WARHOL ”HAPPENING” HITS LIKE A NOISY BOMB

Judy Altman

The Philadelphia Daily News, December 12, 1966

THEY CAME IN DROVES—THE WASHED, THE UNWASHED, THE OVERDRESSED, the underdressed, the beat, the neat, the elite.

They came because this was it, the “Velvet Underground” right here in Philadelphia, with pop-artist-turned-filmmaker Andy Warhol and his “superstar” Nico, and his cohorts and hangers-on. It was a “Happening,” Philadelphia’s first, and now they could see it, right down at the YMCA at Broad and Pine Sts.

The city’s avant and not so avant garde crammed themselves into the auditorium on Saturday and Sunday night and they spilled out into the hall.

The Underground films were brief, erratic and nerve-wracking, but everyone was waiting for the “Happening.” Then suddenly it happened. The lights went out and huge spots of green and purple floated across the walls. The screen, split three ways, came to life—a man wiggled his hips, a girl smoked a cigarette, the camera panned in and out, up and down in huge seasick motions.

Meanwhile, let’s not forget the noise. No one else could. Loud drums, electronic screeches, zinged through the room.

“Maybe they’re tuning up,” said one boy hopefully to a neighbor. “No, that’s how it sounds,” said his friend.

The Thing—whatever it was—went on and on. People drifted in and out, pressing their hands to their heads. “I’m getting one of my migraines,” said a girl.

Periodically one man jumped up from his seat and called, “Author, author,” and the people around him laughed.

“This is the best argument against taking LSD I’ve ever seen, if that is what it’s supposed to be like,” said a man under his breath. “I think it was sponsored by the narcotics squad,” someone answered. “I mean, when you get out of here, you don’t want LSD—you want an Excedrin,” said the man.

Curled up on a window ledge outside the auditorium, his face practically obscured by hair, was John (“you don’t need a last name, do you?”), road manager for the Velvet Underground.

“Over the last few months we’ve had this show in Washington, Boston, Cincinnati, L.A., San Francisco, Morgantown, West Va.— you name it. I’d say the reaction tonight is pretty good. We’ve had better. In New York, it’s more of a nightclub scene, you know.

“It’s not supposed to be psychedelic. The newspapermen just seized on that word and used it to death. Any clown can see that this isn’t like taking LSD.”

One of the musicians walked out. “This is a great town. People curse at you and throw things. Great town,” he said, half-chanting the words.

Superstar Nico appeared, holding a small child. It was blonde, Germanic and beautiful. “Is that your daughter?” someone asked. “No. My son,” she said.

It was very hot in the auditorium at Broad and Pine. The Happening had been happening for about three hours now. The lights were still flashing, and the noises were still reverberating, but a lot of people were leaving by now. Practically in droves.

The Velvet Underground, which was born in New York City, has since spread like radioactivity throughout the country. It was bound to hit Philadelphia. Only the private ear-drum could determine whether it was a direct smash or a dull thud.