#exiled countess of gloom

[bitter69uk]

“Make no mistake, my friends, for this record is dark, dark. Its dominant mood is Gothick: guttering candles sputtering black wax on cold stone floors as the sound of Nico’s harmonium drifts in from another room. It doesn’t have a beat, and you can’t dance to it.”

/ Rolling Stone magazine’s review of Desertshore /

“Nico isn't here to be pleasant, neither is she a ghoul: she's a presence which makes us conscious of our mortality and of our own uncertainty with it. It's both life-affirming and morbid at the same time, and it feels like you went on a wondrous hike along the Styx and have faced death after listening to the record.”

/ Sputnik Music review of Desertshore /

“The Nico-(John) Cale collaboration continued on Desertshore. Here the disjunctive imagery is set to slightly less gothic arrangements than before, proving Nico’s chanting (she doesn’t “sing” any more than she writes “songs”) can be as chilling a cappella as it is accompanied by a horror-movie soundtrack.”

/ From The Trouser Press Record Guide (1985) /

Light a black candle! Desertshore, the bleak masterpiece (described by Melody Maker as “a medieval ruin of a record” and by New Musical Express as “one of the most miserable records I’ve ever heard”) by the late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse Nico was released on this day (20 December 1970). Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988), of course, was the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom and “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century”. I discovered her essential trilogy of records (Marble Index (1968), Desertshore (1970) and The End (1974)) as a maladjusted teen and it’s been the soundtrack to my life ever since! Pictured: Nico photographed in Amsterdam in 1975 by Gijsbert Hanekroot. Essential viewing: Nico singing "The Falconer" from Desertshore on British TV in 1971.

[sgokie2024]

“In recent years Nico dyed her hair jet black, moved to Manchester and became a pillar of the punk movement, of which the Velvets had been the forerunners. She also gave up heroin for bicycling, which was to turn out the more dangerous amusement – she died when she fell off a bicycle while on holiday.”

/ From The Daily Telegraph obituary for Nico /

“If they ever held auditions for the Angel of Death, Nico probably would have walked it.”

/ From 1988 music press obituary for Nico /

Light a black candle! The late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom, inscrutable Velvet Underground diva, “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” (James Wolcott of Vanity Fair), purveyor of what The Daily Telegraph termed “depraved Germanic lullabies” and my all-time favourite singer - died on this day aged 49 in Ibiza, Spain. Pictured: portrait of Nico by Jill Furmanovsky in London, 1978.

[bitter69uk]

Recognise this wholesome flaxen-haired Scandinavian-looking beauty? It’s pre-Warhol / pre-Velvet Underground chanteuse, moon goddess and rock’s future exiled countess of gloom Nico (aka Christa Päffgen, 1938 – 1988) in her early sixties modelling days!

NICO

British Nylon Spinners Ltd, c.1960

[atypicalacademic]

Secret Ending

(A/N: I owe this entire thing to these headcanons by @apprenticeofcups. I’ve had this stewing in my drafts for ages, but here. Meet Zurkhi. Is this cursed? I don’t know. I had way too much fun writing it.)

Words: 3076

Warnings: This was supposed to be funny but welp there’s angst and allusions to Zurkhi’s tragic backstory involving exile and injury and his raging mommy issues. Also. Language. And Lucio being mean.

Relationships: Nadia x Zurkhi, (she isn’t around though), Zurkhi & Lucio 

A few hours before his first Masquerade as the Countess’ partner, Zurkhi takes lessons in style from a goat-ghost.

*

Zurkhi took one look at the silver-heeled, jade-embedded, amber colored six-inch stilettos and felt his throat close, his heart hammer, and his palms sweat. He waited for Nadia to leave, shaking away the soft silk packaging from the shoes and mustering a smile when she brushed her lips against his cheek, whispering, “I cannot wait to see you in them, my dearest.”

He stood there for a while, cradling the shoes in his hands, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

It can’t be that hard.

He could ask for another one.

He could ask-

Furious with himself, Zurkhi pushed past the suddenly stifling canopy of the Palace bed, and dashed out of the room. His eyes were stinging with guilty tears by the time he turned a corner at the end of the corridor.

By the time he collapsed into a sufficiently darkened corner, dropping the shoes behind him, curling up on something that felt like a couch, he was sobbing, hiccupping into his palms, crying like a lost child when he should be happy and grateful and alright.

He knew he’d hurt her by brushing away her first few attempts at kindness and generosity, he knew he had to learn to accept her gifts without finding something else to ask for, without saying something stupid like “I’m not used to this,” or “this makes me guilty,” or something even stupider, like “I don’t know how the hell to walk in heels.”

She’d been so happy when he’d started to accept gifts without reluctance, and now, he couldn’t go back to asking her to change the things she did for him.

The city was their responsibility, but his problems weren’t ever meant to be hers, and now, again, he was being such a-

“What the fuck-“

The shriek, accompanied by a rush of freezing wind, made Zurkhi jolt upright, shivering.

“Who-“

“You brat-“

From the gloom, a shadow rippled through the walls, and all at once, Zurkhi found himself plastered against the backrest, faced with a pair of crimson eyes and tall horns, sharp teeth bared before him in indignant rage.

He narrowed his reddened eyes in return. “What business do you have here, tyrant?”

The goat-like spectre growled in response, inching closer to him in another gust of ice. “You-“ Count Lucio jabbed at his chest with a sharp claw. “You come to my house, to my room, you cry all over my nice couch, and you’re asking me, what fucking-“

He let out a cry of rage, and stepped back, stomping immaterial hooves angrily across the floor. “The nerve of you, kid- “ he snarled, then sneered. “Where was all this spunk when you were wailing on my furniture, huh?”

“It’s not your-“

“Like hell it is!” Count Lucio roared, the sound rattling like storm against the windows. He pointed a claw at the ash covered walls. “My drapes!” At the dusty floor “My room!” At the couch, “My cushions!”

Realizing just then his exact whereabouts, Zurkhi scowled, gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders. “The people’s work.” He corrected. “Their resources- that you looted and plundered and wasted your entire fucking regime.”

“Why you little-“ Readying himself for a full throated shriek, Count Lucio cut himself off, red eyes falling on the discarded stilettos lying next to Zurkhi. He gasped, claws against his furry chest, scandalized.

“Are those yours?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

Zurkhi reached for them at once, clutching them protectively to his chest. “Yes.”

“And you’re leaving nice shoes in the ash?” The spectral Count’s voice kicked up a few pitches, flinching as though mortally offended.

“Uh-“

“You can’t just-“ He gestured wildly at them. “Look at them- they’re custom made! And-“ Suddenly, he was in Zurkhi’s face again, eyes flashing jealously. “Noddy made those for you, didn’t she?”

He ran a claw over one silver heel. “That’s her style.” He lowered his eyes for a moment, the tone dipping away into something a touch softer. “That’s her-“ And then the venom was back, a sneer on his face as he gazed at Zurkhi.

“It couldn’t be you, anyway. I’ve seen you around. You dress like a hobo.”

Ignoring the jab, Zurkhi frowned suspiciously. “Have you been spying on-“

Count Lucio rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, and you’re boring.” He leaned back, clicking his tongue. “All you do is bitch and whine about stupid shit at Court, and cry on my cushions. Rude. Noddy could do a lot better.”

“Shut up.” Zurkhi snapped. Even so, he felt his shoulders fall, his frame curl inwards a little.

“Touched a nerve?” The Count grinned. “That why you were crying?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? Shoes don’t fit?”

Zurkhi swallowed.

The Count’s grin widened. “Or-oh- you don’t know how to walk in them, do you?”

“I- go away!”

Count Lucio laughed, throwing his horned head back and leaned against a tall shelf beside the couch. “If you know how to walk in ‘em, show me.” He taunted. “C’mon. Give me a walk. And I’ll leave you alone.”

To his utter mortification, Zurkhi felt his eyes water all over again. His lip trembled, and overcome with another fit of sobs, he pressed his head into the cushion behind him.

The ghost gasped. “Fuck, no!” He attempted to bat the cushion away from Zurkhi, but his incorporeal form could only pass through the fabric. “Don’t cry-ugh- you wimp.” He groaned. Drawing his clawed hand over his face, the Count let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Ugh. You know what? Today’s your lucky day.”

Lifting his head from the cushion, Zurkhi raised an eyebrow.

“Put them on.” The Count demanded.

“What?”

“I said. Put them on. I’ll teach you to walk in those shoes.”

Zurkhi blinked, utterly at a loss.

Count Lucio snapped his fingers. “It’s nearly sunset outside. D’you wanna wear those heels to the Masquerade or not?”

Dropping his face to his hands, Zurkhi tugged at the roots of his hair in despair.

“Don’t dawdle.” The Count clicked his tongue impatiently. “Go on.”

The absurdity of the situation rapidly being overtaken by his own desperation, Zurkhi slowly set the shoes down before his feet.

“Oh wow,” The Count surveyed him with amusement, walking a ghostly circle around him. “You’re tiny.” He snickered. “Think those shoes are gonna get you level with her?”

Zurkhi rolled his eyes. “They will. And even if they don’t, I’m not in the business of caring about those things.”

“Right. That’s why you were sniveling out here for me to save you. You’re welcome, by the way.” Count Lucio looked pointedly from the shoes to Zurkhi’s face.

“I was not, and I’ll save the thanks for when you do your job right.” He retorted.

To his surprise, the Count only gave him a smug, toothy smile. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Now, the shoes.”

Zurkhi carefully slid his feet out of his own sandals, and gingerly slid them into the stilettos, their silk lining and smooth finish already strange against his cracked, scarred skin.

“Hook them up, for fucks sake.” The ghost snapped. “What sort of hick are you?”

Biting back a retort, Zurkhi hooked the straps into the clasps.

“Alright. You know how to put on shoes. Wouldn’t have guessed. Congratulations.” The Count made a mock sweeping gesture. “Now, get up.”

Steadying himself on the armrest, Zurkhi rose, wobbling dangerously all the way up to his feet, before letting go.

And losing his balance, stumbling face-first into the ashy carpet.

The former Count howled with laughter, cackling as Zurkhi yelped miserably and wiped ash from his mouth.

He only laughed louder when Zurkhi winced and gingerly poked at his nose. “Is this ash lethal?” He asked, feeling around for vestiges of dark magic.

“Lethal?” Count Lucio exclaimed. “My carpet’s the nicest thing you’ll ever break your face on.” He turned up his snout. “You should be grateful you got the chance.”

Turquoise eyes narrowed scornfully, Zurkhi got to his feet, awkwardly bracing both arms on the couch.

The Count snorted. “Look at you. Which dirt-pool did you spring out of?” He fixed him with a searching look. “You’re not Prakran, for sure.”

Zurkhi sniffed, letting go of the couch to lean against the dusty shelf. “Firent.” He grumbled.

Count Lucio let out another bark of laughter. “Really? Awful place.Alright, straighten up,.”

Though in agreement for once, Zurkhi rolled his eyes, pressing his spine against the shelf to straighten.

The ghost swooped forward, eyeing him critically. “You’re putting too much weight on your toes, idiot. No wonder you keep falling over. Who does that? Do Priestlords walk on their tippy toes?” He snickered.

“Don’t call me that.” Zurkhi snapped. He gingerly settled back to his heels, worried for a moment that the stilettos would snap under his weight.

They didn’t. He released his grip on the shelf, standing uncertainly with his hands raised awkwardly by his side.

"What sort of color is that?.” Count Lucio cackled. “Don't tell me that's your real hair.”

Grabbing a handful of his wispy, blood-red hair, Zurkhi huffed. “Yes, it is.”

“…Looks fake to me. But okay.” The former Count squinted suspiciously. “Okay, you can stand. Now, balance. Take a step.”

Zurkhi wrapped his arms defensively around himself, glowering at the ground.

“Oh, gods,” The Count laughed. “You’re scared, aren’t you, you wimp?”

“I don’t want to fall.” Zurkhi mumbled.

“You’re not gonna die of high heels when I’m around.” Count Lucio assured him. “And besides,” he came closer, glowing eyes trailing the jagged scar running across Zurkhi’s face. “You look like you’ve taken worse beatings.”

“I-“ Zurkhi shrugged, embarrassed. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Say, who’d you piss off to get that?”

Zurkhi looked up into apparition’s glowing eyes. “A tyrant.” He said indignantly. “Like you.”

The ghost seemed to take no offence. “Oh yeah?” He asked, his own claws absently moving over the scar running through the stump of his left arm. “And did you kill them?”

Zurkhi looked away, swallowing through the memory of flashing, fiery red. “No.” He admitted.

“Figured.” The Count cackled. “You’re too much of a wimp. I would’ve gutted them if they did that to my face.”

Zurkhi opened his mouth to respond, but the Count held up a hand. “Alright. Focus on a spot on the wall there. Find your balance.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Zurkhi zeroed in on a spot of grime beneath an empty picture frame. He breathed deeply, settling back on to his heels, and feeling the ground steadying beneath his feet.

“Right,” said the Count. “Now, walk.”

Zurkhi took one tentative step forward, and another, trying to find his center of gravity at every one.

Just when he thought he could muster a couple of paces, the ghost was in his ear again.

“No, don’t slouch like that. You’re gonna ruin your outfit. C’mon. Shoulders up.”

Zurkhi straightened his back, nearly twisting his ankle in the process.

“And back. Chin up. Why’re you hiding? Even with that.” He gestured disdainfully at the hair falling over Zurkhi’s face. “Where’d Noddy even see you behind all of that?”

“She sees me just fine.” He grumbled, folding his arms.

“One of those bangs at a time? Is that how Priestlords flirt?”

Zurkhi glowered at him, taking another uncertain step. “I said don’t call me that. I no longer belong to that place.”

“They drove you out?” The Count teased.

“Exile.” Zurkhi sighed, reaching out reflexively to steady himself, but finding that he no longer needed it.

“You’re not special.” The Count retorted, though his eyes were strangely distant. “I did way better for myself.”

Hands on his hips, Zurkhi paused, regarding him curiously. Beyond a reputation for unspeakable violence and unforgivable tyranny, he’d only ever heard gossip about the Count’s past in hushes and whispers.

“Exile” was among those whispers. “Curse,” as well.

His stomach turned a little. The last thing he wanted was common ground with the likes of Count Lucio.

He glanced pointedly at the Count’s ghostly form, arching a red eyebrow. “About that, are you certain?”

“Fuck off.” The ghost fumed. “I’ll be back and better than you before you know it.”

Slyly, Zurkhi smiled. “So you admit that I’m better than you now.”

“I never said that!” Count Lucio exclaimed. “You watch your mouth before I pull that rug from under your feet, you twig.”

Zurkhi snorted. And took another step.

And another. A few more, and he’d scaled the length of the room.

Pleased with himself, Zurkhi held on to the windowsill, dusting ash off his palms.

The Count, however, looked unimpressed. “Again.” He commanded.

“Pardon?”

“Do it again.” The Count said coolly. “You look like a rookie.”

“Well, I am in these-“

“Doesn’t matter.” The ghost snapped, baring his teeth. “Doesn’t mean you have to look like one. Again. Can’t have you looking like a rookie and ruining my reputation.”

“Your-“ Zurkhi stared at him incredulously. “This is the last thing they say when they speak of you on the streets.”

Count Lucio only cradled his face in his palm, self-satisfied. “They’re talking about me. Of course they are.”

Shaking his head, Zurkhi began to walk back down.

At the other end, the Count snapped his claws, and asked him to go again.

And again.

And again.

With Count Lucio critiquing his form, barking out directions, and ordering him to turn this way and that, change his pace from quick to slow to quick again, and laughing raucously every time he lost his balance.

And again.

Until his knees stopped wobbling, and he stopped feeling the need to reach out to any surface for a grip.

His feet were sore by now, a dull ache starting to creep up his back.

At the end of a particularly triumphant turn, Zurkhi sighed in relief, bending down to slip out of the shoes.

“No, no!” The Count rushed to stop him. “Don’t you dare. I just figured out what’s wrong with you.”

“What the-“

“You don’t mean it.” Count Lucio declared. “This.” He snapped. “You don’t get the point of it, you don’t want it as much as you should, and you’re not happy with it.”

Nearly losing his balance again, Zurkhi shifted uncomfortably. “I am.” He said coolly. “I’m only unaccustomed to-“

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” The Count shook his head in frustration. “You-“ Jealousy seared through his eyes again. “You don’t know what it’s like- I’d give anything to have feet again. To wear shoes, to-“

He tore his gaze away from Zurkhi, in favour of pacing another slow circle around him. “Even chicken feet like yours.” He added, ignoring Zurkhi’s indignant protest.

“I know you’re nothing like me. I’m richer, smarter, and when I have my body back, I’m a lot hotter.” He ticked them off, claw by claw. “But for the sake of those goddamned shoes, celebrate them. Show them off to everyone. Rub it in their faces.”

“I don’t want to-“

“Don’t you?” The Count sneered, looking down to meet his eyes again, his face inches from Zurkhi’s, ghostly teeth flashing in the gloom. “Just last week, you were some hick jackass on the run from the law. Tonight, you’ve got silver-cast stilettos to wear to the second-best party in the world. I think you do.”

Zurkhi threw the Count a questioning glance.  

“The best is my Masquerade, of course.” The smug grin sharpened, before he inched a little closer. “What d’you say?  Don’t  you want them to be jealous?”

Black claws outlined Zurkhi’s shoulders as they straightened instinctively.

“Don’t you want to rub it in their faces?”

Crimson locked into turquoise, the flash in them reminding Zurkhi of another pair of ruby-red eyes.

His mother. “Hermes,” her voice like a sheet of ice. “And where would you go? What are you without us?”

And years later, a pair of rough, calloused palms pulling him into a caravan. “What shall I call you?”

His old name catching in his throat.

Hermes, what are you without us?

“Zurkhi.” He looked into the magician’s wizened golden eyes. “I am Zurkhi.”

Something rolled up his spine, lifting a weight off his shoulders. Zurkhi swept his hair back from his face, untying and retying his bright red ponytail so it swayed over the nape of his neck. Then, hands deep in his pockets, chest puffed out and chin lifted, he walked up and down the room as though in view a fawning, jealous audience.

What are you without us?

Petty, angry things, too small and prickling to have been swept up before to his notice, exploded in the pit of his stomach. In the grimy mirror at the end of the room, Zurkhi caught the faint smile on his own face.

All at once, he felt like someone else, and more himself than he’d felt since he’d set eyes on the shoes for the first time.

Floating past a blackened dresser, Count Lucio tried, and failed, to suppress a triumphant smile.

“That’s more like it.” He declared. “Knew I could straighten out a lost case like you.”

Zurkhi scoffed. “Go to hell.”

“You’re welcome.”  The Count reminded him, jeering.

As he walked out of the room, the buzz in his head not yet having given away to the sheer impossibility of what had just transpired, he felt Count Lucio shift around him with an unsettling chill.

“You can tell Noddy who to thank for that, by the way.” He called out, the smugness in his voice faltering. “She can come here in person too, I won’t bite.”

Zurkhi paused at the doorway.

The Count cleared his throat. “She’s got to get someone to clean this place up, too. It’s getting ridiculous. But tell her I’ll let it go if she comes over.” The ghost slinked back into the shadows, now only a pair of red eyes in the dark.

For a moment, Zurkhi was briefly reminded of the earful that he’d sworn to give the Count’s spectre should he come across him again.

We’ll erase you from history, Nadi and I.

I hope you rot in here, thinking of everything you’ve done.

I’d have burnt you down myself, for all those people.

But all he could muster was to toss a knowing look over his shoulder, settling back on to his heels. “I’ll let her know you miss her.”

He heard the indignant sputtering, a slew of defensive exclamations, and then, in a sweep of wailing ash, the ghost was gone.

[snakeley]

( Here we go, I finally mustered the will to write an about for my glorious trash son Richard II !! )

FULL NAME: Richard II of Bordeaux, Of the House of Plantagenet, King of England. 

TIME AS KING: 1377 A.D. - 1399 A.D.

BORN: 6th of January 1367. 

SPECIES: Human.

GENDER:  Male.

PREFERRED PRONOUN(S): He/Him/His.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Homosexual. 

OCCUPATION: Drama Queen.

FANDOM: Historical/Shakespeare. 

FACE CLAIM: David Tennant.

RELATIONSHIPS

PARENTS: Edward the Black Prince & Joan, Countess of Kent (”The Fair Maid of Kent”).

WIFE (verse dependent): Anne of Bohemia (married 1382). Dearly beloved by Richard, but not in any romantic sense. 

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOUR(S): Warm brown. 

HAIR: Light red, long, wavy. 

HEIGHT: 185 cm.

BODY BUILD: Athletic, thin, fit. 

NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: His long hair and gold-coated nails, exquisitely manicured hands, fair skin, very neatly groomed appearance. 

SMELLS: Rosemary, incense, a mixture of rose water and iris perfume. 

CLOTHES: Long flowing robes of silk and velvet, richly embroidered and bejewelled, fine shoes, expensive jewellery, and quite obviously his crown. 

BODY LANGUAGE: Regal, cultured, upright, quite still at times until there’s a sudden outburst of activity. 

PHOBIAS AND DISEASES

FEARS: Losing his power, solitude, death, paranoia. 

MENTAL DISORDER(S): Narcissistic Personality Disorder, BPD,  his “ temper on any given occasion was incalculable. Energy and apathy, over-confidence and abject depression came to him at the inappropriate moments. . . . He was a creature of moods, and his moods always visited him at the wrong time. ”

PERSONALITY

USUAL MOOD/EXPRESSION: Rapidly changing between aloof and melodramatic. 

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral. 

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Ravenclaw. 

FIVE PROMINENT TRAITS: Extravagance, Glamour, Self-Importance, Fragility, Impulsiveness. 

BAD HABITS: Richard is known to be unreliable in his decisions and rather biased in his personal opinions, with a tendency to play favourites among his friends and councillors. He thrives on attention and will go to great lengths to ensure he is constantly at the centre of any social interaction. He ranges between extreme moods and is known for trying to follow in his father’s military footsteps, without much success on his behalf. He is religious to the point of self-abandon and views himself as a martyr to the crown, appointed by God and infallible in his divine decisions. He can be cynical and rude, as well as vengeful towards those who wronged him. 

GOOD HABITS: At the same time, Richard is a diplomat and a peace-seeker who cares extraordinarily much about the common people, which endeared him to his soldiers. He can be a cunning strategist and proves himself a lover and sponsor of the fine arts and architecture. He is cultured, charming, lively, and a charismatic companion with a lot of stashed-away tenderness and love to give. He is unshakably loyal and generous towards those who prove themselves worthy of his trust. 

                                                      BIOGRAPHY 

6th January 1367: Richard is born in Bordeaux, the second son of Edward the Black Prince and Joan of Kent. His older brother dies when Richard is six years old, his father follows in June 1376. Richard inherits his father’s titles.  16 July 1377: Richard is crowned King of England. Due to his young age, royal matters remain mostly in the hands of his councillors.  1381: 14-year-old Richard quenches the Peasants’ Revolt, realising the importance of the people’s obedience towards their king. This experience would later come to influence his absolutist attitudes.  20th January 1382: Richard is married to Anne of Bohemia to gain allies against France in the Hundred Years’ War. The marriage remains childless.  1385 - 1388: Richard leads an unsuccessful punitive expedition into Scotland. Tensions begin to grow between the King and the Parliament, who are now in control of the royal finances and finally destroy the community of Richard’s favourites by executing several of his loyalists and chamber knights.  1389: Richard regains control of the government, aided by his uncle John of Gaunt. Richard lessens the parliament’s taxes on the common people and rules over the realm peacefully for the next eight years.  1394-1395: Richard leaves for Ireland to settle the Irish revolts. The invasion is successful.  1396: A long-lasting truce with France is established.  1397: Richard arrests a fair number of men who conspired against him and his loyalists a decade earlier, sentencing them to death, life-long prison stays, or exile. Furthermore, Richard exiles two of his own friends: his cousin Henry Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt, and Thomas de Mowbray, seeking to clear a dispute over the death of Bolingbroke’s uncle. After John of Gaunt dies, Richard seizes his belongings, which infuriates the nobility.  1398: Richard becomes an absolute ruler, unbound by the decisions of Parliament. His court culture is one of the fine arts rather than warfare.  June 1399: Bolingbroke returns to England with a group of followers and quickly gains popularity among the nobles. Richard, currently in Ireland, remains ignorant of the growing opposition at first. Bit by bit, his remaining loyalists are overthrown, executed, or won over. On the 19th of August, he surrenders to Bolingbroke and promises to give up the crown in exchange for his life. He is imprisoned in the Tower of London.  14th February 1400: Richard dies in Pomfret Castle, locked away deep in the lightless, damp dungeons. To make sure Richard’s loyalists will not try to regain the throne for him, one of Bolingbroke’s followers - formerly part of Richard’s entourage and his love interest - murders a hunger-weakened and insanity-ridden Richard in his dungeon. Richard dies alone and betrayed, extraordinarily dramatic even on his last breath. 

What endears Richard to me? His humanity - his flamboyant, abundant self; his antics and big talks about death and gloom followed by his joy for the little pleasures in life; his deeply repressed gay longing; his unwavering certainty that he has been appointed by God personally and can do no wrong; his self-importance coupled with his fragility; his desperate need for love and companionship and true loyalty; his effeminate exterior and his golden nails; his terrible decisions that clash ever so strangely with his ( theoretical ) competence; his beauty in the face of all the ugliness that dominates his life. The way he knows he should not trust, but hungers for friendship and affection and romance. And lastly, the way he kisses other men: full of despair and wonder and tenderness and overwhelmed hunger. It’s that historical gayness, damn it. My lesbian heart cannot help but ache. 

[bitter69uk]

“Listening to Nico is always an unforgettable experience: turbulent, enigmatic, haunting, nihilistic and timeless. Now it seems that time is finally catching up with Nico in that more and more people are coming to appreciate her profoundly disturbing and visionary recordings. With The End she is at her best, forcing you to totally rethink what a rock album should sound like.”

/ From Andrew Batt’s liner notes to the 2012 CD reissue of The End /

Released on this day fifty years ago (11 November 1974): The End, the fourth studio album by heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, Moon Goddess and the countercultural Marlene Dietrich, Nico (Christa Paffgen, 1938 – 1988). The final (and bleakest) part of Nico’s essential trilogy of records encompassing The Marble Index (1968) and Desertshore (1970), its “terrorist songs” of violence and resistance were inspired by the activities of Germany's Baader-Meinhof Group. Hence the brutal imagery of warriors, gladiators, prisoners, hunters and knives in “It Has Not Taken Long” (“It has not taken long / To feast our naked eye upon / The open blade / The hungry beast / Have found her calling, calling / Help me, please”), “Secret Side” (“Without a guide, without a hand / Unwed virgins in the land  / Tied up on the sand …”) and Innocent and Vain (“I am a savage violator”). The End also represents a tribute to Nico’s “soul brother” and former lover Jim Morrison (it was her first album since his death): the title track is her interpretation of the Doors song and “You Forget to Answer” (one of the best things Nico ever did) is her eerie eulogy to him. Melody Maker maligned The End at the time as “recommended only to those who get satisfaction out of knowing that somebody else is more incoherent and screwed up than they are.” Pictured: Nico in London by Simon Bedford, 1974 from an abandoned photo-shoot for The End’s front cover.

[bitter69uk]

“Make no mistake, my friends, for this record is dark, dark. Its dominant mood is Gothick: guttering candles sputtering black wax on cold stone floors as the sound of Nico’s harmonium drifts in from another room. It doesn’t have a beat and you can’t dance to it.”

/ Rolling Stone magazine’s review of Desertshore /

“Nico isn't here to be pleasant, neither is she a ghoul: she's a presence which makes us conscious of our mortality and of our own uncertainty with it. It's both life-affirming and morbid at the same time, and it feels like you went on a wondrous hike along the Styx and have faced death after listening to the record.”

/ Sputnik Music review of Desertshore /

Light a black candle! Desertshore, the bleak masterpiece (described by Melody Maker as “a medieval ruin of a record” and by New Musical Express as “one of the most miserable records I’ve ever heard”) by the late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse Nico was released on this day (20 December 1970).  Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988), of course, was the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom and “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century”. I discovered her essential trilogy of records (Marble Index (1968), Desertshore (1970) and The End (1974)) as a maladjusted teen and it’s been the soundtrack to my life ever since! Photo of Nico in 1971 by James Hamilton.

[bitter69uk]

“She is beautiful and more than beautiful; she is surprising. Darkness in her abounds, and all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound. Her eyes are two caverns where mystery dimly glistens, and like a lightning flash, her glance illuminates: it is an explosion in the dark.” From the poem The Desire to Paint (1869) by Charles Baudelaire.

"She didn't bother with neurosis; she went straight to psychotic." Music manager and publicist Danny Fields on his friend Nico.

“When she sang with the Velvet Underground it was like a loved one taking a razor to your throat.” Steven Puchalski, Slimetime: A Guide to Sleazy, Mindless Movies (1996) “If they ever held auditions for the Angel of Death, Nico probably would have walked it.” From a 1988 music press obituary for Nico.

Light a black candle! The late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom, “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” (thank you, James Wolcott of Vanity Fair) - was born on this day 86 years ago. The eternally alluring and inscrutable Nico has always been my favourite singer (and John Waters’ too, for that matter). Portrait of Nico by Maarten Corbijn. (This photo would be adapted for the front cover of Nico’s final studio album Camera Obscura (1985)).

[bitter69uk]

“She was extremely strong. It was like hanging out with a guy except she had girl’s parts; that was the only difference, otherwise it was like hanging out with a tough-minded, egotistical, artiste kind of guy.” / Iggy Pop recalling his love affair with Nico in the book Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk (1996) /

Light a black candle! The late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom, “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” and my all-time favourite singer - was born on this day 85 years ago. Here is the gloomily alluring and inscrutable Nico photographed onstage at Le Bataclan theatre in Paris in 1972.

[bitter69uk]

“If they ever held auditions for the Angel of Death, Nico probably would have walked it.” From 1988 music press obituary for Nico. 

Light a black candle. The late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom, “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” and my all-time favourite singer - died on this day precisely 33 years ago in Ibiza, Spain. Pictured: Nico photographed by Howard Greenblatt onstage at Chicago punk club Tuts in 1982.

In an eerie coincidence: author Jennifer Otter Bickerdike’s massive new Nico biography You Are Beautiful and You Are Alone was released this week. I immediately snapped it up and can’t wait to dive in.

Nico at Tuts in 1982 (one of the first active punk clubs in Chicago, open from 1980-84).

Photo by Howard Greenblatt

[bitter69uk]

“In recent years Nico dyed her hair jet black, moved to Manchester and became a pillar of the punk movement, of which the Velvets had been the forerunners. She also gave up heroin for bicycling, which was to turn out the more dangerous amusement – she died when she fell off a bicycle while on holiday.”

/ From The Daily Telegraph obituary for Nico /

“If they ever held auditions for the Angel of Death, Nico probably would have walked it.”

/ From 1988 music press obituary for Nico /

Light a black candle! The late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom, inscrutable Velvet Underground diva, “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” (James Wolcott of Vanity Fair), purveyor of what The Daily Telegraph termed “depraved Germanic lullabies” and my all-time favourite singer - died on this day aged 49 in Ibiza, Spain. Pictured: portrait of Nico by Jill Furmanovsky in London, 1978.

[bitter69uk]

“Make no mistake, my friends, for this record is dark, dark. Its dominant mood is Gothick: guttering candles sputtering black wax on cold stone floors as the sound of Nico’s harmonium drifts in from another room. It doesn’t have a beat and you can’t dance to it.” 

/ Rolling Stone magazine’s review of Desertshore /

Light a black candle! Desertshore (described by Melody Maker as “a medieval ruin of a record” and by New Musical Express as “one of the most miserable records I’ve ever heard”) turns fifty this month! The bleak masterpiece by the late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom and “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” -  was released in December 1970. Here's Nico (looking very Hammer Horror vampire priestess) photographed by Barry Plummer at Kensington Gardens in London in March 1970.

[bitter69uk]

“Make no mistake, my friends, for this record is dark, dark. Its dominant mood is Gothick: guttering candles sputtering black wax on cold stone floors as the sound of Nico’s harmonium drifts in from another room. It doesn’t have a beat and you can’t dance to it.” 

/ Rolling Stone magazine’s review of Desertshore /

Light a black candle! Desertshore (described by Melody Maker as “a medieval ruin of a record” and by New Musical Express as “one of the most miserable records I’ve ever heard”) turns fifty this month! The bleak masterpiece by the late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom and “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” -  was released in December 1970. I discovered Nico’s essential trilogy (Marble Index (1968), Desertshore (1970) and The End (1974)) as a maladjusted teen and it’s been the soundtrack to my life ever since! In fact, I’d argue Desertshore is ideal listening for this accursed Winter of Coronavirus. Here's Nico performing “The Falconer” on TV in February 1971.

[bitter69uk]

“If they ever held auditions for the Angel of Death, Nico probably would have walked it.” 

From 1988 music press obituary for Nico.

Light a black candle. The late, great heroin-ravaged German chanteuse, actress and fashion model Nico (née Christa Päffgen, 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) - the Marlene Dietrich of punk, Edith Piaf of The Blank Generation, Warhol Superstar, Moon Goddess, Exiled Countess of Gloom, “possessor of the most haunting wraith cheekbones of the twentieth century” and my all-time favourite singer - died on this day precisely 32 years ago in Ibiza, Spain. Seen here photographed onstage at Le Bataclan theatre in Paris in 1972.

Let’s face it: the puritanical, hypocritical and homophobic hellsite Tumblr has become a dying platform since it banned adult content in December 2018. I post here less and less. Follow me instead on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook or on my blog. Fuck Tumblr!