Lou Reed—(not) in concert

Bob Fraser

4:25 in the James Cook waiting for Lou Reed to turn up. Pauline (never did catch her second name) from Pye rushes about, trying to organise everything, apologies, buys drinks.

A couple of gin and tonics later the man finally arrives, pissed off at tying mucked around by promoters, organisers, reporters. As it develops, he has a real paranoia for reporters. Alan Wood of the Evening Post starts - traditional yet somehow realistic stuff on what's the attraction of New Zealand. Lou Reed is either too screwed up or not screwed up enough to say "Money". He mumbles. Alan picks up the mumbles and starts talking about the hassles of touring. Lou relaxes a little more (and believe me, he had a long way to go at the beginning). Yeah, it's addrag, moving round, never stopping long. Alan lags a little, mentions something like why tour then? About filling in time between albums. It looks promising until the girl from Radio Windy butts in about their tape recorder not working or something. Swearing at "fucking recorders" Lou tenses up again. Alan grimaces. Lou agrees reluctantly to move down the bar closer to the power plug for the recorder. He's looking for someone to hit. Conversation now changes between violent attacks on Pauline for not apologising to him about springing a press conference (which she only knew about that morning) and some deeper stuff on rock, camp music. Offhand though - the earlier mood's gone. Those of us around the first table talk to each other.

A few minutes and he's gone abruptly, leaving Pauline almost in tears, explaining it's not her fault. Rumours are he'll come back. Bill to Pye another double Bourbon. Rave on about newspapers and radios and hassles about interviewing. Lou returns, rather grudgingly, gives Pat O'Dea a record, turns on a casette tape. We listen. 'Turn it off when you want" he says, almost belligerently. We like it, say so. He's a bit taken aback, a bit more interested in talking.

A gentleman from the management comes over, tells us to turn it off. We do and leave for downstairs, Lou muttering something about "Does he know who I am?" Doubt it - orders are orders. Couple of us don't go downstairs, talk to the tour organiser. He's really enthusiastic - tries to get us to go down and listen again, talk to the guy. Our friend turns up again, again the noise is "too loud". Tour manager shrugs, says he's not sticking around, we split too, leaving the rock star and his hassles to the rest of the reporters and the bar attendant.

So, ladies and gentlemen, Lou Reed. A man of undoubted talent, almost willing to talk if you don't ask "fucking reporter-ish" questions. Those just make his short temper flare. A man paranoid from the people trying to take him apart, reinforcing his anger. And the reporters are far from just fools - yet their mistakes are devastating. A man fucked up by the need of those tour promoters to make as much money as possible as soon as possible out of him. A scene you can't really blame any person for, yet you wish had never happened.

(Lou Reed snowed out of his Tuesday concert. Pat O'Dea had his record snapped back by some zealous man from RCA who chased him down the hall and at last notice Lou Reed was going onstage 'when he wanted to' on Wednesday night.)