#192: 1967, The Velvet Underground & Nico, Sunday Morning

by Ray_North on June 1, 2011

I was about fifteen and I lied; I lied and said that I had a copy of The Velvet Underground’s album with the banana on the front – it was a lie because I didn’t have it and I lied because I desperately wanted it – because on every advert for ‘band seeks bass player‘ that appeared in the NME or Melody Maker or on the wall of Cavern Records in my town (the coolest record shop in Llandudno, now, sadly a Mr Pound shop) – the band dreaming of rock immortality and a new rhythm section always, always, absolutely without exception, even in Llandudno, put ‘The Velvet Underground’ (and usually The Cure) as their influences. The message was simply – you want to play in a band, you’ve got to be into The Velvets.

Eventually I got the album, it didn’t disappoint. The Velvet Underground are the embodiment of cool – they were avant garde and bohemian and sexy and wore ray-bans and black polo-neck jumpers and snarled; they had a female drummer and a bassist who was a classical cellist and a singer who is enigmatic in a chameleon like way and another singer – who was a six foot blonde German goddess with the worst, yet sexiest, singing voice ever – no wonder every person who has ever wanted to be in a band wanted to be like The Velvet Underground.

I lied – there I’ve got if off my chest – but in mitigation, if I was going to lie about having an album, I’m pretty pleased that it was this one.

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