THE BEAT GOES ON
CINCINNATI—The statuesque, light-brown-haired beauty strides purposefully past the expectant necklace of fans strung out along Vine Street, and disappears into Bogart’s front door with outside-world savoir faire. I can feel my German-ancestry racial unconscious (among other appendages) standing on end.
THE BEAT GOES ON
Be Real Kraut For Me, Baby!
CINCINNATI—The statuesque, light-brown-haired beauty strides purposefully past the expectant necklace of fans strung out along Vine Street, and disappears into Bogart’s front door with outside-world savoir faire. I can feel my German-ancestry racial unconscious (among other appendages) standing on end. Nico, the Madonna of the punk/new wave movement of the past 10 years, the living legend who couldn’t care less, has come to Cincinnati.
For reasons known only to herself. We hadn’t realized Nico was even touring the States, when she suddenly showed up listed for a humble Sunday evening on Bogart’s early-summer schedule, sandwiched between comprehensible-enough dates for the Jags and for Trillion. The sketchy radio spots for the show cited-one “Andy Warhol”—could it really be the same Nico, so many years after she’d exhausted the 15 minutes off* m* Warhol had offhandedly bestowed upon her?