At this year’s South by Southwest music conference in Austin, Texas, Lou Reed opened his keynote speech by asking who in the audience had seen the Julian Schnabel-directed film that accompanies Berlin: Live at St. Ann’s Warehouse. Few hands in the audience went up, prompting Reed to spend much of the speech adamantly defending his career-long habit of doing exactly what he wanted, regardless of who was listening.

In terms of timing, Reed’s performance of 1973’s oft-neglected Berlin — chastised as the “most depressing album of all time” upon its release —parallels the series of Don’t Look Back concerts curated by All Tomorrow’s Parties and Pitchfork Music Festival, which invite artists to perform their most beloved albums front to back. In both cases, however, the true thrill of the re-creation comes from being there for the performance. Granted, Schnabel’s film most definitely makes the experience more visceral than listening in at home, but it’s hard to imagine pulling this version out over the icy-cold yet stately original.

There’s some thrill to be found in hearing Reed’s electric guitar high in the mix (he doesn’t play it at all on the original album), and the presence of both Antony of Antony and the Johnsons and soul revivalist Sharon Jones in the backing choir makes for some heavenly harmonies. Then again, we’re dealing with old uncle Lou here, and his voice is more monotonous than ever. The clunky phrasing with which he now spits out every line does a disservice to the songs. “This is poetry,” he seems to be saying, “melody be damned.”

(That, and no mix should ever delegate Antony to backing vocalist status — his sole shining moment here is on the encore cover of “Candy Says,” a track previously released on Reed’s 2004 live album Animal Serenade with Antony in the same role. It says a lot that Reed’s introduction of Antony after the song fades out garners one of the biggest — and longest — segments of applause on the record).

Despite its shortcomings, Berlin: Live at St. Ann’s Warehouse at least pushes those hearing it for the first time to dive into the steely grooves of the original. Like Cold War Berlin itself, Reed’s initial vision remains as uninviting and cold yet altogether intoxicating as ever, and hearing it fleshed out in front of an audience at least helps shine some light into its darkest corners. Still, here’s hoping the Don’t Look Back set don’t start issuing full-length covers of every beloved record under the sun.