On the right side, a strip of white film leader rolls until a close-up of the staid youthful face of Lou Reed materializes, staring impassively back at us from one of Andy Warhol’s screen tests. The left section shows the guests reacting while Cale plays in the background. Yet the film then introduces the split screen, a stylistic device that dominates throughout it. Reaction shots follow of the guests looking on with a mix of incomprehension and smug disdain. We soon learn that this episode of I’ve Got a Secret features Cale, who has recently performed a nearly 19-hour concert where he repeated a piece of music by Erik Satie 840 times.Ĭale plays the dissonant piece of music on piano for the guests and studio audience. Reality intrusively interrupts, silencing this sound that is both abstract and immediate. Before reaching a crescendo, the sequence inexplicably cuts to the 1950s-60s show I’ve Got a Secret. It also serves as a quiet assertion, as its lower-case lettering implies, a commitment to the transcendental possibilities that all music should aspire to, as the very existence of the Velvet Underground, during its early years, signified to those who were really listening.Ĭale’s playing grows more erratic and louder as feedback builds while his bow noisily rubs against the viola’s strings. baudelaire.” It, in part, describes the ethereal sounds we hear. A quote in white text appears: “music fathoms the sky. We hear the opening notes of John Cale’s electric viola that defines one of the band’s most musically exploratory song, “Venus in Furs”. Haynes poignantly captures this sense of sonic possibility and promise during the opening moments of The Velvet Underground. It was a tacit commitment to our musical possibilities by embracing the chaotic sounds we were producing, believing that one day we might be able to corral them into something better, into a future not yet fully glimpsed. Holding our ground on that stage that night was, in part, a dare and a declaration to ourselves. Our band also had little to no concern for traditional song structures as we shunned traditional bass playing, guitar chords, and a recognizable drumbeat. The Velvet Underground was always pushing the sonic possibilities of rock beyond any recognizable form to enter a near-transcendent realm of sound during the band’s best musical moments. However, while watching Todd Haynes’ new documentary about t he Velvet Underground, I realized that perhaps that fan’s comment wasn’t so off the mark. That was like very Velvet Underground.” At the time, this seemed like a huge disservice to the band, which had always been one of my favorites. A member of the audience who miraculously endured the entire set told me, “Wow. I remember feeling an equal measure of embarrassment and pride for finishing what we had started. The bass often provided unexpected counterpoints to the miasma of feedback I created through my amplifier and digital delay pedal.Īfter wallowing in our noise and holding our ground for another ten or so minutes., we both walked off stage. As a result, they unlocked sonic possibilities from their instrument that those with any musical training would have dutifully avoided. One thing I particularly enjoyed about our sound was that our bassist had no training. In a later debriefing over beers, we both figured this might be our first and last gig, so we should make the most out of it. The bassist and I, however, refused to abandon our posts. With a healthy dose of embarrassment and self-respect, our drummer and two singers fled the stage around ten minutes in as the music devolved into a cacophonous wall of sound. None of us could recall how any of the songs progressed, often leaving the five of us playing different sections of the same song at once or one of us shifting to a new riff from another song out of pure frustration despite not finishing the first one. Either way, he was hooked to our sound and landed us an opening slot barely a month after we formed. We landed such auspicious beginnings due to our drummer striking a friendship with a local music manager who either heard us practice in our basement or at an open mic night doing covers. We had written four or five original songs that extended our set to a hefty 15 minutes. During the brief moment I played in a punk band in the early 2000s, we had a completely unwarranted first gig bestowed upon us, opening for a popular underground band at our college campus.
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