There comes a moment in every young woman’s life when she has to break from the Beatles and Moody Blues of her childhood and start thinking about drugs and consider wearing dark eyeliner. I was 19 and completely devoid of freakiness, wearing tapered jeans and calling my mom back on Sundays, when I bought a used copy of “Velvet Underground” from CD Warehouse.
Laying on the living room floor of my first apartment, summer of ’02, listening to these songs over and over, thinking about boys I couldn’t have and art I was too scared to make, I felt myself becoming a different sort of person, track by track. Lou Reed taught me how to be an adult — or what I thought was an adult, but which turned out to be the part just before adulthood, the part where you make most of your mistakes. It was important, I guess.