Lou Reed 26: The Raven

The idea that Lou Reed might be a fan of the work of Edgar Allen Poe isn’t such a stretch. Whether or not Lou saw himself in the same caliber as a writer is open to debate, but when occasional collaborator Robert Wilson approached him with the idea of a theater piece based on Poe’s work, he took the bold step of adapting some of it to music, rewriting other pieces, adding his own scatological touches, and even weaving in two of his own songs. Just to be extreme, The Raven was an ambitious double-CD set, released simultaneously as a single-CD condensation that’s heavier on the musical portions. It is not a fun listen in either incarnation.

It’s recorded well, of course, with support from trusty sidekicks Mike Rathke, Fernando Saunders, and Tony “Thunder” Smith, with a beefy horn section and Jane Scarpantoni on cello. Much of the program is spoken, sometimes effectively, usually overacted, from such stereotypical creepy voices as Willem Dafoe, Steve Buscemi, Elizabeth Ashley, and Amanda Plummer, among others. Various famous musicians turn up too. (Incidentally, co-producer Hal Willner had spearheaded a similar star-studded tribute to Poe a few years earlier.)

Musically, it’s so-so. The “Overture” is a blast of guitar and drums a la “Dorita” from Magic And Loss, but “Edgar Allan Poe” (said to be “not exactly the boy next do’”) sounds like a parody. “A Thousand Departed Friends” pits a distorted guitar against a honking sax over a martial drumbeat for five minutes, which is approximately when a melody surfaces. “Change” is barked from the point of view of Death, while “Blind Rage” is used to illustrate the old man in “The Tell-Tale Heart”. “Balloon” is an a cappella duet by the McGarrigle Sisters, though if you wanted to hear Steve Buscemi do a Sinatra impression, listen no further than “Broadway Song”. Lou himself unwisely changes his voice to take on a character in “Burning Embers”; a version sung straight might actually be worth it. After the unsettling dialogue of “Guilty”, Lou sings it again while Ornette Coleman improvises. “I Wanna Know” is supposed to illustrate “The Pit And The Pendulum”, but merely has Lou emoting a monologue with the Blind Boys of Alabama. The too-brief “Hop-Frog” barely delivers the promise of another collaboration with David Bowie, but the feedback and electronics that illustrate “Fire Music” are frighteningly vivid.

It’s not all horrible. “The Bed” from Berlin is used to comment on “The Fall Of The House Of Usher”, while “Perfect Day” (sung by Anohni, when she was still known as Antony Hegarty) sets up his rewrite of “The Raven”. “Call On Me” is a very pretty dialogue of sorts, Lou singing a mournful part and Laurie Anderson responding in prose before adding her own unaccompanied melody at the end. “Vanishing Act” is a lovely reverie set over the barest piano followed by beautiful strings, and “Science Of The Mind” is even more stark, with Anohni harmonizing just right. “Who Am I? (Tripetina’s Song)” builds from a simple set of chords to a wonderfully orchestrated epic, and “Guardian Angel” manages to quietly close the proceedings with something akin to peace. Taken together, these highlights present more of Lou’s softer, more vulnerable side.

If The Raven brings the work of Poe to modern audiences, then that mostly fulfills Lou’s hope for it. As an album, it’s a vanity project and should be approached with caution. The better musical moments are on the single disc, if that helps.

Lou Reed The Raven (2003)—2