Tag Archives: Lou Reed

For Eddie Hazel, Sonny Sharrock, the Clash, and All the Other Places a Guitar and Drums Can Take Us

Photograph by Jose Padua
That night, I’d finished cooking dinner early. Although I’m so often late in doing things—or maybe because I’m so often late—there’s nothing quite as reassuring for me as being ahead of schedule. So, while waiting for my wife Heather to get home from work so we could eat, my twelve-year old daughter Maggie and I started listening to some songs in the dining room as my son (her little brother) Julien played with his toy dinosaurs in the living room.

“Have you heard this one by the Clash,” I asked Maggie. “It’s one of their poppier songs, but it’s really nice.” And I pulled up “Hitsville U.K.” for her on my computer.

“Oh,” she said. “Cool. Wait, is this from London Calling?”

“No, it’s on Sandinista. The three record set they came out with after their two record set for London Calling.” For some reason I always like to bring up the concept of vinyl records with Maggie. Maybe it’s because so often I’m pulling up songs for her to listen to on the computer. I know that we could actually go over to the parlor where I have my office set up, a space that includes a stereo complete with turntable, but it’s easier to go from one song to the next with the computer.

Somehow, after listening to “Hitsville, U.K.,” the next song I thought Maggie needed to hear was “I Just Want to See His Face” by the Rolling Stones. Maybe it’s because in this town where there’s so much religion going on, the line in the song that goes, “…you don’t want to walk and talk about Jesus/ You just want to see His face” seems to give me a sense of perspective about it. What that perspective tells me, I’m not quite sure, but when I hear this song I’m a little bit less afraid of what’s out here.

Then, as is often the case when I’m feeling no fear, my mind moved on. Which I suppose is why I asked Maggie, “Oh, do you know Lou Reed’s song ‘Walk on the Wild Side’?”

“Oh yeah,” she said.

“Well, the Holly in the song. You know, ‘Holly came from Miami F.L.A./ Hitch-hiked her way across the U.S.A./ Plucked her eyebrows on the way/ Shaved her legs and then he was a she.’ She died just this week.”

“Oh,” Maggie said. “Was she young?”

“Oh no. She wasn’t young. She was, I don’t exactly, around seventy I think. She lived for a while. And she lived an interesting life.”

Soon, Heather was home. After we all ate dinner, Heather was in the living room playing with Julien while Maggie and I stayed in the dining room. From “Walk on the Wild Side,” I went to playing a few songs by The Bad Brains, and then the Buzzcocks’ Spiral Scratch ep, and then Annie Lennox’s cover of The Clash’s “Train in Vain” and on to Funkadelic’s “Maggot Brain.

“Listen to that guitar,” I told her. “That’s Eddie Hazel. He was one of the great ones.”

After listening for a couple of minutes, Maggie noticed that the whole song was basically an Eddie Hazel guitar solo. “How long is this?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s about ten minutes long,” I said, and we kept on listening, then suddenly it was over.

“It’s over?” Maggie asked.

“Yes.”

“That was ten minutes?”

“I know. It doesn’t seem like it. That’s because Eddie Hazel could destroy time with his guitar.”

“Daaaaad,” Maggie said.

“No really. Look at what just happened. We were listening to ‘Maggot Brain’ then now, all of a sudden, it’s the future.”

“OK, Dad,” Maggie said.

Since we had moved ahead, I put on some music I thought would be appropriate for this jump into the future—Sonny Sharrock’s Ask the Ages. After a minute or two Maggie asked, “Who’s playing the drums on this?”

“That’s Elvin Jones,” I said. “He was John Coltrane’s drummer for a long time.”

“Oh, I thought it had this jazzy feel I’d heard before.”

Right then I refrained from saying, “Yeah, Elvin Jones was a motherfucker on the drums.” Instead I just said, as I did for Eddie Hazel, “he was one of the great ones.”

And we kept on listening to Ask the Ages. To Sonny Sharrock on guitar, Pharoah Sanders on tenor sax, Elvin Jones on drums, and Charnett Moffett on bass.

Earlier that day, while Heather and I were up in Winchester for an eye doctor’s appointment, we stopped to pick up Maggie’s electric guitar. The sound had been going out, so we took it up to a guy in Winchester for a rewiring. He had it for a couple of weeks and called us that morning, saying it was all good now and the only interruptions in sound would be the interruptions we intended.

Pretty soon, I thought, Maggie will pick it up and plug it in, ready to fill our house with sound. Maybe, at some point, Julien will want to try it too. I think that one day they will both discover all the beautiful ways to destroy time. Through sound, through words, through form, movement, and more. Though I suspected—what with the way the days had moved ahead so swiftly—that they already had.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

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How Does It Feel to Be Loved and All the Other Questions I’ve Ever Wanted to Ask the Armed Cheerleaders of the Corporate State as an Act of Defiance


That night one year ago, after dinner, I was in the dining room talking to my wife Heather when our thirteen-year-old daughter Maggie came in to ask me for help with the stereo. I followed her to the parlor, which for the last few years is where I keep my home office, and which, for simply practical purposes, is where our full stereo system is. What Maggie specifically needed assistance with was the turntable, the cover of which was tilted open. I bent down and pressed a few buttons on the receiver and made sure it was set to “phono,” then stood back up to lift the tonearm over an LP she’d already placed down on the platter. I hadn’t brought my reading glasses with me to the parlor, so I couldn’t tell what record she’d been trying to play; and I carefully laid the tonearm down on the black vinyl, anxious to find out.

I heard a split second of guitar, then the voice of Lou Reed going, “Well, I’m beginning to see the light,” which meant that what Maggie had been trying to play was the second side of the Velvet Underground’s third album.

“OK, thanks, Dad,” Maggie said quickly. She was obviously trying to get me to move along so she could be alone with the music of the Velvet Underground and before I could express any overly-gushing approval of her listening choices. She’d heard all that before and she knew—yeah, how cool I thought it was that she was listening to music like the Velvet Underground instead of the usual crap that’s marketed to teenagers (and I also saw that she’d pulled Big Star’s Radio City off the shelf to play next). So I went back to the dining room, where Heather and I had mostly likely been discussing the coming horrors of the United States of Trump.

The following afternoon, while waiting in the car with my six-year old son Julien for Maggie’s school bus to get back to town, I had the stereo on. Julien had been looking at a book he’d brought home from his school’s library when he stopped to listen to the music that was playing.

“Who’s that?” he asked. “Is that someone who died?”

Ever since hearing a few weeks earlier that Leonard Cohen died, Julien had been obsessed with the people who are no longer with us.

“No,” I said, “This person is still alive.”

“Play something by someone who died,” Julien said. I clicked the tab to play the next song on the random mix.

“Oh,” I said. “This person singing now is someone who died.”

“Who is it?”

“Her name was Lizzy Mercier Descloux.”

He’d heard Lizzy Mercier Descloux’s music before, but it had been a while. Also, I imagined that the last time Julien had heard “Mais où Sont Passées Les Gazelles?”, it didn’t matter to him whether or not Lizzy Mercier Descloux was still with us. Knowing she was gone, Julien must have sensed something in addition to the beauty of the song. I know, even now, a year later he’s probably still too young to really understand; but on that afternoon I gathered that what he was sensing for perhaps the first time was history. And that the main thing separating the present from the historical past was death.

I don’t recall the exact moment when I found out about death, but I’m pretty sure that when I found out I was around Julien’s age—and that when I found out I was obsessed with it. What’s more, with my OCD, it’s an obsession that never diminishes. As it is, not a day goes by when I don’t think about it. What’s more, with my sixtieth birthday coming in a few weeks—and, with a few of my friends having died in the last couple of years—the days seem to be going by rather quickly. But maybe that’s because of all the energy I spend trying not to think about it—making up poems and stories in my head to distract me, to stand as works of defiance and rebellion. And then I think about it anyway.

Nevertheless, it’s an obsession I manage to live with. That I’m also able to think what are sometimes incredibly beautiful thoughts is a gift that, I think, is made possible by all the darker places my mind travels.

It was five years ago on this day that my father died. Julien still asks about it every now and then, and about my mother as well, who he never got to meet.

“Did your Mom and Dad die?” he’ll ask.

“Yes,” I’ll say, sorrowfully. “Do you remember Lolo, though?” (Lolo being the Filipino term for grandfather.)

“Yes,” he’ll say. “I was small.” And then he’ll ask, “Who else died?”

If Julien is anything like me, which I gather he is, the question of who else died should soon evolve into something like, Who else was once alive and shone upon us with their bright light? Or something along those lines—both he and Maggie, I’m sure, will develop their own ways of expressing their defiance against everything that is banal and malevolent. They may use words, or they may use sound or sight more, or perhaps a combination of things. But whatever the case, I see them making works of beauty.

With every passing year, I think less of my father as being gone and more for what he was when he was alive, a man of many years and miles, an immigrant of color to this country, a worker who worked in small but steady ways to build a world.

This day is for him, and all of those like him who take more pleasure in creating rather than in destroying, who create a path through restlessness and confusion, making space where there once was none, who shine upon their surroundings with a great but subtle gleaming. And woe unto anyone who attempts to diminish that shine.

-Jose Padua

The photograph of Cosme Padua was taken somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley around 1950.

Notes on an Evening in Which Everything Sounded Like a Song by Lou Reed

Photograph by Jose Padua
Right after we picked up Maggie up from school at 5:30 that afternoon on her return from a school trip, we drove out to the soccerplex for her last regular season game. We told her that if she was exhausted from her trip she could skip the game—and we let her coach know that she might not be able to make it. But as she pulled her suitcase out of the school van, I asked her if she wanted to play and right away she said, “Yes.”

Since it was a nice early evening, we all went—Heather, Maggie, Julien and I. Maggie wasn’t a starter tonight but after a few minutes she got into the game, and as she ran down the field the song “Coney Island Baby” started playing in my head. It’s the sad and beautiful song that closes Lou Reed’s 1976 album of the same name and goes,

You know, man, when I was a young man in high school
you believe it or not I wanted to play football for the coach.
And all those older guys they said he was mean and cruel,
but you know I wanted to play football for the coach…

Now I know that Maggie was playing soccer not American football, which was what Lou Reed was singing about, and Maggie’s coach that spring seems like a nice guy and not at all the mean and cruel man in Lou Reed’s song. But still, on a Friday evening with the sun getting closer and closer to the horizon, “Coney Island Baby” was the perfect thing to have in my head. When I lived in New York, it was the perfect song to play on a Friday night as the sun went down and what drifted into my apartment from Avenue B changed from daytime noise to the nighttime street noises that always felt like music to me.

The song eventually went out of my head and I continued to watch Maggie play. She was doing fine, but pretty soon you could see she was getting tired. At one point she was standing there on the field, her hand on her hip, as if she were waiting for something other than the ball—that’s when the next Lou Reed song came into my head.

This time it was Velvet Underground-era Lou Reed—“I’m Waiting for the Man”:

I’m waiting for my man.
Twenty-six dollars in my hand.
Up to Lexington, 1-2-5.
Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive.
I’m waiting for my man.

Again, what’s going on in the song (a drug deal), thankfully, had nothing to do with what was going on in Maggie’s life or my life or Heather’s or Julien’s. But that didn’t matter, because in every other way it seemed to fit. Later in the game, there was one more change of song. That happened when I remembered that the following week was when Maggie would be playing Juliet in her school’s production of Romeo and Juliet. I began to hear the lines,

Caught between the twisted stars,
the plotted lines, the faulty map
that brought Columbus to New York.
Betwixt between the East and West,
he calls on her wearing a leather vest,
the earth squeals and shudders to a halt.

It was the song “Romeo Had Juliette” from Lou Reed’s New York album. It’s a hell of a piece of music, and, standing there watching Maggie play soccer, I was glad our lives were nothing like a Lou Reed song—which is maybe one of the things I love most about these songs and our lives.

At the end of the game, Julien ran out to the field to greet Maggie, and she picked him up and walked with him in her arms back to the sidelines where Heather and I were waiting. And as we packed up our things, I wondered, Why isn’t B.B. King’s music going through my head? Or maybe some lines from the poet Franz Wright, both of whom had died the day before.

That’s when I realized—or maybe recalled is the more accurate word—that everything happens sooner or later. It always does. Because for me everything is the blues, and everything is poetry. Because every moment when something is given to me, something is taken away from someone else. And every moment when something is taken away from me, something is given to someone else. Sometimes that person doesn’t deserve what he gets. Sometimes I don’t deserve what I get.

But that’s the poetry at work. It’s what ties all this together, whether it wants to stay together or not. It’s what keeps all this going, whether it wants to keep going or not. And so these songs will continue to be sung, and all those notes within them will continue to be bent, and these lines will continue to flow, and poetry and the blues will keep going and going until everything is done. Or until there’s nothing else to do.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Never Too Much

Photograph by Jose Padua
The mix tape I made for myself in 1982
and can no longer find begins with
Luther Vandross singing “Never Too Much.”
I lost it in 1992 in New York.
Maybe I lent it to my painter friend, who’d
been painting in his studio in Dumbo listening
to Captain Beefheart and Earth, Wind & Fire
and wanted to try something different.
After all, inspiration is a variable thing,
and what one sees while listening to
That’s the Way of the World is different
from what one sees when Trout Mask Replica
is playing on the boombox in his studio.
We did a lot of drinking, then, of course.
I lived above the laundrymat on Avenue B
between 3rd and 4th streets. Sometimes junkies
would shoot up in the tiny foyer of my
building. Sometimes people would just
die on the street, some guy would collapse,
some beautiful woman would just stop
singing. Sometimes after smoking and
drinking I’d get to my fourth floor apartment
out of breath, thinking I could be dead too,
just another young fuck dying young,
then I’d sit down, turn on the stereo,
and listen, hearing something like “Jesus right
beside me, he never buys and he smokes.”
Maybe I heard it wrong, but those were
the words that stuck to me like the gum
on my shoe, that made me get up again
when I’d caught my breath and smiled
to myself, by myself, so high and lonesome.
Walking up a deserted Fifth Avenue
on a Sunday morning after staying up all
night, the music in my head was Sun Ra’s
“The Magic City” because I felt like
a black and white science fiction film
full of cold granite and gray skies.
Other cities had moments of silence,
but every moment of my life in New York City
had a soundtrack. Lou Reed was the mumbling
heat-seeking voice behind the junkies;
Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 18 was for
waking up unemployed on a Wednesday morning
just before the clock struck noon. Luther Vandross
played so many afternoons before I hit the bars
or met my friends. How many of them knew?
When I moved to New York I brought my paintings
with me but I never painted. I smoked cigarettes
and I wrote—about color, shape, and movement—
as I listened to my soundtrack, as I ate cheap
chicken and rice, washed my hands, splashed
water on my face, maybe ran a comb through
my hair, just once, that was enough. And I was always
by myself when I listened to Luther Vandross.
Sitting on the sofa in my apartment in the early evening,
waking up from whatever was missing during the day.
Stretching my arms, turning away from the window,
looking back toward the sink, as the sunlight seemed
to slide down the walls like liquid, when everything
would turn dark. I’d stand, light my cigarette,
open and close my door to walk down the dirty stairs,
and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore.

-Jose Padua

Photograph (taken on Houston Street, August 2014) by Jose Padua