Great Albums: Loaded

John Updike’s first rule of criticism was “try to understand what the author wished to do, and do not blame him for not achieving what he did not attempt.” Whether or not Updike himself stayed true to this rule in his literary criticism is up for debate, but like Lucas’ line about how special effects should only serve the story, it should be a principle that we all hold true, regardless of who said it. I always think of that line whenever I’m listening to Loaded, the Velvet Underground’s fourth and final album. Among the online community of edgy, non mainstream Velvet Underground fans, the album is something of a pariah. It is the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull or the Godfather Part III of the VU’s short and wonderful discography. It is the album for people “wanting to get into the Velvet Underground” they’ll write with palpable condescension.

Yes, yes, where is the boundary pushing experimentation, the abrasive drones of distortion, the dark and harrowing lyrics, the cacophonies of strange instrumentations threatening to topple into incoherence at any moment?

Well, shithead, they’re not there. Reed and company weren’t aiming for it to be there. If they had made an attempt at gritty and abrasive experimentation and had failed—as Reed would spectacularly on 1975’s Metal Machine Music—then there would be a point in such criticism, but as it stands, such complaints ring about as hollow as a person whining that Crimes and Misdemeanors lacked the absurdist humor of Sleeper. On Loaded, the Velvet Underground was aiming to make a pop album—a financially driven sellout move on par with that raven poem that Poe scraped together to make a quick buck.

In the dismissals of Loaded that I read in Youtube comments and message boards, I notice that its not even the music that they are criticizing, but the very fact that the Velvet Underground made something light and accessible. As though that made it any less worthy. If you don’t like lighter poppier rock music or think it less worthy than abrasive experimentation, that’s fine—you’re entitled to your opinion, after all—but any criticism you may make of a pop album would not be not so much a reflection of the album’s quality as it would be a reflection of your own tastes. For example, I hate musicals. Cant stand them. For me, it’s like watching a porno without jacking off. I sit there, watching the obligatory plot unfold, and then suddenly people break into completely illogical displays of physical talents that I do not possess, as I grow uncomfortable and wonder what to do with my hands. With that being said, I cannot in all fairness ever make a valid criticism of Singin’ in the Rain or An American in Paris. The fact that I do not enjoy them is a reflection on my feelings toward musicals in general, not on their quality as films.

And as it is, Loaded is a fuckin great pop album. It’s a masterpiece of the form on par with Rubber Soul or Pet Sounds. From the jangly opening of Who Loves the Sun, the album hits you like the first burst of sunlight when you were a kid stepping out of school at the end of the day. Suddenly the sterile bleakness of florescent tubes is gone; the world is open, if only in your mind, and there is nothing in front of you but hours sitting by the creek and watching the sun shimmer off the water as somebody passes the joint around.

Sometimes it’s the ones you least suspect who will voice something the most genuinely. On their prior album, a bunch of atheistic drug addicts crafted a prayerful ode to Jesus, more compelling and earnest than any of the tripe put out by the most pious of Christian rock groups, and on this album the Velvet fucking Underground of all bands, did something nobody could have expected; they put out a celebration—a thing of joy. The opening chords of a song like Sweet Jane simply melt into you. Reed’s voice—that sneering thing of dread and more-dead-than-alive weariness from Heroin or I’m Waiting for the Man—morphs into a new and carefree thing. Without seeming to have changed at all, it emerges from the grime and murk like a gentle, peaceful comedown from some terrible trip. Rock and Roll hits you almost bluntly over the head with its seeming purposelessness. “Her life was saved by rock and roll?” What the fuck is that? But as the music goes on, you’re drawn in; the music recreates its subject—that single innocent moment that even the most jaded and cynical of music fans had, lying on their stomach, enraptured by the wonderful and eye opening sounds flowing from the radio speakers. And from the almost tangible plooms of smoke radiating from the fun stoner jam of Cool It Down, to the pure goofiness of Lonesome Cowboy Bill, the album takes you back to that moment over and over.

That’s not to say that the whole album is merely some light, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” fluff. Inspecting a song like “Who Loves the Sun?” a little closer, lyrics like, “Who loves the sun/ who cares that it makes plants grow/ who cares what it does/ since you broke my heart” pop out at you. Throughout the album, streaks of negativity and sarcasm can be found. Am I contradicting what I just said about the album’s joyousness? Very well, then this album contradicts itself. It is large. It contains multitudes. And that is what makes it, if not my favorite Velvet Underground album, then certainly my most played. Because something like White Light/White Heat exists only on one level. It’s an album you turn on when you feel like shit—when you don’t want to feel sorry for yourself but don’t want to feel better either; you only want to grind yourself further into the grime until you reach that bitterly gratifying point where you can sneer at the shit from behind your cigarette. Loaded, on the other hand, is an album that exists on multiple levels. It exists on the obvious joyful level described above, but it also exists on the level of irony and sarcasm and parody. In a sense, the album’s subtle subversion of pop conventions are even more interesting than the full on assaults of the Velvets’ first two albums.

Of course, that does not mean that the album is emotionally empty. After all, even irony is an expression of emotion. It is a very specific state of mind that would sneer “who loves the sun?” through a bubbly smile. But there is also earnest and heartfelt feeling running through the record. Again this hurt and pain found throughout the album is much more subtle and on a far less grand scale than on their early albums. It can be found in the quiet desperation of an aging actress on New Age. It can be found in the spine tingling croons of “I Found a Reason”. On the album’s closer, you can simply feel the ache dripping off the gorgeous guitars and Doug Yule’s voice. In seven and a half minutes the song encapsulates all the bittersweet sadness and beauty of every love’s futility.

Maybe it’s just that I’m getting older. When I was a teenager, I fell asleep to Heroin with Rimbaud open on my chest. I was angry and miserable in that romantic teenage way. Everything was a grand and crystal clear battle, and my eyes were being opened to the dark existential forces that encased us all. And so I connected with “searching for my mainline” and the “big decision to nullify my life” with an earnestness and seriousness that I almost miss. But now it doesn’t feel so gritty; I don’t feel fatalistically and romantically tied to the drowning, drunken boat of my uncontrollable passions. The down-to-earth and small-scale emotions of Loaded hit me with much more force. After all, as much it would have disappointed 16 year old me, I didn’t turn out as a heroin addict or a transvestite hooker.

And listening in 2013, the album feels much more refreshing than their earlier ones. When the Velvets were making music, their gritty depictions of the underbelly of urban life were artistically brave and important. Lou Reed, as a literary man, almost a journalist, even, was shining a light onto the small pockets of humanity that culture turned a blind eye to because they were too unpleasant. But now things have changed. Those dark, gritty, “perverse” pockets and depictions of humanity have become something chic. There is something deeply unsettling in this.

It reminds me of the first real underground show I ever went to. Me and my friends were maybe fifteen or sixteen at the time and we were going to some shithole basement in a slum section of the city to see a no-name punk band. It felt dangerous and exciting. As we walked through the streets, feeling cool and rebellious as we snuck gulps of whisky from a water bottle, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. There was a young mother, maybe no older than I was at the time, crying and running after her young daughter. I suddenly felt dirty. It struck me that this was a real life that some people had to live every day, and not merely some symbol of grittiness and romantic authenticity to gratify my suburban sensibilities. That’s not a criticism of the Velvet Underground’s early music so much as it’s a criticism of how we listen to it or at least how I listen to it.

So, fuck it, I’ll say it: Loaded is my favorite Velvet Underground album. It’s the most down-to-earth, the most subtle. It is above all else—above all the subversion and heartfelt emotion and sneering sarcasm—a thing of joy. And what’s wrong with that? Sometimes it’s nice to know that even the most beaten down of derelicts can feel good for 40 minutes or so.

Sometimes even Lou Reed smiles.