Sterling Morrison was in the Velvet Underground longer than any other
member, yet often remained a musical enigma after the band broke up 25 years
ago. He passed away in Poughkeepsie, New York on August 30. He had been
fighting non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma since last spring, but lived long enough to
turn 53 the day before he died.
Sterling Morrison was one of the most interesting and outspoken people ever
to call Austin home. He moved to the Capitol City in 1971, working on his Ph.D.
in medieval studies at UT, and lived here more than ten years before going to
Houston to work on the tugboats in the Houston Ship Channel, picking up his
captain’s license and doctorate along the way. Whether he was teaching English
literature to undergraduates, holding forth at bars, parties, and points in
between, or playing guitar in our garage band the Bizarros, Sterling always
spoke the truth, even if it was only his truth at that moment. He once reminded
me that no matter what he said, he was prepared to change his mind on anything,
and often did. It was an exercise in life for him to extend outrageous
theories, watch his audience react, and then laugh them away like so many
deluded souls.
I met Morrison innocently enough one day at the Cedar Door, when it was on
15th Street, across the street from the Austin Sun‘s first office. He
was there passing the afternoon with his bartender buddy Marvin Williams,
another UT doctoral candidate. It didn’t take two sentences before I knew the
man to my left was Morrison. There was something in the way he was slagging
Frank Zappa that told me it had to be the ex-Velvet who had ended up in Austin.
I introduced myself, and asked it he wanted to be interviewed for the
Sun. Sterling was cautious; he’d been using his first name Holmes at the
University, completely turning his back on the illustrious rock pedigree he’d
earned in the Sixties. It took a few weeks, but finally we were sitting down in
front of a tape recorder. I’ll never forget turning in that piece and having
editor Jeff Nightbyrd tell me it might be a bit over the top for the paper’s
audience. Still, he went ahead and printed it in its entirety, and my
friendship with Sterling was off and running.
My happiest moment with Morrison was when he dusted off his Gibson guitar
and joined the Bizarros. I thought for sure he had turned his back on music
forever, but around ’76 our band needed a guitarist and he threw in all the
way. At the gigs, he’d always be there first, with his Fender Bandmaster amp
already set up onstage while he sat at the bar waiting for the rest of the
Bizarros to straggle in. He was a professional even in a semi-lowdown endeavor,
adding a touch of class to a rather dusty crew.
Sterling’s playing was a revelation for a group used to backbeats and
blues. Rhythmically, he was all angles, adding a jagged edge to a rounded rock
& roll style. I could instantly hear why Morrison was such an essential
glue in the Velvet’s chaotic swirl, as he laid out chords and lead accents with
deftly precision. He’d always be to my right onstage watching the neck of his
own guitar in endless fascination. He approached music with the same intense
inquiry he did his academic studies, and practiced and played right up to the
end. And while the Bizarros split with Sterling ended in acrimony – he didn’t
speak to me for five years, the ultimate Morrison punishment – I always got a
huge kick out of the fact that for a couple of years, we’d had a Velvet in our
midst, even if the only VU song he wanted to play was “Cool It Down.” I can
still see Sterling’s beautiful leather guitar strap, with its jeweled designs
sparkling everywhere from the Dom and Max’s in New York to the Hole in the Wall
and Soup Creek in Austin.
Sterling was the kind of man you always wanted on your side, and knew that
if he was there, somehow everything was going to work out all right. To his
eternal credit, Morrison never played the Velvet Underground card, which shows,
I think, a bigness of soul I’ll always admire. Sometimes, when we’d be
especially alchecized, he’d get his twirly look on his face and say in total
earnestness, “I don’t know about you, but I’m Catholic, I’m going to heaven.”
The beauty of it all was that he really believed it, and now that Holmes S.
Morrison is there, I’m starting to believe it too. – Bill
Bentley
This article appears in September 8 • 1995 and September 8 • 1995 (Cover).