The Velvet Underground cauterized their time, searing the bloodstream of hedonism and frustration. Theirs was a demimonde, offering salvation in place of morality, ends justified by means. To be real, they vowed, pitting the absurd against the vulgar. The black angel would peal its death song, sufferance and understanding as final reward, while terror and certainty fused in scenes of rumbling destruction, buildings toppling, cities left smoldering in ruins.

They stood alone, regarded as a curiosity or a "bum trip," their darkling visions no match for the optimism engloving America. It was only later, when they'd at last broken under the pressure of hindsight, that their truth would become known: beauty in evil, evil in beauty, taking the strange twists of the human soul and glorifying them in a play of passions, "All Tomorrow's Parties." Even their name … seemed to hint at unknown depravities better whispered in private...