I have an instinctive aversion to band reunions, a trait that has manifested in all sorts of snippy little comments in this space. I have no good reason to feel this way, although I suspect it comes from essentially being part of the second generation to grow up with rock ‘n’ roll and therefore associated most bands from the distant past as relics who did little more than play the burgeoning casino circuit, often with a line-up of session musicians recruited to fill in for deceased or disinterested band members. I remember reading a Rolling Stone cover story about George Harrison, following the release of his fine “comeback” album Cloud 9, that veritably marveled over the fact that he could still make relevant music at the ripe-old age of 44-years-old. Still in my sour high school years, I agreed with the unlikeliness of that. These days, for understandable reasons, I feel a little more charitable to performers edging into that age range.

One of the only instances I can recall when I was actively excited about the prospect of a reunion came in the early nineties when the Velvet Underground got back together for a European tour. Certainly, I experiences some of the same transplanted excitement that comes from seeing a band in operation that would have otherwise been impossible for me, which is the precise sensation that these tours count on. But it wasn’t really about the prospect of buying a ticket and seeing the show since I agreed with the consensus opinion that the truce was unlikely to last long enough for the band to mount the American tour they speculated about when the first couple of gigs didn’t conclude with the musicians coming to blows. Instead, I was simply happy to know they were out there somewhere, getting paid handsomely to make all the music that was largely ignored at the time of its release (the highest-charting Velvet Underground new studio album was their debut, which peaked at 171). If anyone deserved a belated victory lap, it was them. As Brian Eno famously said, “Only five thousand people ever bought a Velvet Underground album, but every single one of them started a band.”

Sure enough, the reunion was fairly short-lived. Once the European obligations were complete, the splintering began in earnest, leaving only the video and audio documents of that tour as the only remnants. When the inevitable live CD was released, I dutifully jaunted down to my favorite local record store to purchase a copy. I’m embarrassed to report that it was the first Velvet Underground record I ever owned, a collection shortcoming that has long since been rectified. I don’t typically like live albums all that much–and this one’s no masterpiece–but I did listen to it quite a bit, hearing the predictive tones of much of the contemporary music that I loved. It was a manifesto to the future that was created in the past, and was, therefore, suddenly very much of the moment. If I couldn’t be there when it was first created, at least I had a chance to hear it at the moment when they were able to assert that they were always right after all.

The Velvet Underground, “I Heard Her Call My Name” (live)

(Disclaimer: As I’ve noted repeatedly, I utilize slapdash methodology for determining which music is out of print, and, by my self-imposed rules, thus eligible for use in the One for Friday feature. For example, I was convinced–convinced! I say–that the double live CD from 1993 was out of print, but today I discover that at least one major online retailer offers a convincing counter-argument. By the time I discovered this, I already had an awfully lot of words tapped out, naturally on a day when I have no time to scrap it and start over. So here’s the song anyway, presented with encouragement to seek out the full release from your favorite local, independently-owned record store if you like it. Should anyone with due authority to request its removal contact me with such a request, I will gladly and promptly comply. Especially if it’s Lou Reed. He kinda scares me.)