White Light, White Heat (Art Rock 1966-1980)

The story of how artistic and conceptual expression permeated rock. From the pop-art multi-media experiments of Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground to the sinister gentility of Peter Gabriel’s Genesis, White Light, White Heat traces how rock became a vehicle for artistic ideas and theatrical performance. We follow Pink Floyd from their beginnings with the fated art school genius of Syd Barrett through to the global success of ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ to the ultimate rock theatre show, ‘The Wall’. Along the way, the film explores the retro-futurism of Roxy Music and the protean world of David Bowie.
(bbc.co.uk)

“‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,’ I thought as I watched my bag disappear down the chute at Heathrow’s Terminal One, on my way to New York to interview one of Rock’s legends. Admittedly, ‘The Legend’ in question had masterminded the most awe inspiring debut in rock history but he also had a formidable reputation outside the recording studio. His hatred of journalists, particularly English ones, has become part of rocklore. He once described us as a species of foul vermin who he “wouldn’t hire to guard his sewer.” He’s called us “morons and idiots” and sworn that “he doesn’t perform for idiots.”

His name is Lou Reed. He was my date for the weekend. This was going to be such fun.

But it had to be done, Lou was an essential part of my story. His pioneering work with the Velvet Underground, especially in collaboration with John Cale, was at the heart of my film. The Velvets were the true pioneers of a form of music that emerged in the mid sixties, which fused poetry, theatre, light shows and art with rock, to create a hybrid called ‘art rock’.

Everyone we interviewed had claimed that the Velvet’s first album ‘The Velvet Underground and Nico’ was the Holy Grail of Art Rock. Pink Floyd’s first manager, Peter Jenner heard a tape and phoned up the band to ask whether he could manage them. When he was informed politely that actually they had a manager called Andy (Warhol) he went in search of the British equivalent. He found Pink Floyd and their wayward wizard Syd Barrett whose small body of work ranged from the inspirational to the deranged and who, like Lou, was to influence a generation.

Bryan Ferry through his connections with Andy Warhol’s factory had similarly adored the revolutionary mix of raw street subject matter with plaintive melodies. And David Bowie had heard the Velvets characteristically before anyone else and went on to make his own version of both “Venus in Furs” and “Waiting for the Man”.

So whatever my reservations about Lou he was the lynchpin to my film and I needed him. A few insights into the workings of the Velvets would suffice. Could it be that hard?

As I arrived at JFK, I realised that yes, it could well be that hard, maybe even impossible. I received an alarming message from Lou’s agent: “Lou finds your list of questions inappropriate… he will not discuss either his music or his lyrics. We’ll see you at 12pm tomorrow.” I wondered quite what that left me with, and a fitful night ensued.

The following morning, I re-drafted my questions, leaving only those that I felt had any chance of success. My list was now quite short.

When Lou arrived, he looked like the legend of my imaginings. He certainly had presence. But there was more bad news. The agent took me aside and put lines through many of my new questions. What was left was a two minute interview.

As I took my chair and began to describe the series to Lou, he stared beyond me, clearly not remotely interested. I stumbled and stuttered asking him about the importance of Andy Warhol to the Velvet’s early success. Lou liked the question and was almost chatty, remembering how Warhol had given them a place to sleep, food and most importantly a place to record: “I miss him. I really do.”

As things were going OK I didn’t think I should tempt fate and ask him why he had fired Warhol, after only the first album. Instead I asked about John Cale, who we had interviewed a few weeks earlier. As soon as the name came up Lou exclaimed that I was going off my ‘approved question list’ and refused to answer.

Things then became a bit tense, as one question after another was deemed off limits. But as I probed him on the possible meaning of ‘art rock’ he opened up slightly and discussed how he had introduced subjects like transvestism and drug use, that had formerly been reserved only for literature and cinema.

As I moved on to David Bowie, and their musical partnership, Lou responses became mono syllabic. I mentioned that early Velvet Underground was inspirational to the young Bowie. Lou claimed to be unaware of the fact. I offered to prove Bowie’s fascination by sending him a rare bootleg copy of Bowie’s interpretation of “Venus in Furs” in return for him answering another question. He replied, stony faced, “This is not a hostage situation.”

Time was then called and the interview terminated. I had been lucky. I had got thirty five minutes with ‘Laughing Lou’ some of which I might actually be able to use.

As Lou collected his things I asked him to sign my copy of ‘Berlin’. He grinned and for the first time became animated, chatting about how excited he was that he was about to play the whole album on tour. He then signed my cover “best wishes”, said what an enjoyable time he had, and left the room.

I wondered which particular part he found so enjoyable.”