The Velvet Underground is dedicated to Jonas Mekas, the patron saint and archivist of New York experimental film, and a frequent voice in the documentary since he was luckily interviewed before his 2019 death. Haynes turns this deficit to an advantage by filling his frames instead with clips from the experimental cinema and photography of the band’s peers, from within Andy Warhol’s Factory scene as well as others in the downtown avant-garde. Part of the reason there’s never been a significant VU documentary before is that there’s hardly any surviving film footage of the band in performance. Thanks for signing up! You can manage your newsletter subscriptions at any time. He lets viewers experience the magical mistake in process, in all its mess and sometimes ugliness, in one of the few locales in human history that could have made it possible, the art scene of early-to-mid-1960s New York. Instead, Haynes improbably rescues the VU from its own reputation. Haynes made a rule that he would only interview people who’d personally been on the ground at the time, sparing viewers the obligatory rock-doc cameos from Bono or Dave Grohl bloviating about the vast significance of fill-in-the-subject-here. It cuts off when Reed quits the band in August 1970, two years after he’d kicked out Cale. In fact the film point-blank refuses to address the Velvets’ legacy at all. Haynes’ film The Velvet Underground, which premiered at Cannes this summer and is now streaming on Apple TV+ and playing in select cinemas, must be the first extended work about the VU not to quote the timeworn Brian Eno line that though only a handful of people bought the group’s first album, all of them went out and formed bands. Through all these cycles of transmission and genuflection, however, the Velvets came to seem less a real-life group of collaborating artists and more an idea, a byword for bohemian cool, symbolized by the Warhol-designed banana on the cover of the band’s 1967 debut album. Vincent, Courtney Barnett, and King Princess. Last month saw the release of I’ll Be Your Mirror, the latest of many VU tribute albums, produced in part by one of Lou Reed’s closest friends, the late New York producer-impresario Hal Willner, with performers from Iggy Pop to Michael Stipe, St. glam rock artists like David Bowie, to the proto-punk CBGB artists of the 1970s, to the new wave and indie-rock groups of the 1980s, and on through each succeeding wave of even quasi-arty rock. Partly through their interlude as the house band of Andy Warhol’s Factory scene, the VU was formative to U.K. That came bubbling out of Long Island, melting crystalline structures-which was just what we had had in mind.”įor at least four decades, discussions of the Velvet Underground have revolved around how this 1960s obscurity-a dark and culturally queer counterforce to what’s usually remembered of 1960s counterculture-became a far-reaching influence after the fact. But as Conrad is heard saying later in the film, in their work, “Pop dissolved high culture. The VU itself, also featuring guitarist Sterling Morrison and drummer Maureen Tucker as well as various temporary members, failed extravagantly at attaining any such success. None of the three slumming avant-gardists in the Primitives harbored the pop ambitions Reed did. But this “mistake” set off a partnership that before long would lead Reed and Cale to form the Velvet Underground. All they ever really produced was a novelty dance single called “ The Ostrich” for a bargain record label. He’s describing the circumstances that brought together himself, the visual artist Walter De Maria, and the recent Welsh immigrant classical musician John Cale to back a druggy, ornery writer from the suburbs named Lou Reed in the early 1960s garage-rock group the Primitives. “It was an almost magical mistake.” That’s the late experimental composer and filmmaker Tony Conrad, heard via archival audio in director Todd Haynes’ new documentary.
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