James Young’s unauthorized biography of the enigmatic beauty and reluctant frontwoman of the early Velvet Underground is wickedly funny and—perhaps—the best book on “rock and roll” and “fame” that has ever been written. It is also a tad mean-spirited and most emphatically unauthorized. Lou Reed declined to allow his lyrics to be reproduced in the book, and it is not as if Reed harbors fond memories of Nico.
Obvious blurbs immediately reference the Warhol line about each person enjoying fifteen minutes of fame. For sure, in this book, Nico is well past her “fifteen minutes,” when her manager, Demetrius, arranges a retinue of ragtag musicians to back up her morose Teutonic schtick on tours that encompass (in no particular order) Italy, Spain, the USA, Amsterdam, Eastern Europe, Australia and Japan during the 1980’s before her untimely but unsurprising death from a bicycle fall while vacationing in Ibiza in 1988. Chronicled with savage cynical wit and a graduate student’s showy vocabulary, the piano player turned author presents the heroine, warts and all. Perhaps, the true star of this book is not the Diva herself, but her and most of the band’s heroin addiction. Smack or Junk or the Works are front and center in almost every chapter. Tours are not about the music, but where to score. Bathing is unnecessary; Young revels in describing the stench of body odor and the infrequency of Nico washing. Sex is for people not strung out on smack, so there is very little of it in the biography and none involving the former sex symbol and Elle model.
The other musicians, with names like Echo, are rarely humanized excepting their quest for junk (or sex by the tabla player, Random, who is just a pot head) and heavily accented British dialects. Young has a gifted ear for transcribing dialects in a manner that is easy on the eyes. Nico’s Teutonic drawl is stretched out with long repeated vowels. All a reader must do is read her lines, elongated vowel hints provided by Young, with "Femme Fatale" or "All Tomorrow’s Parties" in mind to get the correct feel for Nico’s dour humor.
As the tour and book slog on with numerous border crossings and cavity searches a reader must ponder why an educated bloke like the author would tolerate this cavalcade of junkie misfits as they make their way across the globe playing oldies and a smattering of genre-unclassifiable new material with no expression of joy or even satisfaction. The humor and absurdity of the situation is what fuels the book. Unwashed, morose junkies traipsing from one dingy set to another to scarf up every last cent, sou, yen, or pfenning that a nostalgic fan might offer. Nico The End is a savage indictment of both fleeting fame and the fraudulent nature of rock and roll or art rock. With cameo appearances by Allen Ginsberg, John Cale (who comes across as a flaming egotistical asshole) and others and with an utterly expected non-cameo by Bob (Bawb) Dylan, who wrote “I’ll Keep It with Mine” for the 60’s icon, the book meanders, often hysterically, culminating in the resolution that awaits us all.
Nico The End far surpasses rock biographies that veer towards hagiography. However—upon reread over two decades after its initial publication—it does stray into the realm of mean-spiritedness. Nico comes across as a caricature of an apathetic junkie who has let herself gone to seed. And while this may be an accurate depiction and a necessary one, Young does little to try to clarify the enigma that was Nico. The book appeared three years before a pop fluff mainstream movie release, Nico Icon which did indeed veer towards hagiography. And while the film utterly neglects (perhaps because it is hearsay) mention of a biographical detail that could well explain Nico’s darkness, James Young mentions it twice, but only in the closing chapters of his biography: Nico, as a teen, was among women raped by a black, US serviceman while growing up in occupied West Germany town. The crime was uncovered. Nico was forced to testify. The serviceman was executed. Young gets kudos for relating this key fact while the movie gets an emphatic thumbs down for ignoring it completely.
Whether mean-spirited or not, Nico: The End deserves a look. One need not be obsessed with the Velvet Underground or rock to appreciate the depiction of absurdity in this book. Ultimately more satisfying than Burrough’s Junkie or even Naked Lunch, Nico: The End is an essential chronicle of addiction, apathy and survival with a modicum of fame.