Lou Reed has died at age 71, and New York will never be the same.

I interviewed him once, about the staged version of Berlin that he did with his close friend Julian Schnabel. I’d been warned that Lou was difficult, but he answered all my questions—even when the answer was that he couldn’t tell me how the lyrics to the album’s songs evolved because he had virtually no memory of the period in the 1970s when he recorded it. Then, after 15 minutes, he said, “All right, that’s it, you’re done,” and hung up.

That was Lou for you.

He was one of the last of the old New York characters. A true curmudgeon. A restaurateur friend of his told me that Lou used to come to the restaurant every time he lost his keys, which apparently happened a lot, and torment the staff while he waited for an assistant to arrive. Finally, to spare his staff, the restaurateur offered to keep an extra set of keys there.

Other times, Lou would come in and stand in the middle of the room, no matter how crowded it was, waiting for a table.

What did you expect him to do, stand in the corner? He was Lou Reed. Through his music, he had defined New York for generations of hipsters and cool seekers. It was his city. We were just living in it.

With songs like “I’m Waiting for the Man” and “All Tomorrow’s Parties,” Lou’s Velvet Underground conjured a fantasy city where junkies and beautiful people frolicked together under the semi-sinister gaze of Andy Warhol. The band effectively created alternative music. They say not many people bought the Velvet Underground’s records, but every one of those who did started a band.

As a soloist worshipped by such remarkable talents as David Bowie, Lou continued to define our world even as he refined his vision. His immortal song “Walk on the Wild Side,” originally intended for a stage musical, is the literal realization of Warhol’s dream of turning “superstars” into superstars. We all know that Holly came from Miami, FLA, and Jackie will always been speeding away.

And even if the Dirty Boulevard is no longer located near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, and even if today’s Romeo Rodriguez wouldn’t be caught dead in a leather vest, the depiction of the city’s dark, grasping soul on his 1989 album “New York” will always be accurate.

There were jokes when Lou had his liver transplant back in May. Look what he did to the last one, people said, and it’s true that Lou Reed put his body through hell back in the day. He eventually cleaned up his habits, but he never softened up. He was an emissary from the old, mean New York till the very end.

“My week beats your year,” he once sneered at those who criticized his lifestyle, which means he was something like 3,600 in square years at the end.

Here’s to you, Lou. You'll always be our mirror.

Related: Lou Reed and Metallica on Their Collaboration, Lulu and Michael Hogan on Lou Reed and Julian Schnabel’s Berlin