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the frustration was starting to get to her.
    â€˜No. No. Don’t play it like that,’ she would say to me. ‘Play it more repetitiously … the same thing over and over.’
    She was right. But I couldn’t do it. I’d always want to embellish. The secret was that every time you picked up an instrument it had to be like the first time. No amount of fancy gadgetry or effects could simulate directness and intensity. Trouble was I knew my scales.
    Toby would ‘Clack Clack Clack’ the drumsticks, to lead us into a song, but the response would be ragged and indifferent, a splutter of notes, instead of one affirmative chord.
    There was no way out except ‘out’. So I stayed at the piano and played:

    over … and over … again.
    â€˜That’s nice,’ said Nico.
    Echo and I joined Demetrius at the Isola Bar.
    â€˜Fame is an exacting science,’ he remarked, over a full English breakfast, ‘and the famous are continually being tested.’ He held up a tomato-shaped ketchup dispenser. ‘To arrive at a three-dimensional image of oneself that can be engraved upon the contemporary consciousness, one has to eradicate that bitter-sweet fourth dimension of doubt.’ He squirted a bright red blob on to his fried eggs. ‘Doubt equals Irony equals Collapse equals Failure … Pass the sugar.’ Distractedly stirring his mug of tea, he continued, ‘Fame, James, projects a gigantic shadow of loneliness upon the world. Yet to want to be alone is as impertinent a wish as it would be for most of us to desire instant celebrity.’ He sipped from his mug with a delicately-crooked pinkie. ‘Famous people do not have private lives and they are never alone …’
    â€˜ … even when they’re dyin’ from an overdose,’ added Echo.
    Nico’s life seemed to be refined down to interviews which, in turn, were further distillations of a constant dialogue she enacted with herself.
    A man and a woman sit silently in the control room of a radio station. He’s young, about twenty-five, fresh-faced, fair hair, pastel-framed glasses, baggy sweatshirt. She’s of a certain age, long brown hair turning grey, dressed in a morning coat and a black leather wristband with silver skulls. There’s a record on the turntable, ‘Femme Fatale’; the song’s about to end.
    â€¦ - - -’ - / - - - - - / - - / - - - - / - - - / - - - / - / - - - -
    - - - / - -’ - / - - -
    â€™- - - / - - - - - - - - - / - - - - -
    - - -’ - / - / - - - - - / - - - - - - …
    [Permission to reproduce lyrics refused]
    d.j. : Heyyyy … We’re Piccadilly Radio. It’s eight forty-five and I have here with me in the studio the original Femme Fatale herself … the Legendary Nico , singer with the cult sixties group the Velvet Underground … Created by pop-art supremo himself Mr Andy Warhol … Welcome to Manchester, Nico.
    nico ( pause ): That song … It’s not about me … I just sang it … a long time ago.
    d.j .: Right. Right. OK, Nico, before we talk about what you’re doing now and why you’re in Manchester, can we retrace our steps a little, just for our listeners?
    nico : If we have to.
    d.j .: You come from Berlin originally, I’m told?
    nico : ( groans ): Oh … ( sighs ) Yes … well … nearly … kind of … not exactly …
    d.j .: Now, er, that city has a special mystique … the Nazis … ‘ Cabaret ’ an’ all that … What was it like?
    nico : I didn’t like it. I thought it was all rather tasteless.
    d.j .: Tasteless? That’s a rather unusual way to describe it.
    nico : You know … Overdone. That Liza Minnelli, she can’t keep her mouth shut.
    d.j . ( confused ): Liza Minnelli? Oh yeah, yeah … No, I meant, when you were young, that special mystique of Berlin .
    nico : Young? Mystique?
    d.j .: Well, you know, they say