Holy Mother of Goth. Few rock icons are as shrouded in myth as Nico. Because she revealed so little of herself, most of what we know about her is hearsay and conjecture. Because of her mystery, her beauty and her tragic end, she has the allure almost of a fictional character. But – aside from the glamour, aside from the stranger than fiction life story, aside from the cautionary tragedy, aside from all the purple prose she’s inspired – there’s one thing holds the center together; her voice. She had a voice like none other and the artistic vision she built around it remains inimitable. Though she often buried her songs in willfully atonal arrangements that felt more like a challenge than an invitation to listen, she was also capable of great delicacy and intimacy. This song is one of the greatest heights of beauty in Nico’s canon. Whatever aversion she claimed to have towards her homeland, she clearly wasn’t immune to the romance of mythology herself. Born in 1938, Nico had every reason to see Germany as a terrible place, and she spoke bitterly of it after she left, but it seems she still carried a fantasy of an unblemished Nibelungen Land from which she had been exiled.


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