The voice ranges from
guttural low-pitched
growls, with the
signature rolling of
Rs, to soaring
operatic soprano, with
pit stops for little
girl lisping and full
on aggressive rock
soul vocals – all
which can transpire
within 15 seconds. It
was her recorded voice
that first introduced
her to me over two
decades ago, and the
songs which flitted
between the spiritual
and the absurd, disco
and techno,
progressive jazz,
punk, new wave and
Teutonic – quite
unlike anything else
I’d heard before –
that landed her music
in my cassette
collection over two
decades ago. This,
and her surrounding of
herself with religious
iconography (for what
I presumed was shock
value) that carried my
main impression of
her. I knew she was
an artist, I
considered her
important, and I had
let myself fall out of
touch with her
career. But I always
remembered her. And
so, when the
opportunity came to
see her live in
concert, in a very
intimate venue, I
jumped on it.
“Don’t be too
disappointed if she’s
not all that she used
to be,” was the less
than charitable remark
given when I voiced my
plans. “I mean, it’s
been years. I heard
she’s rather come down
in the world.” After
chastising her
detractor for being
both sexist and
ageist, I was secretly
worried. What if
she’s just fat and
sad? But her detractor
was from Germany,
where far from being
just a cult superstar
(if there is such a
thing) she was a
household name in her
early career, and so
he had had
expectations perhaps
best suited to a child
prodigy.
Three of us from the
European Weekly
arrived at the night
club unfashionably
early, and waited
through the up-tempo
psycho-ramblings of
local opening act
“Jackie Hell” whose
onstage personae
represented a
worst-case scenario of
what Nina could have
devolved to, and
“Ursula and the
Androids” a fun-house
romp of glammed-up
Goth-pop, with Ursula
towering over the set
in heals that could
kill baby seals in one
stomp beneath her
fright-night wig. It
was fun. People
bopped in place,
laughed, cheered. The
mood was set for the
main event, and with
impeccable timing, the
club began to fill,
and the excitement
built.
“Nina! Nina! Nina!”
And then there she
was. Not old looking
at all (although she
just passed the
half-century mark).
Much prettier than
expected, a youthful
face, with a body a
25-year-old woman
would be proud of, in
a black-velvet
micro-mini baby-doll
dress, fishnet
stockings, long black
hair bouffed in front,
adorned with fake
flowers, and the
piercing eyes – quite
clear and un-dilated,
that rolled, and
flashed, and winked
beneath the elaborate
Cleopatra mascara and
purple eye-shadow.
Rather than being
scary, she was funny.
Mugging, making faces,
sticking her tongue
out of a mouth
festooned with red
sequined lipstick. It
almost seemed like she
was looking into your
soul, and laughing
with you at a mutual
joke from a previous
life. The humor, the
expression of her
spirituality, the
connection with the
crowd who adored her,
and the intimacy of
the setting (more
cabaret than rock
arena) helped explain
where she’d been. The
smaller venues suit
her, humanize her. No
wonder she prefers
them. From 50 yards
away she would be a
cipher. Here, she
could play with the
audience. And play
she did, using her
remarkable range, raw
energy, and vocal wit.
She opened with a song
she recorded with
European art rock band
“Apocalyptica,” and
then ran through an
exhaustive set of
material pulled from
her three decades of
recording careers,
including New York
which took on new
meaning post 9-11, and
the hyper-charged
“UFO.” She also
showcased her dizzying
array of musical
influences, segueing
into a Swing inspired
number, singing Frank
Sinatra’s My Way
her way,
emitting an extremely
original rendition of
Nirvana’s All
Apologies, and
commanding the
audiences rapt
attention with, of all
things Ave Maria.
Altogether she
performed with only
one brief break for
well over two hours.
It was unforgettable.
I can’t wait to see
what she does when she
is as old as Mick
Jagger.
©
2006 All content property of European Weekly unless where otherwise
accredited
|
