THERE is a consensus that Berlin is a depressing album. For the melancholic Scot, exiled temporarily in London, it is so sunny that I was tempted to do a jig in the aisle. There is domestic abuse, drug-taking, suicide and seedy sex. It was enough to bring on a bout of homesickness. Berlin, however, is not all high jinks.

It now has a personal message of redemption. There is Lou, the man who lived it all, standing, arms sculpted, stomach less so, jabbing his finger at the crowd, roaring the lyrics. These are the songs of a victim and then a survivor.

How do you think it feels, he rasps, to go five days without sleeping? The legend now has the look of a man who gets his regular eight hours, conforms to a low-cholesterol diet and has an exercise programme. The album, however, harks back to turmoil and excess.

Reed has assembled a sprawling musical unit. There is a pick-up choir and brass and wind section. The fulcrum, though, is Tony Smith on drums. Trapped in a glass cage, presumably in case his whirling arms have someone's eyes out with a loose stick, he creates a storm that Steve Hunter illuminates with shining guitar licks.

The effect is wonderfully dramatic. It was a memorable, emotional performance. There are those who claim that the trend of performing albums live is, at best, misplaced. They are wrong. Berlin is a work that stands defiantly alone, staring down cynics with its noise, fury and sadness. And, remember, they still perform that Beethoven Ninth CD live all over the world