In the more than three decades since Lou Reed left the band, the Velvet Underground's secured place in rock's canon has become pretty much watertight. Their towering reputation as rock legends is now irrefutable. Not too shabby for a band who, in their day, only sold a handful of records, and whose live shows were meagerly attended. The Velvets' current status has stemmed primarily from their four studio albums and their wicked, junk-inspired depravity. But what tends to get lost in the praise is the band's reputed brilliance as a live act, a reputation that should only grow exponentially after people have a chance to hear Robert Quine's tapes.

Prior to this release, only a few "official" live Velvets releases existed: the incredible double-disc set 1969 and the tour documents from their mid-90s reunion being the most readily available. And then there's the dreadful Live at Max's Kansas City, which, while allegedly Reed's documented last stand with the group, is of interest only to those with dire historical interest or those with a need to hear table conversation revolving around drug scores. So now, with The Quine Tapes, the innocent public can finally find out what those confounded bootleggers have been shouting out for nearly thirty years: the Velvet Underground live on stage were a staggering dynamic presence, unpredictable and explosive.

While mentioning bootlegs, I guess I'd better say that what the title of this box set suggests is exactly what you get. Unlike Dylan's Live 1966 or the majority of officially released, artist-sanctioned "bootlegs," this release is a murky, sometimes shitty-sounding audience recording by Robert Quine, a rabid VU fan who would later play guitar with both Richard Hell and Lou Reed. So, the caveat: if you're looking for a pristine audio document, this isn't it. But if you're keen on hearing a record that's crammed with beautiful group interchange and a series of magical moments, The Quine Tapes has it all in droves.

Capturing the band on a jaunt through the West Coast, Quine and VU archivist Bill Levinson have hand-selected a three-disc set of songs that finds the Velvets setting up camp in San Francisco amongst the hippies and peaceniks at two different venues: the Matrix and Family Dog. It shatters the illusion of the Velvets as decadent East Coast degenerates; on the contrary, Reed sounds surprisingly at ease, peppering the performances with friendly between-song banter and issuing often-revealing song introductions. The easiness spills over into the actual performances as well, which find the band stretching out into relaxed improvisations, often transforming arrangements and adlibbing lines. Of course, there are still the blistering sonic assaults that you'd expect from the Velvet Underground, but ultimately, Reed, Morrison, Tucker and John Cale replacement Doug Yule sound right at home.

What with Reed's seedy lyrics about blowjobs, sadomasochism and an NYC world of hookers and junkie cravings, a tranquil setting isn't exactly what you might expect from a Velvets concert. But the majority of tracks here move along at an easy, flowing pace-- rarely hurried and always allowing time for the band's meandering explorations. The two versions of "I'm Waiting for the Man" (both of which are universes apart from the anxious edginess evidenced on The Velvet Underground & Nico) are leisurely and laid-back, almost entirely abandoning the hard-edged grit of the original. In particular, the delightful version from the Matrix on the third disc is a gorgeous, loping stroll that finds Lou Reed in a remarkably jovial mood, whistling in between a set of improvised verses.

Elsewhere, the Velvets slam their feet on the gas pedal and push everything furiously into overdrive. With Cale's atonal viola scrapings and dissonant experiments gone from the fray, what we've got here is Reed and Sterling Morrison urging the others on with full-throttled, bursting-at-the-seams guitar fuzz. "I Can't Stand It" moves at a fever pitch for over six minutes with Tucker and Yule thumping away on percussive duties while Reed unleashes a frantic guitar solo. "Foggy Notion" is out of the gates in a heady blaze with Morrison and Reed swapping riffs in a Chuck Berry-esque rock and roll boogie.

The dim points on The Quine Tapes are few and far-flung. With the band stretching out into extended jams with re-arranged tempos and rhythms, the misses occur much less often than you might imagine. One of these few instances-- "Follow the Leader," which opens disc two-- unfortunately drags on ad infinitum, the band drudging along in a clamorous din as if they never quite achieved liftoff. Some might consider Cale's absence a drawback to these recordings, especially on the renditions of earlier songs like "Black Angel's Death Song," "Heroin" and "Venus in Furs"; however, with Yule thudding away at the bass and organ, the rest of the Velvets crank up the intensity (and volume), substituting massive distortion and fuzz for Cale's screeching viola.

The best tracks here are the ones in which the band allows space for everything to unfold in a lazy haze, playing with sheer exuberance and joy. On the third disc, they sound completely rapt with the still fresh "New Age" and drift in a hypnotic trance while Reed repeats the mantra: "It's the beginning of the new age."

Still, what's most likely to delight fans on this set is the track Quine and Levinson have reserved for the final spot on each of the three discs, "Sister Ray," which clocks in respectively at 24, 38 and 28 minutes. "Sister Ray" is pure rock enchantment, the band casting a spell on their audience and then freeing the rein on a guitar roller-coaster joyride. Like the Matrix version of "I'm Waiting for the Man," each take of "Sister Ray" focuses more heavily on slipshod, careless joy than on the brilliantly concentrated intensity of the studio version. On the third disc's version (taken from Quine's tape of Washington University at St. Louis in May '69), Reed starts it with the warning, "This is going to go on for awhile." And it does, eventually climaxing into a churning maelstrom of distorted fuzz.

"Sister Ray" was seemingly used to end each show, a cathartic spree into the outer limits of the band's sonic imagination. Beginning as a slow-burner each time, Reed spits out the debauched lyrics while the band jumpstarts the locomotive engine and lets the train begin its steady roll. Serving as a showcase for Reed's hyper-electric guitar-fuzz rave-ups, the band chugs along behind him, Yule both bashing and tickling notes out of the organ while Moe Tucker beats her kit in time with the engine. On two of the song's three takes, "Sister Ray" erupts into the twisted elation of "Foggy Notion." It's all such a magnificent, zigzagging mess that there's no wonder the Velvets seemed in such high spirits.

By the time the locomotive draws to a stop over four hours after the box set's first track, you're left in a wake of blistering guitar solos and pure rock and roll energy. Robert Quine was one of the lucky few to have experienced the Velvets live and, from the evidence gathered here, it looks like he caught them at their musical zenith. If the name of this box is any hint at all (and let's hope that it is), what we have here is the first in a series of archival releases that will serve to finally shed light on the Velvet Underground's ludicrously mind-boggling live incarnation. With their legendary status already secured, The Quine Tapes serves to ensure that it's never questioned.

-Luke Buckman, November 26th, 2001