We all have our weaknesses, right? Mostly hidden, under-the-skin, behind-the-shades, no tickee, no talkie. I’m a self styled macho man, belying sensitivity, eschewing any and all qualities that might hint at the feminine, always stomping the ground in the No Tear Zone. What is it then about The Velvet Underground and Lou Reed’s early songwriting efforts at straightforward pop balladry, that just slices, dices, and wipes me out? When young/ambitious/Lou goes all poetic and maudlin, minor keys and strummy-strum, I just about break out in sobs and wanna run backwards into my childhood bedroom closet, hold onto my knees, scrunch my eyes closed, and rock slowly back and forth in forthright, contemplative solitude like some knee-socked, flaxen-haired, mixed-up shook-up, pre-flower child adolescent girl. Help me Rhonda, why does early/sincere/Lou elicit in my innards such a worrisome response? I dunno, I can’t explain, I’m simply not tuned in enough to my inner self (or outer idiocy) to even think about plunging somehow inward for those deep psychological reveals. I’m all surface baby, and digging it out there. Let me just roll out the handkerchief and bite manlike into a cigar and listen to Nico and Lou do the eternally killer Femme Fatale, or secret weapon Alejandro Escevedo do a to-die-for cover the Velvet’s Pale Blue Eyes with a goddam string quartet, or maybe trot out the ever sublime Sunday Morning. Somebody hide the absinthe from me, please.