Nico by James Young Page B

adrenalin to work off. He rat-a-tat-tatted his drumsticks on the tiled walls.
    â€˜Gizabreak, and abbreviate the Boys’ Brigade, willyer?’ said Echo, lighting the last of his No. 6. Toby stopped, mooched, and hunted for the beer crate. Plenty of Pepsi and Orangina and a weird Italian Tizer. (Demetrius liked to drink soda-pop. He’d drawn up the contract. Pop it would be. Twenty-four bottles. At every gig.)
    â€˜Maybe there’s some action up front,’ said Toby. ‘Fancy takin’ a look?’
    We went sidestage and walked round the back of the audience. (Pop groups are the only practicable alternative for males who are too narcissistic to make the first move.) But instead of a host of Botticelli angels in miniskirts, Demetrius was waiting for us. Imperator. Surveying the scene of battle: ‘There was a time, not so long ago, when people knew of no world other than their own.’ Dr Demetrius was in reflective mood. ‘They were better off for it. Life-connected to the seasons and the stars … Now their heads are full of rubbish, inane fifth-form poetry masquerading as art. They should be listening to Verdi and Puccini …’ He pressed one nostril and Vicked the other. ‘Er, need I mention that you were crap?’
    â€˜What d’yer expect, with a bookie’s runner at the controls?’ said Echo.
    â€˜Why not do something constructive then and fix up a proper sound for Nico’s solo spot?’
    Raincoat was still filling the room with weird electric jungle noises. Echo brushed him aside, slid a few knobs up and down, pressed a few settings, the basic stuff. Enough to place her voice somewhere.
    We stepped back from the pain threshold. The ringing feedback stopped. The stage was now in total darkness except for a single spot from above. The audience seemed physically to ease up. A different feeling took over. Less mean, more intimate. It was a backstreet Punkerama, but people were willing it into a cathedral. They’d come to be part of some rite. It wasn’t directly to do with the music, or even Nico, they just wanted to be somewhere else. So they were prepared to take her seriously, and she, in turn, was trying her best to take them seriously. A temporary deal had been struck with futility. She was pushing open, with their help, however slightly, the heavy oak doors upon the Mystery.
    She sat at the harmonium. The instrument was nothing like a church harmonium – much smaller, about the size of a baby’s coffin. To create a sound, she had to work the small bellows by way of pedals at her feet. With her right hand she played a repeated single phrase and with her left a melody. She’d carefully created her own harmonies, though she had no idea what the notes were in orthodox musical language.
    And then of course, there was the voice. Dungeon-deep, where the secret horrors were hidden. It made you listen. No small achievement these days. Sometimes the words were nonsense, her own made-up juxtaposition of rhymes or words that just sounded intriguing coupled together. ‘Nemesis on loaded wheels.’ It made you wonder who was at the flight deck. It certainly wasn’t the voice of a sixties chick in op-art pants, or some emotionally neutral piece of Manhattan window-dressing as had been envisaged by the Factory Funsters.
    â€˜This is the voice of one of those neolithic Venuses with the enormous pelvic girdles, and tiny mammalian heads that they dig up from the peat bogs of northern Denmark,’ opined Demetrius.
    Demetrius’s mouth hung open. His glasses were filled with the beatific blue light that emanated from the stage.
    Unwed virgins in the land
    Tied up on the sand.
    Something stirred inside Demetrius’s overcoat.
    Are you not on the secret side?
    Nico muttered off-mike into the wings. Pasquale appeared with a drink and placed it precariously on a corner of the harmonium. She shook her head and put it securely on the