El 04 de julio de 1971, la revista Crawdaddy publicó un artículo escrito por Lou Reed que iba sobre el tema del espectáculo. Este artículo apareció durante una de las fases más interesantes para Reed: después de su salida de The Velvet Underground, pero antes de su viaje a Londres para grabar su primer disco en solitario con Rick Wakeman y Steve Howe, entre otros.
Meses antes de la grabación de álbum, Reed trabajó en la firma de contabilidad de su padre, en la primavera de 1971; fueron momentos tan cambiantes en su vida que bien podría haber pensado en sí mismo como un exmúsico de rock y poeta, o un híbrido de ambos. La colaboración para Crawdaddy, se centró en el terreno del espectáculo dominado por grandes grupos famosos de rock y con costosos espectáculos, lo que fue sin duda, la fórmula del éxito comercial en ese momento. ¿Hay algo envidia en estas palabras, o es sólo la insistencia de un artista de vanguardia con otros valores hacia el arte dirigido a públicos de nicho? A partir de esta representación ligeramente despectiva sobre los grandes espectáculos, Reed concluye que el representante natural del espectáculo es como el borracho más famoso del pueblo.
Sostiene que el golpeteo sin rumbo de muchas baterías se remonta a la tradición oral encarnada por La Ilíada que dio paso a la balada como “un buen método de iluminar a los demás y también, de aburrir a algunos más, pues una situación sólo puede calificarse de exitosa cuando las personas involucradas han sido expulsadas del pub, por lo tanto, se ha hecho un espectáculo de sí mismos”. Claro que Lou también dice que a través de la balada y el poema encontró la forma de expulsar de él miles de premisas impuestas por el mundo en el que vivía. El artículo termina con la balada/poema, con treinta versos, la mayoría de ellos cuartetos. En él, narra una de sus experiencias en la Tercera Avenida Blarney Stone en NY, pero luego, confusamente cambia de esa historia a un segunda llamada “Janis, Jimi, y yo”. El poema en sí está escrito en un modo “del período antiguo”, algo parecido a una canción típica irlandesa sobre beber, una aventura pirata, o ambas.
El poema que de entrada parece confuso y sin sentido, sí significa algo: es acerca de los peligros que hay para quienes se dedican al espectáculo en busca de un público más amplio, es decir, el estrellato del rock. El poema trata de un herrero que se une a “un espectáculo juglar” y traiciona a su amada con Rosie “que ramera llamada Red María”. Finalmente, el poema da paso al tema de Woodstock y termina como una especie de alegre canto fúnebre por las muertes prematuras de Janis Joplin y Jimi Hendrix, que habían muerto un año antes de que este poema tuviera publicación.
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Dear, There is sanctity in my domain that separates us from evil If you cross the door no good will come for outside there are devils.
I was a blacksmith years ago I made the anvil ring But since my Rosie up and died niether of us sing.
My children went away long ago to far and distant shores leaving me to beg and steal copper pennies from the whores.
Often when it rains out I make a spot of tea and concentrate on consequence and how I left Rosie.
And seeing how you look so much as she once did before I thought that I would tell you There are devils outside that door.
When I was but a smirky youth I joined a minstrel show. I covered my face with red paint And told a joke or two.
I thought that I was quite the lad but experience has shown I was only made of wood while castles require stone.
Rosie saw my failure, clown, and loved me with it all. A mother’s heart beat in her breast as it does in women all.
So I opened up a smythe shop and shoed the horses round till sin came on silken heels And took my Rosie down.
Her name was Mary, what a laugh no Virgin Mary she. Her perfume took my breath away and liquor made me sing.
I did for her my minstrel prance and even got a laugh. But the joke was on me for that night of stealth snuffed out my Rosie’s life.
My daughter, an apprentice seamstress, was wandering through the snow and hearing her dear father’s song did peer through the window.
And Savage Grace please set me loose the night that she did see was her own father intimately intertwined with that harlot Red Mary.
And I like drunken sailors do the next morning had a head and when I went unto my berth I found my Rosie dead.
In her hand I found a note Crushed to her still opened eyes. In it she’d writ in letters big “There are Devils Loose Outside”
So you see my dear why I’ve brought you here Please let an old man speak For your eyes are clear and you have no fear and I am far too weak to ask but only for one thing and it will not take long, let an old man spill his heart out in a little song:
“Oh fairy maid and garden rose I’ve loved you for a time and if I send for Black McGhee we’ll have a good old time.
“The waters flow and dancers strut for camaraderie now so let’s get off to the beerman’s pub and laugh and drink and love.
“Oh I’m a friend of Black McGhee and he’s a friend of me and both of us have had our sport of life without money.
“And though our wives be black as death we’ll always have our times, so here’s to sport and here’s to love and here’s to my friend McGhee.”
So you see my girl it isn’t long to have your portrait done I do it with my eyes and words for of paint I do have none
But my mind has of late come obsessed all stories sound the same. Rain to me seems winterish and sunshine lays no claim.
McGhee is gond, my children too and Rosie far too soon. while age creeps round me like a withering vine that makes me seem the prune.
So I hope that you will understand when I say as but before, be careful when you leave this room there are Devils outside that Door.
* * *
I am no longer afraid of dying I am no more afraid of death for I know what does await me when I take that final step.
I will go to Woodstock Heaven and listen to the guitars there, all the singers who are waiting to serenade me in the sky.
Ohhh Janis, Jimi, and me will dance among the moonbeams and the clouds, and no one there will ever hassle us, it’ll just be Janis (BONG) Jimi (BONG) and me.
I no longer listen to the radio, my favorite music is no more, all the musicians are in the Woodstock Choir following the manic depressives law.
There is Frankie Lymon in his Golden robe and Brian Jones is on the flute and Baby Huey is softly playing in a beautiful silver suit.
Oh I’m going to Woodstock Heaven and dance among the moonbeams and the clouds. And no one there will ever hassle us, It’ll just be Janis (BONG) Jimi (BONG) and me. BONG . . . . . .BONG . . . . .BONG
Janis, Jimi, And Me: Lyrics Reprinted with the Permission of Cowardly Lion Music) (BMI). C. 1971