“Doctor Wu”—last song, side one of Katy Lied (1975)

The key to the depth of my love for this song comes from the cover version by the Minutemen, from Double Nickels on the Dime (1984), because it's so much the perfect approach (regardless of if their intention is loving or irreverent). I feel like it must be the best cover of a Steely Dan song—though I haven't heard all that are out there, the good ones (which might be harder to find, now that I think of it, than love in a Cracker Jack box). It's funny to picture someone who'd never heard the original, trying to imagine what they thought of this weird Minutemen song. Of course, it was already one of my favorite Steely Dan numbers, but when I eventually heard the cover, it made me love it even more—kind of like when you mix two euphoric substances for exponential results (cigarettes and coffee, bourbon and beer, weed and Pink Floyd, love and sex). On its surface, it's another sordid number about a troubled romance, an addictive drug (likely opiate in nature), and a mysterious character with a colorful name. But could I have (just now) stumbled onto the real meaning of this song? Rather than the tearing apart, caused by the lust/love for the drug, and the love/lust for the lady, perhaps both relationships are, in this case, enhanced. Maybe “Doctor Wu” is the alchemist.

Probably not, but I'm going to try to gently blanket my mind with that idea on next listening because I feel like, in this case, to pursue a narrative is to belittle this song. For me, any specifics you ascribe to these words are a distraction—they work much better as instrumental notes and percussion—just those three-syllable first lines to each section of the verse (Katy tried/You walked in/All night long/Don't seem right/Biscayne Bay/Katy lies)—or the rhymes in the chorus (Are you crazy are you high/or just an ordinary guy). The words in this song work so beautifully as sounds and rhythms, and stand-alone images, I would argue that to get hung up on narrative, here, is like using a manual while having sex. For most ears, that sax solo, in the perfect dead middle of the song, is a standout, and it is kind of like a French omlette or the Brooklyn Bridge. But it's sad to single anything out. I don't know if that's the most melancholy piano I've ever heard, or it's just the song that is incredibly sad. It really is sad. I've never cried during it, but I don't know, after this writing business is done, I might. And finally, my true love, drums, are so fine on this song, they balance on the razor's edge between ruination and immortality. Listen to that restraint, and when they change to the full snare part, two-thirds of the way through the first verse—that just kills me.

—Randy Russell 3.8.20