Nico

Without a guide, without a hand
Unwed virgins in the land
Unwed virgins in the land, tied upon the sand
When there come ships into the land
They’ll be awaiting reverence
They’ll be awaiting reverence at their children’s hands

As is often the case with the finest musicians of her generation, the career of the immortal femme fatale Christa Päffgen, known as Nico, is marked by two distinct phases: the first could in some ways be described as artificial, prefabricated, decoded through a model to aspire to, while the second can be read through an introspective and decidedly deeper lens. That icy gaze, lost in the void and instantly recognisable, will forever remain etched into the eyes of generations of listeners.

Thanks to the supervision of record producer Tom Wilson, who helped make rock one of the most popular and structure-defying genres of his era (Bob Dylan, The Mothers of Invention, Simon & Garfunkel, Soft Machine), on her artistic debut “Chelsea Girl” (Verve, 1967) – whose title nods to the eponymous film by pop art genius Andy Warhol – the German artist leans into a pastoral side: yet the orchestra, led by Larry Fallon, absorbs the undeniable qualities of the Cologne-born chanteuse, who navigates particularly well the songs written by Lou Reed and John Cale, which consistently break with the conventions of the traditional song through unusual, chaotic perspectives.

Clad in a dazzling cover shot by photographer Guy Webster, “The Marble Index” (1968) is a fleeting experiment in sonic research that layers sounds one upon another: be it the aberrant darkness pursued by sinister chamber music, the lyrical despair of its author, or even the restless, alienating and apocalyptic relationship between the concept and the listener.
This second official album by the German singer-songwriter is disorienting on multiple fronts, starting with the direction of the arrangements. The solid direction of John Cale once again demonstrates the innate talent of the Welsh musician, here tasked with bearing the weight of bilateral structures, shrill, weeping strings, searing horns, and a maximally suspended atmosphere. Secondly, there is Nico's balancing act: while on the preceding “Chelsea Girl” she had given the impression of veering toward a simple but unripe singer-songwriter style, here she cuts right to the chase and surrenders to an endless ritual, playing – moreover – the harmonium with nothing short of divine grace. The traumatic, fatal and dissonant impact of Nico's concept shapes the record profoundly.

And then along comes this: “Desertshore” (Reprise, 1970). An ultimatum, a state of suspension. Having reached spiritual consecration, the Cologne-born songwriter stages her theatrical pièce made of litanies, funereal calls and pure nihilism. Produced in part by Joe Boyd, who also produced the first two albums by melancholic singer-songwriter Nick Drake, the record is fascinating for its seminal character: listening to it feels like being catapulted into a medieval-like setting, simultaneously enveloped by the Saharan sirocco, a hot, oppressive wind that crushes any vain hope the listener might hold. Eight compositions, eight outbursts. The journey is long despite its brevity. Over time the compositional work of this pre-goth artist has been proudly acknowledged, giving rise to further currents that have shaped the growth of the genre it sprang from (gothic rock, neofolk, darkwave).
Unlike what came after, the gothic folk born in the recording studio here is as cutting as sandpaper, embracing musical classicism and reinventing it with a thoroughly personal, original and disorienting flair: Nico herself would never manage to replicate this again, since “Desertshore” is like the summit of Everest, unreachable. The romantic touch of Cale's piano makes the performance lunatic and incredibly overwhelming. That blend is the strength of Nico's work.

It's often thought that calm follows the storm. But what if it doesn't?
“The End” (1974), whose title pays homage to the eponymous, historic psychedelic-drone track by the Doors, might seem like a softer continuation of the previous, unrepeatable masterpiece, albeit bolstered by a greater presence of dark-ambient textures: indeed, the record boasts the sizeable contribution of Brian Eno on keyboards, whose sudden bursts of spasmodic, futurist noise erupt violently within the funereal fabric of the compositions. Equally notable is the guitar work of Phil Manzanera, longtime member of the avant-glam band Roxy Music, as well as an artistic collaborator on the aforementioned British genius's solo albums.
In the medieval introduction “It Has Not Taken Long” all of the German songwriter's nihilism emerges, made up of gothic choral textures, a refined reading of avant-garde folk, and pure, unadulterated minimalism. War-torn scenarios come to light, in which would-be hunters are caught up in an exhausting struggle for survival. And the impulses become perpetual.
The solemn chant “Secret Side” descends upon evocative lyrics and sublime settings. The layered ballad “You Forget To Answer” – dedicated to the musician's last encounter with Jim Morrison – sees the emergence of a subtle piano, transparent in its delicacy and romantic allure; an acoustic guitar accompaniment follows.

Eno makes a playful entrance with his synthesizers on the mournful “Innocent Vain”, whose textures evoke a distorted birdsong. The composition stretches out over a bed full of thorns and cacti that physically pierce the listener: these vibrations are conveyed to us by the decadent, stunned voice of our heroine, here in one of her most hypnotic performances. The black mass of “Valley Of The Kings”, aided by a captivating use of the harmonium, shines through the author's intimate exploration, shedding the overdubs of the previous tracks and sustaining itself through an unforgettable performance. The ambient textures of the chant-like “We've Got The Gold” seem – through Cale's esoteric use of the xylophone – to vaguely echo distant atmospheres drawn from the Canterbury scene.

The cover of the aforementioned Doors track (from their eponymous 1967 debut), running roughly ten minutes, becomes not only one of the finest interpretations in classic rock, but also one of the highest points in the career of the German poet-chanteuse: that decadent portrait, familiar to the wider public, is transformed into a theatrical litany enriched by a performative, neurotic organ, in turn crowned by the songwriter's dominant presence. Worth noting is the closing section, in full avant-rock style, set against a hammering piano and an excellent electric guitar solo.
The reworking of the German national anthem, “Das Lied Der Deutschen”, skilfully closes out a record that is, in its own way, special, personal and damningly honest.

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17/10/2026