Dirty Blvd.

I’ll admit: I approached *Dirty Blvd.* skeptical of yet another Lou Reed tell-all. But Levy’s book surprised me by avoiding hagiography *and* hatchet jobs, instead painting Reed as a flawed, fascinating artist whose contradictions were his superpower. The early chapters on his doo-wop days and Syracuse University rebellions are revelatory, framing his later persona as less a spontaneous punk icon than a meticulously constructed myth. Perkins’ narration sells it—his voice has that same world-weary cynicism Reed perfected, but he smartly doesn’t overdo the impersonations. When he reads Reed’s more venomous quotes (and there are *plenty*), the delivery stings just right. That said, the audiobook isn’t without flaws. The middle section drags slightly during Reed’s ’80s commercial wilderness, and Levy occasionally over-indulges in tangential anecdotes (do we *really* need that much on *The Raven*?). The production is clean but unremarkable—no archival audio clips or musical interludes, which feels like a missed opportunity for a book so steeped in sound. Still, the final hours, covering Reed’s late-career resurgence and his complicated legacy, are devastatingly good. If you’re looking for a sanitized tribute, walk on. But if you want the messy, brilliant truth behind the black leather and sunglasses, this is your backstage pass—just don’t expect to like Reed any more (or less) by the end.