When I finally turn on my iPod in the day, the structures and intangible imaginative variations can influence the way in which I move. A blast of drums or horns can topple me, and a flute can subdue me and render me totally static. These are the extremes, obviously, but they are also perfect examples of what I've found necessary to drown out.
Don't get me wrong--if I have no plans to move (which is generally the case), I can play anything I want. In fact, sometimes the brasher the better. It's weird that I'm more likely to listen to "Jesus," though, than "Sister Ray" when I'm lying down because, confusingly, I'm really trying not to fall asleep when I'm horizontal. Those are both songs by the Velvet Underground, by the way, and if I have to explain the difference between the two, I do so begrudgingly.
"Jesus" is a quiet, minimalist ballad built around two notes, with some, but not much, variation. Lou Reed mimics this melodic figure with his already limited range. It's hard to tell whether he rewrote the song to account for his voice. Four tracks earlier, with "Candy Says," he handed over the lead vocals to the precociously sweet Doug Yule (who unwisely took over the reins when Reed fled to Long Island when he was 28, and continued to tour under the name "The Velvet Underground," with pity from all. But I digress.). Nevertheless, the song stands up strongly today.
I still don't get the song. I mean, Reed is/was not exactly the embodiment of Christian virtue. Thankfully. That would make him boring and, ultimately, stagnant. Instead, he writes atmospheric ambient pieces for, I kid you not, Tai Chi. And this comes after decades of debauchery and then decades of sobriety. His polarity can place him easily on the emblem of any "Yin/Yang" t-shirt or poster.
When I met the man, a few years ago in the Union Square Barnes & Noble upon the release of his album The Raven, I told him how much I appreciated "Fire Music," an extension of his notoriously impermeable Metal Machine Music. There was no way I could have known how prescient I was being.
When I get up and move around, I usually have headphones on. This is not a new phenomenon, and one which is unlikely to go away. If I walk around with Motown playing, though, I'm much more prone to a startled stumble (I still haven't completely fallen yet--knock on wood). At least with drone and ambient feedback (anything eventually becomes a drone, if repeated enough), I know what to expect. It's hard to be startled with something that sounds no different from the previous ten seconds. If I head to the refrigerator at two am, I know when to expect the explosive chorus of "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" by Wilco. This is a skill I learned to hone in college, and, like a high school typing class, it has paid dividends. Three minutes and fifty-seven seconds after I press play, it will kick in. Then again at 7:41 and one last time at 10:09. I think that's right. Before and about twenty seconds after these times, I can do what I want because the song drones. But I'm sure to be seated again when time runs out once more.
To anyone, the initial blasts can be overwhelming. This is especially true of "Fire Music," which is sandwiched between a spoken-word interlude and a quiet, almost silent, acoustic song like "Guardian Angel." After the first shock dissipates, a constancy lulls you in in a way that is salubrious. You get used to the noise, because it keeps you alert but also relaxes you. It is a very different sensation from the unremitting pokes that the latest Flaming Lips album give.
It may seem crazy, but this is my "ambient" music. I don't fall asleep, but can move fluidly (relatively) from the bathroom to the living room. Brian Eno has nothing on Lou Reed when it comes to providing the soundtrack to my treks to the kitchen.
R
