Started off like the rest of them, with the best of intentions. A few of us would meet around our place, we’d crack open a few bottles, eye up a few lines, hunt out the vinyl, call a few mates and fritter away our hours reminiscing where we were when we first heard Satellite of Love (under the bed covers, Radio Luxembourg) or Waiting for My Man (the Pantiles, Royal Tunbridge Wells). We would trace his life against ours and try to remember what we were doing when Metal Machine Music assaulted our unsuspecting souls.
Soon of course it got out of hand. A row broke out about the real meaning of Perfect Day and insults started to fly. Someone made a series of gags about pop stars addictions to various types of wild sea bird and it wasn’t too long before the LPs were propping up the kitchen table and the liquid pouring out of the bottles became more viscous, along with the insults. It was only a matter of time before someone barged in to tell us to keep the noise down.
The rest of the night was rapidly forgotten, along with a lot of Lou Reed’s music, it has to said. The morning after the night before saw a few sprightly dancers move in and start some aerobic classes amongst the debris and an aspirant Andy Warhol tried daubing his name on the walls of the living room in protest.
But the moment was gone, and with it Lou Reed’s spirit of the anarchic and mundane. We won’t be having another party like that probably ever again.