But Lou’s essential Reedishness lies in his unprecedented cynicism, along with his conviction that rock ‘n’ roll could be used as a medium for serious expression without giving up its trashy, offensive vitality. Sure, he has his antecedents: Bob Dylan and James Dean can be pinned down without too much trouble, and ghostly traces of Eisenhower-era doo-wop and R&B pop up in his music too. Reed ranks as one of rock’s great originals. But the question of drug abuse (Lou now does antidrug spots on MTV) only reminds me how fine it is that he’s still alive, much less writing good songs and playing great crappy guitar. I don’t know, maybe it’s all those years of drug abuse. He still writes cool songs, and still plays the kind of crappy guitar I love to hear, but his voice is a mess. But while he once was at least able to carry a tune and use his voice expressively in a dramatic sense, he now talks more than sings, and seems afflicted by an irritating, brittle vibrato that becomes especially pronounced whenever he gets too excited. Not that Lou has ever been what you’d call a conventionally good singer. He has a terrific band, and he sings in a voice that several female friends of mine have called the sexiest in rock ‘n’ roll (one said it reminded her of getting rubbed by a faceful of whiskers), but which has shown signs of deterioration in recent years.

Lou played at Park West recently ($25 a head!), obviously enjoying the crowd, performing with a genuine warmth tempered by the wary reserve that has never left him. But now I understand, or at least I can tell myself I do. First there was the underground Lou, then the decadent glitter Lou, followed by the burnout Lou, the mellow Lou, the punk Lou, the jazzy Lou, and so on. But then again, perhaps this is not so obvious, so I’ll take it back.

Best of Chicago 2022: Sports & Recreation.

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