Nico
Desertshore

On the screen, the desert and a woman on horseback inside a ring of fire. A child watches her... says something to her... and then walks away, briskly and determinedly.

Suddenly a song, the sound of a voice, an impassive and steady voice: it seems to come from who knows what distant place, yet when listening carefully, you sense a strange kind of fragility, as if the voice, though distant, were also in a way too close.

A divine and human voice (all too human).

The camera, with a long endless tracking shot, follows the child, the woman on horseback is no longer seen, but it is she who is singing, and that impassive, steady, fragile voice is hers:

“My only child, don't be so blind, look at what you have, there are no words, nor ears, nor eyes to show them what you know, their hands are worn, their faces cold...”

This is “My only child,” one of the masterpieces of “Desertshore:” as well as one of the tracks (all by Nico) from the soundtrack of a strange French film, “The Inner Scar,” by an even stranger director, then the life partner of our chanteuse.

“Desertshore” is a perfect title,” but “The Inner Scar” would have been perfect too. Garrel alluded to electroshock, an experience he unfortunately knew firsthand, but beyond that experience, the idea of a deep wound inside us perfectly matches the album's atmosphere. The same goes for the images of the desert and other harsh, solitary places where the film's characters seem to move meaninglessly.

I watched the film in its original language, understanding just enough of the dialogues, but it matters little, as the beauty of the images, Nico's charisma, and the tracks from “Desertshore” are more than sufficient.

Ah, if I haven't mentioned it yet, Nico is obviously the protagonist of the film, it's her, the woman on horseback in the ring of fire, and that child walking is her real son, Ari Delon.

But this wasn't my first encounter with Nico.

My musical soul has always floated happily between certain quirky pop (Beatles 66/67, Barrett-era Floyd, the lighter and wilder lands of Canterbury, the very first Brian Eno) and a bright and sweet little bedroom psycho/folk inclined to melancholy (Nick Drake, solo Barrett, Tim Buckley, certain Crimson ballads).

Nico, for me, as a pre/punk and pre/wave child, was quite at ease in that company, especially for her voice, weak and graceful, shown in “I'll be your mirror,” a minor track, almost a Cinderella, from perhaps the most influential album of the entire history of rock.

In that album, there was also “All tomorrow's parties,” a very strange and sinister track, impossible to describe, where Nico, for the first time, measured that cold and severe declamation which from then on would be hers alone,

A small voice (the one from I'll be your mirror) and a voice (the one from “All tomorrow's parties”): very different from each other but, united, by a kind of existential horror freakishness and by both being a huge added value to the macabre and murky atmospheres of the album.

Both of those voices are present in Desertshore, one fragile and almost childish, the other mournful and mysterious. Sometimes they are together at the same time, as in “My only child.” A sparse and essential sound, almost an ABC of suffering, accompanies them.

The first two tracks are characterized by a hypnotic solemnity and an almost supernatural tension, on the edge of sustainable.

“Janitor of lunacy,” precipice and vortex, peak of vertigo... but everything is balanced, the balance needed to hold absolute words (“keeper of lunacy, you paralyze my childhood, you petrify the empty cradle...” “keeper of tyranny, acknowledge my vanity, endure my jealousy, acknowledge the desperate need”).

“The falconer,” tempestuous organ, streaks of piano marking the song, evoking a mystery, a magical figure. Then, suddenly, strokes and tumult cease, and what remains is a nursery rhyme, while a sweet and playful piano imitates a music box: a shiver, the return of the voice from “I'll be your mirror” and if not exactly that one, a close relative... then again the strokes...

In “Le petit chevalier,” just over a minute, Ari Delon, the child from the film, sings, accompanied by a disorienting harpsichord. It's quite a theatrical coup, those who compared it to the appearance of the twins in “Shining” weren't far off.

The second side contains two songs sung in German: “Abschied” and “Mutterlein,” the most severe and dissonant of the album.

Then two incredible masterpieces...

“Afraid,” a simple ballad, where the little voice, that little voice, is the absolute protagonist. “Afraid,” the title, says it all...”You are beautiful and you are alone” the chorus, too...

“All that is my own” is the explosion where all the tension accumulated in the previous tracks is released, the instrumentation enriches (gongs, trumpets, and who knows what else) and the delirium flies high on an oriental rhythm of soulful tribal music.

The album lasts less than half an hour, better this way, because it can't go further.

Produced by Joe Boyd, together with Cale, who obviously deserves much of the credit. He must have been in a state of grace at that time, as around the same time, he was arranging “Northern Sky” and “Fly,” two of Nick Drake's most beautiful songs.

Ah, all of Nico's albums are fantastic, except perhaps for “Drama of exile.” Feel free to listen to the others, you won't regret it.