from the mouth of the cave. It is the most profound of all drugs, the most unexplored and the freakiest. It can be so many things; there’s always a place to go behind methedrine that you’ve never been before. Amphetamine stimulates the central nervous system. It lessens the patient’s inhibitions, relieving him of pent-up emotions often associated with some previously suppressed trauma. The ideal patient for this treatment has an obsessional, tense personality and has difficultly expressing his real feelings, particularly if they are aggressive. Patients with obsessional personalities become relaxed, but are awake and alert after injection.”

Amphetamine had two vital functions for Lou creatively. By allowing him to stay up for three to five days at a time without sleep, it altered the synapses of his brain, cutting off a lot of static that had previously stymied the flow of words, and gave him—particularly in writing—the energy to pursue each vision to its conclusion. (One can see its effects in his essay “From the Bandstand,” published in Aspen Magazine, December 1966, or in songs such as “White Light/White Heat”—pure amphetamine—or “Murder Mystery”).

Methedrine is also, perhaps, the greatest male aphrodisiac, giving a man an erection that could break a plate, as well as Homeric duration in the act. On top of that, the methedrine available in 1966 was pharmaceutical and cheap. Being a favored customer, Lou could buy a film canister of the powder, which he cooked up and shot, for as little as $5.

The “amphetamine glories” who gathered around the central figure of Ondine at the Factory saw themselves as religious, heroic, and immortal. Of course they weren’t, and many of them, like Ondine, died sad deaths. But when they lived, they lived beyond the barriers of society. As Lou wrote in one of his finest pieces of prose, the liner notes to Metal Machine Music, “For those for whom the needle is no more than a toothbrush. Professional, no sniffers please, don’t confuse superiority (no competition) with violence, power or other justifications. The tacit speed agreement with self. We did not start World War I, II, or III, or the Bay of Pigs for that matter. My week beats your year.”

At first, the only dissenting opinion about Lou at the Factory came from Paul Morrissey, who felt that Nico was a far strong performer and presence onstage. “Lou was always ill at ease as a performer, and that’s what his act still is—a remote, ill-at-ease person.” The two of them shared a certain hardness, which led one observer to comment that Lou was “like Paul Morrissey with a guitar.”

Nico was the first person at the Factory to taste the dregs of Lou’s meanness just after her breakup with Lou following the show at Cinémathèque. According to Cale, Lou was “absolutely tom up by it all. When it fell apart, we really learnt how Nico could be the mistress of the destructive one-liner.” Cale recalled one morning rehearsal at the Factory shortly thereafter: “Nico came late, as usual. Lou said, ‘Hello,’ to her in a rather cold way, but just ‘Hello,’ or something. She simply stood there. You could see she was waiting to reply, in her own time. Ages later, out of the blue, came her first words: ‘I cannot make love to Jews anymore.’”