I thought I knew a lot about Nomi from listening to the CDs I've managed to find and reading what I can about him wherever I can find it … what I didn't know, is that the little I DID know, and all that led me to admire the man so damn much, was merely the LAME part of the story. As one of Klaus's collaborators points out late in The Nomi Song, when Klaus finally "made it" and had major-label support (mostly in France, as it turns out), it was still great, but it just wasn't what it was in the early days. And The Nomi Song does a spectacular – even elegant – job of depicting what it was like to behold the former Klaus Sperber when he initially unleashed his bizarre persona on the New York avant-garde. That, by comparison, someone like Ann Magnuson comes off like a corporate marketing VP when talking about Nomi, demonstrates the sheer, never-to-be-duplicated presence of this man. He was, and will, always be, unique to humankind. You, by far, suck compared to Nomi. So do I. The Nomi Song is a strange and lovely aria devoted to a man who, among even the sui generis, was sui generis. Sure, Klaus's fusion of Weimar decadence with B-movie cosomogeny amounted, in some ways, to hipster bullshit, but Klaus Nomi's hipster bullshit makes yours, or mine, or Matthew Barney's, seem like so much infantile, misguided nonsense. Klaus Sperber came to New York a banal grad student; he left the world a brand, and a brand, arguably, more impressive than Nike. What's especially impressive about The Nomi Song, beyond the absolutely amazing footage of Nomi (including videos, live performances, and a public-access appearance wherein he cooks a tart!), is the humanization of Nomi. No previous document has so perfectly reconciled the pop-culture construct of "Klaus Nomi" with the living, breathing man behind the big suit. What suprised me about Nomi's story, beyond the fact that his early shows were much cooler than his records ended up being, was the profound loneliness he endured, and the boundless disappointment he experienced when the world wouldn't take him in on his own terms. No one ever was more deserving; and no one ever had a worse shot at mainstream acceptance. The film mixes interviews with some of Klaus's contemporaries (and I admit, I am a sucker for anyone who was in the weirdo art-pop scene of early-80s New York City) with performance footage and film clips (including some hilariously savvy 50s sci-fi movie references) to create a portrait of a man who was both much bigger than himself and sadly bound to himself as a man – a man who created an alter-ego more indelible than most, suffered for his art, and ended up in a hospital bed – deserted, unloved, forgotten. This film is a beautiful, beautiful piece of work, and precisely the film Nomi deserved. My only niggle is the absence of Lou Christie's bemused commentary on Klaus's interpretation of "Lightning Strikes" … but it is included in the DVD special features. Now if only someone will have the good sense to make a documentary about Lou Christie!
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