When
I saw that Lou Reed died a few days ago, my thoughts immediately brought me
back to 1989, the year I finally bought my first Lou Reed album, “New York” (cassette
actually—this was 1989, after all). I’d always admired Reed up to that point,
appreciated his music, identified with many of his characters, was intrigued
with those I didn’t. I liked “Transformer” and the VU albums, but I didn’t own any
of them. Maybe that was because by the time I came of age and started paying
attention to music, Lou was struggling. His past music was a museum piece to
me, his new music missing my target. I remember hearing his single “I Love YouSuzanne” in 1984, played over and over again on MTV because it was the first
video Lou Reed ever produced and they finally had an excuse to play him. It was
a good song, a fun piece of pop that showed Reed had the chops to produce some
decent dance music, but it wasn’t the type of album I was going to rush out to
buy.
And
Lou wasn’t the only one struggling creatively throughout the 1980s, a decade
that was not kind to many of the rock and roll pioneers who dramatically
re-landscaped music in the 1960s and 1970s. So many of those acts ran
out of gas in that decade, producing albums that ranged from bland to bad, pale
shells of their former selves that made you wonder if maybe rock and roll stars
who didn’t lifestyle themselves into an early grave should have expiration
dates on them, a point where they just stop trying to be rock and roll stars
anymore and are denied any more studio time.
There was Bob Dylan, continuing the funk he’d entered in the
late 1970s, bottoming out with “Knocked Out Loaded” and “Down in The Groove,”
two albums that are not just bad for Dylan, but are just plain bad. Neil Young bounced
from style to style, from doo-wop to country to electronica, with a string of
records so lackluster that his label sued him. The Rolling Stones started the
1980s off well with “Emotional Rescue” and “Tattoo You,” before a newly cleaned
up Keith started to re-assert his authority within the band and touched off a
feud with Mick that led to “Undercover” and “Dirty Work,” two albums that
weren’t necessarily bad, but that desperately needed focus and direction.
David
Bowie, after the triumph of 1983’s “Let’s Dance,” seemed to run away and hide
from his superstardom, unable to cope with a market demographic suddenly made
up of significant numbers of screaming teenage girls. Eric Clapton just quit, climbing out of bed once in awhile
to record another dull, forgettable song.
Perhaps
the most egregious example greatness gone bad was Paul McCartney, who
kept playing to his worst pop instincts until hitting the bottom with the theme
song to the movie “Spies Like Us,” a song so dismal it prompted a friend to say
at the time that every last drop of talent had drained from the man’s body. If you want to hear it, you’ll
have to find it yourself on YouTube because I’m sure not going to link to it.
If you dare watch it, you’ll be stunned that this guy was once in The Beatles.
