Listen. I’m well aware that the last thing the world needs is another biography of Klaus Nomi. He’s already a household name on par with James Polk, young John Cusack, and the Andrews Sisters. What could I – a humble podcast magnate – possibly add to the reams upon reams of information already available to you via your home library, public library, magazine subscriptions, nightly newscasts, corner newsstand, and pocket super computer? Everywhere one looks, his angular, alien features – slathered in pancake make-up, and cartoonish brow, accented by plastic three pronged hair, are emblazoned upon baseball caps, halter tops, and business casual velveteen capes. It’s tattooed to the ankles of desperate baristas, crudely scotch taped to the bedroom walls and locker doors of lovesick tweenagers. Cover bands with names like No Means Nomi and Klaus Kall bogart stage time at VFW Posts in every American town. His ghostly counter-tenor fills sporting stadiums, dank bars, dusk tinged city streets, massage parlors, opium dens, and Subarus. His songs soundtrack what sometimes feels like every third movie preview and gingersnap commercial.
“Enough is enough!” you may be shouting. “Yes, he is a gift – a jewel in humanity’s crown, recognized and beloved by all. But have we not reached the point of saturation? The man has been dead for a score and ten – perhaps it’s time we move on?”
We will, in time, dear listener. I’m sure of it. After this recording, perhaps.Wait? What’s that? You’ve never heard of Klaus Nomi? Could it be true? Excuse me? They don’t make advertisements for gingersnaps? Since when? Oh, well, please accept my apologies. It seems I’ve just woken from the most beautiful dream.
In that case, allow me to fill in some holes.
