Nico

by James Young

  One in jags.

  And one …

  ‘… in the Velvet Underground,’ I muttered to myself, closing the gate behind me.

  ÜBER ALLES

  Free University, Berlin

  In the next dressing-room, the other group was limbering up.

  ‘Hun-a … Hun-a … Hun-a …’ Hard-core, leathered-up Teutons. Very Sturm und Drang … very angry.

  Raincoat dunked his teabag. ‘Betcher anythin’ they’ve all got day-jobs in a skin shop … I know the type – all saddlesoap and no polish.’

  Nico chuckled. ‘You mean, they’re all fa-a-ags?’

  ‘Course they are. All that “Night of the Long Knives” bizness, everyone of’em a brown ’atter.

  Unbelievably, Raincoat was the road manager in Demetrius’s absence (fear of flying). Raincoat’s chief concern was to ensure a plentiful supply of teabags and jammy dodgers in the dressing-room. And, of course, to assist Nico in any way possible in the acquisition and administration of her personal needs.

  ‘Bosch – Krupp – Bosch – Krupp …’ The storm troopers were hammering their fists on the wall. Nico had opted to let them go on first – so she could top the bill. It was five or six years since she’d last appeared in Berlin and there was an air of expectancy, at least in our dressing-room.

  For a small guy, Echo’s absence left a big hole. Demetrius had attempted to fill it with a funk rhythm section from Chorlton, plus Spider Mike on guitar … slap bass and the Pinball Wizard. Nico seemed as unconcerned as ever. Either she was prepared to sacrifice her last remaining shreds of credibility by ignoring the musical incompetence of her accompaniment or, in some bizarre hubris, she perhaps imagined that the naked contrast of styles between the ‘purity’ of her solo spot and the directionless absurdity of her backing would somehow isolate and enhance her true artistic status, like a diamond in a slag-heap. She believed in the ‘Star System’, that fate confers upon certain chosen individuals a life of higher meaning and purpose.

  ‘Garbo lives in me.’ Nico maintained that Garbo’s soul transmigrated to her body when the Nordic goddess retired from the screen.

  ‘Always thought our budgie ’ad a look of Steve McQueen,’ said Raincoat.

  The audience were in a slavering sulphate frenzy by the time the support group had finished. They wanted substance, they wanted meat, they wanted to fill their ears with the screams of battle and the clash of steel on steel.

  We’d barely got into the first number before a blitzkrieg of beer glasses rained down upon us. Nico shooed us all off stage and told the crew to turn down the lights, leaving one single spot searchlight illuminating the harmonium. She would show them who was boss.

  There were a few refractory barks from Der Jungling but the beer assault abated. Nico started up the pedals. She began to play a weird, haunting little tune in a major key. Major keys were something of a rarity in Nico’s repertoire. I listened from the wings. It was almost like a children’s nursery song, curling insidiously around the hall, its nagging simplicity simultaneously disconcerting and intriguing the audience.

  ‘This song is dedicated to Ulrike Meinhof.’ A few cheers. Then she began:

  Deutschland, Deutschland über alles …

  Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit

  (Unity and Justice and Freedom)

  Für das Deutsche Vaterland

  (For the German Fatherland)

  ‘Hitlerite!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Nazi!’ yelled another. Soon the whole assembly took up the chant: ‘Na-zi! Na-zi!’

  The first beer bottle glanced off the side of the harmonium.

  Nico picked up her cigarettes and set-list. ‘Na-zi! Na-zi!’ They continued hurling bottles and shouting after her as she left the stage, punching their fists in the air in a perfectly synchronised salutation.

  ‘Jesus. I hate this country,’ said Nico afterwards. ‘Every time I come here I remember why I left.’

  July ’84:

  BEDSIDE MANNERS & SEASIDE FRIENDS

  Paolo Bendini had been a junior chess ace when he was at school. Stalemate with Spassky. But Dr Demetrius was springing a whole new set of openers on him.

  ‘Eees no possible. Eees no possible,’ he kept saying.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Demetrius. ‘You booked Nico for a tour and here she is.’

  ‘No! No! No! No! No! No! No! I say on the telephone, maybe, perhaps – No ees … definite … Why you are here?’

  Why? Because Dr Demetrius needed a holiday where the food was beautiful and the girls delicious.

  We were walled up in an ancient hotel in a small north Italian town called Ivrea. The place was a great decaying torta naziale with nineteenth-century plumbing that shook the plaster off the bathroom walls. Maybe it had once been grand and busy, but now it was well off the trade route. We’d been there over a week and we were the only guests. The landlady had given up asking for money and just gave us sour looks whenever we came out of the lift.

  Demetrius had finally come to an unavoidable conclusion – why bother with the music? Just have the tour. Paolo Bendini, a young Italian promoter, had ventured to hint at the possibility of some forthcoming Nico concerts in the distant future. That was enough for Demetrius. Immediately he hired a van from R & O and filled it with every Girophile he knew.

  Toby and Raincoat had come out loaded with crates of Nico T-shirts as insurance. Raincoat had already offloaded dozens of them on to the landlady’s family, softening her up with his Esperaincoat, explaining that they were collectors’ items: ‘Mucho valubile.’

  The tour was a stalemate – Demetrius insisting that we’d been booked, Bendini categorically refusing to believe what was happening to him. A vanload of itinerant musos dumped on his doorstep. It was another link in a chain of bad luck he’d been dragging along since he started out. Bendini had ventured into concert promotion through a genuine love of the music. First mistake. He’d just done a Neil Young concert which had bombed out – the middle of July in Rome, 75,000-seater stadium, and it rained. Only for one day, but very specifically and very hard. Paolo was just a small, sweet guy, with pimples and brainbox lenses, an office at home in his bedroom and his mother’s ravioli. Now this. Demetrius bullied, cajoled, coerced and confused him until the Bendini head was spinning – figures were floating, contracts were waving. Demetrius had him in check. Bendini would go back to his mum’s and try and work something out.

  We sat it out for the best part of another week. Nico had a nice little bag of Manchester scag in her pouch, plus her little Joey, Le Kid. They only ever appeared at mealtimes, scuttling back to their room to get loaded. Demetrius hinted at incest, as they shared the same bed – but then they shared the same everything.

  It was decided to put on a private concert for the landlady and her family in the hotel basement to keep them all sweet. Demetrius had dropped words like bel canto and coloratura. The Signora was expecting a few arias from Rigoletto.

  There was a strange old uncle, deathly thin, with a hat and a walking cane, who haunted the upstairs landings and looked straight through you when you spoke to him. I stayed in my room as much as possible. I’d found a porno cartoon mag on top of the wardrobe: Leonora the Leopard Lady. She provided some solace and companionship throughout those interminable siesta hours. Neither waking nor sleeping, I could hear Uncle Morbido creeping about outside. Sometimes I’d notice the handle turn on my door. Maybe Leonora was already spoken for.

  Demetrius had commandeered a microphone and a box amp. The harmonium was taken out of its native soil and placed under the one single lightbulb. The cellar looked, appropriately enough, like a torture chamber. Luckily it was to be an exclusive solo performance, for one afternoon only.

  It was a packed house. The whole dynasty … kids running around like puppies, all wearing Nico T-shirts. Grandma was magnificent, spreading her sombre influence like a black widow spider from the corner of the room.

  ‘Per me,’ she sighed, ‘la bella vita finira presto.’

/>   Our good landlady and Nico came in arm in arm. Le Kid, high on his mother’s dope, followed behind; then the good Doctor and finally old Morbido, who just walked past everybody to the other side of the room and leant against the wall, leaning on his walking stick.

  The Signora said a few words about ‘what an honour it was’, etc, etc, and then Nico began.

  ‘I want to begin with ‘The End’. This song was Jim Morrison’s favourite song.’

  This is the end,

  Beautiful friend,

  This is the end,

  My only friend, the end

  Of our elaborate plans, the end

  Of everything that stands, the end …

  It was the perfect family portrait, frozen in time. No one moved. Mouths hung open.

  Old Morbido was the first to crack. He began to sway from side to side. Then the dog began to whine. Grandma had seen a glimpse of the Other Side and didn’t like it. Some of the younger kids were a bit frightened by the strange lady in black with the man’s voice, but the teenies were biting their tongues in an effort to suppress their laughter. Uncle Morbido started to wander around with his stick, banging into things, like he was drunk, blind or delirious. The Signora got a grip of him and marched him off to his familiar haunts upstairs.

  Nico called it quits after the one song, and everyone relaxed again. Cakes and Fanta were handed out for the kids and grappa for the adults. Nico didn’t seem too put out by the brevity of her recital as she still remained the glamorous centre of attention. What everyone really wanted was a party. So we had one, there in the basement.

  Le Kid had taken a fancy to the landlord’s beautiful daughter.

  ‘I ’ave ’eard zeese Italian guerrls are good for ze sex.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Toby, ‘they think of nowt’ else. Bred like pedigrees they are.’

  ‘Do you sink I could fuck ’er?’

  ‘With your irresistible Gallic charm, no problem.’

  When everyone had loosened up on the grappa, Grannie suggested it was time for more music. It was Raincoat’s turn to do a song, and I had to accompany him on the harmonium.

  My funny Valentine,

  Sweet comic Valentine,

  You make me smile with my heart.

  Your looks are laughable,

  Unphotographable,

  But you’re my favourite work of art.

  He tilted into the full Sinatra croon. Smooching up to the Signora and Grandma. Then he sidled up to Nico and, astoundingly, she took up the final verse. Then together they sang the last lines.

  But don’t change a hair for me,

  Not if you care for me,

  Stay, little Valentine, stay –

  Each day is Valentine’s day.

  The basement went bananas. They wanted more! But we didn’t have any more. So it was back to whacking off in our rooms.

  It was the best gig we’d ever played.

  Down in reception Demetrius was working the Signora’s phone to death, pestering Bendini. The bills still hadn’t been paid, so we all took to Nico’s routine of creeping out of our rooms at the exact moment the evening meal appeared and then disappearing again like ghosts.

  Demetrius took me to one side. ‘James. I think I’m going to have to close down operations here. No doubt the chaps will be disappointed. But at least they’ve had a good trip out.’

  ‘So … no tour?’

  ‘Wee-eell … it might be advisable for one of us to stay on here with Nico, just to await developments.’ And then he tipped me a wink. ‘Who knows?’ he continued, ‘it might prove to be quite a profitable experience …’

  ‘But what about Raincoat and Toby?’

  ‘They seem to have become imbued with the entrepreneurial spirit and intend to make their fortunes selling Nico T-shirts on the Italian Riviera. They’ll rendezvous with you a little later in Milan.’

  ‘And … Le Kid?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘You mean Le Kid comes too?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘You know what happens … he burns into her stuff and then it’s La Grande Tragédie.’

  ‘They’re inseparable,’ said Demetrius. ‘Like you say … a kangaroo and her Joey hopping round the corner for a fix!’ He started hopping like a kangaroo. The Signora glared up from her accounts book.

  That night Bendini telephoned to confirm some dates. Short-notice affairs – hard to tell how they’d turn out.

  ‘We’ll take it.’

  There might not be much money.

  ‘We’ll take it.’

  Maybe nothing at all after hotels and fuel.

  ‘We’ll take it.’

  Demetrius clicked down the phone with a broad beam. Checkmate.

  Demetrius had some pressing business to attend to back in Manchester but he’d pop back to collect us at the end of the tour.

  ‘Toodle-pip!’

  The hotel went deathly quiet after Demetrius’s departure. My only human contact was with Nico and Le Kid at feeding time, where they chorused their woes and grievances. Demetrius the Deceiver, Demetrius the Dreamer, Demetrius the Deflowerer of Catholic Virgins.

  Lonely, I started to haunt the corridors along with Uncle Morbido. Then Franco showed up.

  Franco had been a test driver for Fiat in Turin and a medium-level racing driver. Now he was a ‘Records [sic] producer’, whatever that meant. He was also a pal of Bendini’s, in his mid-thirties, greying, handsome, half Yugoslav, half Italian, and he liked speed (i.e. rapid motion). You’d never have guessed, though, because he talked really slowly and had a quiet, slightly pained, old-world courtesy.

  He picked us up in a stripped-down, souped-up old Peugeot Pimpmobile. The kind of thing the Brigate Rosse wire up with a dead judge in the boot. He explained there was going to be a lot of driving, so he just wanted to ride the car to death.

  Franco dropped the Signora a wad of lire out of his own pocket. Nico and Le Kid snuggled down in the back, sharing each other’s joys and woes. We tore off down the autostrada, making it to Milan in ‘Records producer’ time.

  I knew it was a mistake the moment we arrived at the station. I remembered Echo had warned me about the place before. We were parked illegally at the foot of the steps, looking hopelessly conspicuous. Nico had gone to the WC for a shot. Raincoat and Toby were late. We were three guys in black leather jackets, all smoking, and looking furtively around us for a miracle in Milan.

  There was a thump on the roof, then the side doors ripped open and suddenly I was dragged out of the car and told to assume the position while four rifle-toting cops frisked us individually.

  ‘Stiamo aspetiando degli amici [We’re waiting for some friends],’ said Franco.

  ‘Zitto [Shut it].’

  They finished feeling us up and down and then they started on the car. That wouldn’t take long, there wasn’t much to pull apart. One of them watched us while the other three tossed our gear on to the pavement. My bag fell open and out leapt Leonora the Leopard Lady.

  ‘Depravato!’ our guard sneered. I blushed guiltily.

  ‘Maman!’ shouted Le Kid.

  Maman was hovering at the back of the crowd.

  ‘Vieni qui,’ said one of the cops. ‘Passaporto?’

  They looked in her bag … Stephen King, a lemon, a bottle of grappa, a Nico T-shirt – and that was just the first layer, there was at least a decade of ring-growth to get through. Luckily she had her works and dope in her knickers and I assume they didn’t fancy a frisk. To my knowledge she hadn’t taken a bath since the last time she was in Milan.

  Incredibly, they let us go. Maybe they realised we were just too conspicuously stupid to be a serious terrorist threat.

  The beggars, hookers and hustlers all fell back into place.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Nico.

  ‘What about Raincoat and Toby?’ I ventured.

  ‘Fuck them … Franco – presto!’

  It felt best and perhaps appropriate to bid farewell to the Leopard Lady the
re, on the steps of Milan station.

  We were on the overnight ferry from Civitavecchia to Sardinia. Bendini had fixed us up with an open air concert in Cagliari. Franco had other business. It was just me, Nico and Le Kid. We’d been talking about her modelling days, about how ‘My Funny Valentine’ was one of the first songs she ever learnt as a professional singer, and of a cover shot she did for an album by Bill Evans, the jazz pianist, called Moonbeams. I told her I couldn’t really imagine her in those days, having to get up on time, keeping a fastidious diet. (For the last couple of months back in Manchester her sole diet had been custard. ‘So cheap – and not like eating at all.’)

  ‘I can see myself just the same then as I am now.’

  She was fortunate in this respect. A lot of ex-models find it hard, after living exclusively on their looks, to be suddenly asked to develop a character. One could only ever imagine Nico as a constant, unchanging entity. She wasn’t quick on the uptake or particularly fast on the putdown, but she was consistent. It was like she’d always been there in our lives. One couldn’t imagine the landscape without her. Sullen, sour, monumental, yet powerful. The solid granite power of an inflexible will. Those boots, those heavy peasant bones, the foghorn voice. Here she comes: Estradella and her Dog of Doom.

  The captain announced we were passing the island of Elba, Bonaparte’s Alcatraz.

  ‘They were saaadists …’ she said.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘The English … that they should bring him here. From the woorld to a rock.’

  Le Kid puffed on his spindly joint. ‘Do you sink zey broat ’im guerrls?’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, ‘along with Le Figaro and the latest copy of Elle magazine.’

  His lips puckered tighter than a tomcat’s asshole. I was not being ‘sérieux’. Le Kid had inherited his mother’s sense of humour.

  When we arrived in Cagliari the local promoter picked us up in his 2CV. He was sweet, a fan. That meant he probably didn’t know what he was doing. Nico stole his shades. Bendini turned up; he brought with him his assistant Mario and his secretary Marina. My God, maybe it was the heat, but she had a definite look of Leonora the Leopard Lady. Le Kid broke into a sweat. Instantly he wanted to mate with her and started spraying his scent … ‘I am Nico’s son … I was een ze Factory wiz Andee War’ol.’ She was going to drive us all crazy.