The Velvet Underground and Nico (1966)

The Velvet Underground and Nico: A Symphony of Sound (USA, 1966) 64 min B&W DIR-PROD: Andy Warhol. DOP: Paul Morrissey. CAST: The Velvet Underground (Lou Reed, John Cale, Sterling Morrison, Maureen Tucker), Nico, Billy Name, Gerald Malanga, Mary Woronov. (Raro Video)

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The first onscreen composition of The Velvet Underground and Nico is a seemingly endless closeup of “chanteuse” Nico as the legendary Warhol Factory house band drones on the soundtrack. Perhaps initially we think we’re accidentally seeing one of Andy Warhol’s single-take portraits where the camera turns on and records every little mundane thing that his hungry hopeful superstars do for some kind of recognition from their aluminum foil master. Finally, the camera pulls out to see that Nico is banging a tambourine against her hip, adding a barely audible backbeat to this huge wall of noise. 

For nearly 52 of its 64 minutes, The Velvet Underground plays a continuous jam that is at once exotic, harrowing and hypnotic. One feels like they are providing live accompaniment to a long-lost Jack Smith movie populated with some sad-sack 42nd Street players in thrift shop costumes. This is a Warhol movie. You have to rely on the sounds for the kind of cinema that he will not provide.

The news that this seldom-seen Warhol film is now out on DVD (albeit in Region 2, from Raro Video in Italy) will no doubt thrill the most ardent Velvet Underground collector, and as such, this film is of insurmountable value alone for being an historic document of this influential band (a progenitor of punk). Yet because this is an Andy Warhol movie, the uninitiated may be flabbergasted by his artbrut approach: continue filming no matter what happens, even if the camera work sucks (and it quite often does). Warhol’s cinema is such that you don’t need to actually sit through the movie to get the point (and most people would rather not): one isn’t certain if his films are the work of a voyeur with an autistic obsession with everything however banal, or if they are a put on, or quite simply, if they are just plain lazy. In any event Warhol’s technique (or lack thereof) actually compliments this film.

After the recording of their first album, featuring the banana on the cover, which was produced by Warhol, the Velvet Underground parted company with Andy and recorded a couple more albums for Verve, which extrapolated on that unique sound they perfected at the Warhol factory. One senses that Warhol felt genuinely hurt by this departure, especially when one sees his curious approach to documenting this soon-to-be legendary combo. Whether one considers Andy Warhol to be a fraud or a manipulator (as his hapless Superstars were as reliant on him as he was on them), for this one instance, he feels like a slave to his subject. 

The Velvets jam incessantly in one single take for 50-odd minutes. Warhol is exacting his propensity to keep going at all costs, not to interrupt whatever may happen in front of the camera. For this film it is a blessing, so as not to do anything to change the improvisation, or to lose this caught moment. For the VU cult, this uninterrupted jam is priceless. This wall of distortion and jangling rhythms certainly is unlike anything heard on their (legitimate) records- in fact, the 17-minute “Sister Ray”  seems like single compared to this. This long monotone jam almost becomes mantra-like, and Warhol wisely does not defile this Bowery sacrament. (I am wondering if this is the same music used in Jonas Mekas’ Scenes from Andy Warhol, which was a collection of diary-like moments he had filmed at the Warhol factory.) This sweet barrage is allowed to continue while the camera (seemingly nailed to a tripod) crudely zooms in and out, rigidly pans back and forth, from Nico (dazedly banging on a tambourine, awaiting the word “Cut”) to Moe Tucker on drums (I’m glad we see her, because we sure don’t hear her); from John Cale trying on an arsenal of different instruments to Sterling Morrison dutifully marching along, from Lou Reed looking off-camera to some unexpected guests, to a little boy on the stage floor pounding along to this weird propulsion. We then wonder if this tot is the son of Nico- the poor kid that she would later get hooked onto heroin.

One senses that this film would go on forever were it not for the curious presence of the police that breaks up this wonderful cacophony. For the remainder of the film, the band is divested of its exotic sound, and then they wander around with a “Well, that’s that” kind of shrug until the camera finally stops running. Their dialogue is barely intelligible, but it makes little difference- we have enough in our heads at the moment. We are wondering if the cops’ intrusion is some cruel joke that Warhol has played on his children. Suddenly this strange, rather mesmerizing aural otherworld has been ceased. Paradise is lost, and we are back between four walls, in a scene full of uncertainty and despair.

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Originally published in Vol. #1, Issue #17, “Rock And Roll Goes To The Movies”.