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Note moyenne 4.43 /5 (sur 21 notes)

Nationalité : États-Unis
Né(e) à : Brooklyn, New-York , le 02/03/1942
Mort(e) à : New York , le 27/10/2013
Biographie :

Lou Reed, de son vrai nom Lewis Alan Reed, est un artiste américain qui a débuté sa carrière avec le groupe The Velvet Underground.
Il y occupait les postes de guitariste, chanteur et a composé nombre de titres restés populaires même après la séparation du groupe en 1970. Le Velvet Underground a influencé plusieurs générations de compositeurs, bien que n'ayant connu que peu de succès commercial dans les sixties1.
On attribue à Brian Eno la remarque selon laquelle si juste quelques milliers de fans achetèrent le premier disque du Velvet Underground, chacun de ces derniers créèrent un groupe. C'est en cela que Lou Reed et le Velvet Underground restent aussi légendaires malgré la quasi-inexistence de tubes, contrairement aux autres groupes influents de cette époque. Lou Reed fait partie des icônes du rock même si son succès commercial fut moindre que d'autres artistes qui ont forgé l'histoire du rock comme Bob Dylan, Neil Young, David Bowie...
Ses textes et sa musique ont beau être percutants, leur noirceur (qui atteint son apogée dans l'album Berlin) ne lui apporte aucun succès commercial. Sa voix en parlé/chanté est une autre « marque de fabrique » de Lou Reed.
Lou Reed « prince de la nuit et des angoisses » obtint pourtant un réel succès commercial avec un titre, très sombre et osé Walk on the Wild Side.
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Lou Reed : Lecture publique au studio 104 à Paris [2008 / France Culture] http://le-semaphore.blogspot.fr/2014/.... Émission : L'Atelier de la création sur France Culture, diffusée le 25 décembre 2013. De Bernard Comment et Manoushak Fashahi (rediffusion "Surpris par la Nuit" – 24/11/2011). Avec : Lou Reed. Bernard Comment. Traduction : Sophie Couronne et Larry Debay. Lecture : Caroline Ducey. Réalisation : Manoushak Fashahi. « Je ne suis pas une rock and roll star, je suis un écrivain qui écrit et produit ses propres trucs. » Le 20 octobre 2008, Lou Reed a fait une lecture publique au CentQuatre à Paris. Pas n’importe quelle lecture : ce sont les textes de certaines de ses chansons qu’il déclame avec une émotion presque palpable, ceux de la radio Lou, fréquence qu’il était le seul à pouvoir capter ; sa radio intime en quelque sorte, son labyrinthe de paroles, d’images toutes plus poignantes les unes que les autres. C’était à l’occasion de la parution d’un livre aux éditions du Seuil, intitulé "Traverser le feu", ouvrage qui rassemble l’intégrale des textes de ses chansons. France Culture a eu la très bonne idée de retransmettre sur ses ondes cet enregistrement unique où la voix du vieux rocker s’avance, nue, sans guitare, portant en bandoulière le feu de ses mots. La traduction française arrive ensuite, relayée par la voix de Caroline Ducey. Puis, quelques chansons viennent émailler le fil de la lecture. Ainsi lus sans musique, les textes de ses chansons prennent une tout autre texture : les images se font plus présentes, plus persistantes. Elles se gravent dans notre esprit comme une marque au fer rouge. Et que dire de cette voix qui a tant vécu, cette voix d’homme – sans doute au fond si proche de l’enfant qu’il fut –, qui nous fait le don unique de son témoignage artistique, de sa parole créatrice ; cette parole qui s’offre à nous comme une embrassade fraternelle… Lou Reed a hissé la grand-voile et navigue sur le fleuve de sa mémoire. C’est cinq ans plus tard, presque jour pour jour, qu’il ôtera le masque bleu de son visage pour regarder Charon droit dans les yeux. En sa compagnie, il se peut qu’il soit allé traverser le Styx pour ensuite laver son corps et son âme dans les eaux bienfaisantes de l’oubli – dans le miroir du Léthé. Sa propre traversée du feu, il devait l’accomplir seul – laissant ses frères humains derrière lui se débrouiller comme ils le peuvent. Entendre cette voix nue nous lire les mots d’une vie entière, c’est beau comme l’éclair qui fendille l’eau noire du ciel avec son harpon de lumière. © Thibault Marconnet le 09 avril 2014 Thèmes : Création Radiophonique| 20e siècle| Musique| Poésie| Rock| Velvet Underground| Lou Reed| Bernard Comment Source : France Culture

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Citations et extraits (15) Voir plus Ajouter une citation
 Lou Reed
carre   27 octobre 2013
Lou Reed
Je crois que le rock’n’roll est une culture urbaine typique du vingtième siècle. Je crois que ça a été inventé pour que quelqu’un rassemble une histoire, des paroles, des sentiments et une qualité de littérature qui soient délicieux et complémentaires à l’intelligence et au corps. On a eu Ulysse. Dostoïevski, et Shakespeare, et je voudrais créer quelque chose qui soit aussi précieux dans une maison que ces œuvres. (1981)
Commenter  J’apprécie          453
 Lou Reed
Pavlik   04 août 2016
Lou Reed
Je ne pense pas qu'il y ait quelqu’un dans le rock qui écrive des textes qui signifient quelque chose, à part moi. Je ne parle pas à beaucoup de gens. Quand quelqu’un est plus intelligent que moi, je la ferme et j'écoute. Ça n’arrive pas souvent.
Commenter  J’apprécie          290
 Lou Reed
SZRAMOWO   19 juin 2016
Lou Reed
Parfois, la musique rend les mots plus efficaces.

Dans les pièces et les livres, l'auteur a le droit d'écrire ce qui se passe réellement. Pourquoi la vérité des faits et des sentiments serait-elle refusée aux chansons ?
Commenter  J’apprécie          70
ThibaultMarconnet   06 décembre 2020
Parole de la nuit sauvage de Lou Reed
The Day John Kennedy Died (Le jour où John Kennedy est mort)



I dreamed I was president of these United States

I dreamed I replaced ignorance, stupidity and hate

I dreamed the perfect union and the perfect law, undenied

And most of all I dreamed I forgot the day John Kennedy died



I dreamed that I could do the job that others hadn’t done

I dreamed that I was uncorrupt and fair to everyone

I dreamed I wasn’t gross or base, a criminal on the take

And most of all I dreamed I forgot the day John Kennedy died



I remember where I was that day I was upstate in a bar

The team from the university was playing football on T.V.

Then the screen went dead and the announcer said

“There’s been a tragedy, there are unconfirmed reports the

President’s been shot, and he may be dead or dying.”

Talking stopped, someone shouted, “What?!”



I ran out the street

People were gathered everywhere saying did you hear what they

said on T.V.

and then a guy in a Porsche with his radio on

hit his horn and told us the news

He said, “The President’s dead, he was shot twice in the head

in Dallas, and they don’t know by whom.”



I dreamed that I was president of these United States

I dreamed that I was young and smart and it was not a waste

I dreamed that there was a point to life and to the human race

I dreamed I could somehow comprehend that someone

shot him in the face



*



J’ai rêvé que j’étais président des États-Unis

Je gommais l’ignorance, la bêtise et la haine

J’ai rêvé d’une entente et d’une loi parfaites, incontestées

Et surtout j’ai rêvé que j’avais oublié le jour où John Kennedy est mort



J’ai rêvé que je faisais ce que les autres n’avaient pas fait

Que j’étais intègre, et juste avec tout le monde

Que je n’étais ni vulgaire ni abject, pas un escroc qui touche des pots-de-vin

Et surtout j’ai rêvé que j’avais oublié le jour où John Kennedy est mort



Ce jour-là j’étais dans un bar, à la frontière de l’État

Je regardais l’équipe de foot de l’université à la télé

Puis l’image a été coupée et un présentateur a dit :

« Il vient d’arriver une tragédie, la nouvelle n’est pas officielle, on a tiré sur le

président, il pourrait être mort ou en train de mourir. »

Les conversations se sont arrêtées, quelqu’un a crié : « Quoi ?! »



J’ai foncé dans la rue

Les gens se rassemblaient ils disaient : vous avez entendu

ce qu’ils ont dit à la télé

Puis un type en Porsche, sa radio allumée

a klaxonné et nous a annoncé la nouvelle

Il a dit : « Le président est mort, on lui a tiré deux balles dans la tête

à Dallas, ils ne savent pas qui c’est. »



J’ai rêvé que j’étais président des États-Unis

Que j’étais jeune, intelligent et ça servait à quelque chose

La vie avait un sens, ainsi que le genre humain

J’ai rêvé que je pouvais comprendre qu’on lui ait

tiré dans la figure



(p. 180-183)
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Commenter  J’apprécie          40
TristanPichard   08 janvier 2014
Traverser le feu : Intégrale des chansons de Lou Reed
Candy dit j'en viens à détester mon corps

et tout ce qu'il exige en ce monde

Candy dit je voudrais savoir absolument

Ce dont les autres parlent si discrètement



Candy says, sur l'album The Velvet Underground
Commenter  J’apprécie          60
hesperie   16 août 2011
Parole de la nuit sauvage de Lou Reed
Heroin



I don't know just where I'm going

But I'm going to try for the kingdom if I can

Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man

When I put a spike in my vein

Then I'll tell you things aren't quite the same

When I'm rushing on my run

And I feel like Jesus'son

And I guess that I just don't know

And I guess that I just don't know
Commenter  J’apprécie          50
ThibaultMarconnet   06 décembre 2020
Parole de la nuit sauvage de Lou Reed
Waves of Fear (Vagues d’angoisse)



Waves of fear attack in the night

Waves of revulsion—sickening sights

My heart’s nearly bursting

My chest’s choking tight



Waves of fear

Squat on the floor

Looking for some pill, the liquor is gone

Blood drips from my nose, I can barely breathe

Waves of fear I’m too scared to leave



I’m too afraid to use the phone

I’m too afraid to put the light on

I’m so afraid I’ve lost control

I’m suffocating without a word

Crazy with sweat, spittle on my jaw

What’s that funny noise,

what’s that on the floor

Waves of fear

Pulsing with death

I curse at my tremors

I jump at my own step

I cringe at my terror

I hate my own smell

I know where I must be

I must be in hell



Waves of fear

Waves of fear



*



Les vagues d’angoisse attaquent la nuit

Vagues de dégoût — visions qui rendent fou

Mon cœur va éclater

Ma poitrine se resserre

Vagues d’angoisse, vagues d’angoisse



Vagues d’angoisse

Blotti sur le sol

Je cherche une pilule, plus d’alcool

Je peux à peine respirer, du sang coule de mon nez

Vagues d’angoisse, trop peur pour sortir



Trop peur pour téléphoner

Pour allumer la lumière

Si peur d’avoir perdu le contrôle

Je suffoque sans rien dire

Je sue comme une bête, je bave

Quel est ce bruit,

Cette chose par terre

Vagues d’angoisse

Vagues de mort

Maudits tremblements

Je sursaute au bruit de mes pas

Ma peur m’effraie

Je hais mon odeur

Je sais où je suis

En enfer



Vagues d’angoisse

Vagues d’angoisse



(p. 174-175)
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Commenter  J’apprécie          30
Bibalice   18 décembre 2011
Parole de la nuit sauvage de Lou Reed
Lou Reed : Je vous admire tellement. En lisant Lettres à Olga...

[...]

Vaclav Havel : Ce livre illisible. Je l'ai écrit en prison, et tout ce qui était compréhensible , a été, euh, interdit. [...] Censuré. Ils m'ont appris à écrire des phrases de plus en plus compliquées, et aujourd'hui je ne comprends plus grand chose à ce texte.. Ce langage extrêmement complexe, c'est le résultat de la pression de la censure en prison. Parce que s'ils ne comprennent pas une oeuvre, ils autorisent sa diffusion (Rires.)

Commenter  J’apprécie          40
SZRAMOWO   19 juin 2016
Chansons : L'intégrale Volume 1, 1967-1980 de Lou Reed
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit.

It was now mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months.

Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls.

True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity.

She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement.

She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry.

He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams.

He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his printed quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes,

As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothings of some Neanderthal,

Finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.



Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him.

Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts.

And the thing was, they wouldn't understand who she really was.

He, Waldo, alone, understood this.

He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche.

He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn't there. (Awww.)

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear.

He had just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar-fifty

And had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha.

There was nothing more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs.

At least they cared enough to write.



It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in

the mails. Then it struck him: he didn't have enough

money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,

true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly

simple. He would ship himself parcel post special

delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket

to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought

masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized

cardboard box, just right for a person of his build.

He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could

ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, a

selection of midnight snacks, and it would probably be

as good as going tourist.



By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly

packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up

at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "FRAGILE"

and as he sat curled up inside, resting in the foam

rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried

to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha's

face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped

the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo

finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then

maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of

this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package

and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud

in a truck and then he was off.



Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It

had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember

not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it

though. After it was over he'd said that he still

respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way

of nature and even though no, he didn't love her, he

did feel an affection for her. And after all, they

were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo --

but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her

very, very best friend walked in through the porch

screen door into the kitchen. "Oh God, it's

absolutely maudlin outside."

"Ugh, I know what you mean, I feel all icky." Marsha

tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk

outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt

grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and

made a face.

"I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she

wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing

up."

Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an

exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even

talk about that." She got up from the table and went

to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and

blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than

steak." And attempted to touch her knees. "I don't

think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again." She gave up

and sat down, this time nearer the small table that

supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she

said to Sheila's glance.

Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I

thought maybe you'd be through with him."

"I know what you mean. My God, he was like an

octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured,

raising her arms upward in defense. "The thing is

after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you

know, and after all he didn't really do anything

Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you

know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila

was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell

you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," she

bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to," and now she

was laughing very loudly.



It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence

Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large

stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson

opened the door, he helped her carry the package in.

He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed

and left with a fifteen-cent tip that Marsha had

gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in

the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked.

Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. S

he stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in

the middle of the living room. "I don't know."



Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as

he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her

fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the

center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the

return address and see who it is from?" Waldo felt

his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating

footsteps. It would be soon.



Marsha walked around the carton and read the

ink-scratched label. "Ugh, God, it's from Waldo!"

"That schmuck," said Sheila. Waldo trembled with

expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said

Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the stapled flap.



"Ahh, shit," said Marsha groaning. "He must have

nailed it shut." They tugged at the flap again. "My

God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened."

They pulled again. "You can't get a grip!" They

both stood still, breathing heavily.

"Why don't you get the scissors," said Sheila. Marsha

ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a

little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her

father kept a collection of tools in the basement.

She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had a

large sheet-metal cutter in her hand.

"This is the best I could find." She was very out of

breath. "Here, you do it. I'm gonna die." She sank

into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily.

Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape

and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too

big and there wasn't enough room. "Godamn this

thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then,

smiling, "I got an idea."

"What?" said Marsha.

"Just watch," said Sheila touching her finger to her

head.



Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with

excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin

felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart

beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila

stood quite upright and walked around to the other

side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees,

grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath

and plunged the long blade through the middle of the

package, through the middle of the masking tape,

through the cardboard, through the cushioning and

(thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head,

which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs

of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun
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Commenter  J’apprécie          10
hesperie   16 août 2011
Parole de la nuit sauvage de Lou Reed
I'll be your mirror





I'll be your mirror, reflect what you are

In case you don't know

I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset

The light on your door

To show that you're home



When you think the night has seen your mind

that inside you're twisted and unkind

Let me stand to show that you are blind

Please put down your hands

Cause I see you



I find it hard

to believe you don't know

The beauty you are

But if you don't

Let me be your eyes

A hand to your darkness

So you won't be afraid



When you see the night has seen your mind

that inside you're twisted and unkind

Let me stand to show that you are blind

Please put down your hands

Cause I see you



I'll be your mirro
Commenter  J’apprécie          30

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Tout le monde connait la célèbre série de livres d'aventures du "Club des Cinq", formé de quatre enfants - François, Mick, Claude, Annie - et d'un chien . mais comment s'appelle ce chien ?

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