MARCH 1969
It rocks but is so twisted. Raw power. I am gone, flattened. The roar increases
In the first edition of his What Goes On fanzine, MC Kostek remembers the first time he ever saw The Velvet Underground in March 1969. He was 16.
“This next song’s called Heroin.” The thin figure dressed in black on stage looks nervously around. ‘It’s not, uh, for or against it. It’s just about it.’ The two South Deerfield, Mass., cops at the side entrances are momentarily distracted from their evening’s boredom (the only relief provided by teen drunks and gatesneakers). Now this weirdo with the black leather jacket and sunglasses is talking to them about heroin. “This song’s been banned in San Francisco. Hope you like it.”
So imagine you’re a kid, and you’re at your second concert ever, and you’re sitting in 1969 with whatever there is of the small farming town area hippie slick of kids. These people with nasty clothes get on stage and BANNNGGO! Such noise! This guy who sings funny is waving a guitar, another’s hunched over the keyboards unearthing some mighty odd sounds, another’s hunched over the bass, and the drummer, who looks like a woman, is playing with big mallets (the kind that kick the bass drum on regular kits), the better to bang her bass drum, turned on its side as a snare, with.
From the first screech, I’m transfixed. The songs, about waiting, love, call my name, all fly by in a vicious torrent. During the break, we dare each other to go chat with them. It’s tempting, but they’re too forbidding, and we try to relax.
A few buzzheads dance near the front of the stage, but the rest of the few hundred hipsters sit immobile on the floor, trying to deal with this howl. It gets late, and the “leader” says they’re going to do this story-song. He kicks out this riff, and while things before were intense, they are now erupting, they slowly build, and begin to fly. The singer’s yelling something about his “ding-dong” and they kick into a harder, faster wail. The singer’s hand is a blur, stroking and making this 12-string shudder and scream, the bass player’s got another guitar and is ripping up on that, the organist is leaning, slapping the keys.
And the drummer – not only has she stood all night, but she’s pounded steadily with those big mallets all the while, raising one up over her head for the big BAMP-BAMP-BAMP. Steady. I’m not quite sure how long this went on. It seemed a half-hour – but time, space, meant nothing. I was gone, flattened by the raw power. It rocked but it was so twisted. The roar increased, then built until I could hardly stand it.