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Welcome to Back of the Napkin, musings from Serviette for the cultured world. The tides are finally turning, with algorithms, microtrends, and virality steadily losing their allure. A new era is slowly emerging, one where individuality and authenticity are highly prized forms of cultural currency. In terms of authentic self-expression, there is one inspiration Serviette holds particularly dear:
Pastry chef/opera singer/performance artist/self-styled alien Klaus Nomi (how’s that for a multi-hyphenate?). Born in Bavaria in the mid 1940s, Nomi grew up surrounded by the sounds of classical music. In between the soaring arias of Maria Callas, however, he also developed an affinity for rock music, pilfering money from his mother’s purse to purchase Elvis records.
Nomi was hardly content with being just one thing—he developed a confounding six-octave range (and with it an impressive repertoire), performing wherever and whenever possible. One was equally likely to hear his unique vocal stylings after hours at the opera house as at Berlin’s premiere gay discothèques.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Nomi would soon migrate to New York City, establishing himself as an integral part of the East Village’s robust performance art scene. Donning a plastic spacesuit and his signature white face paint, Nomi could be found providing backup vocals for David Bowie (whom he met at the Mudd Club in the wee hours of the morning), performing amidst strobe lights and smoke bombs at Club 57 and the Pyramid Club, and convening with fellow queer artists, among them Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat.
To Nomi, personal taste was a north star—he relentlessly followed his aesthetic and intellectual sensibilities, refusing to pay mind to convention. As he succinctly put it: “Nothing is sacred to me. Who is making the rules anyhow?”
His conviction is the appeal. As sociologist Pierre Bourdieu argued, true aesthetic judgment is not about liking what is shown, but about judging how it is shown. Proper aesthetic judgment requires stepping back and judging the work itself—its form, structure, or execution—rather than being seduced by the subject matter.
To wit, an average appearance from Nomi: he emerges from a cloud of dry ice, performing a dizzying, synth-laden rendition of a classical aria with his signature countertenor flair. Swishing his plastic cape behind him, he recedes into the smoke without a word.
New York is a permanent magnet for these types of offbeat characters. Step into Washington Square Park to see for yourself. However, the originality that Nomi embodied, ushering in a vibrant era of unbridled and wonderful weirdness, is seemingly not being replicated in the same culture-defining ways. It’s definitely worth a revisitation of his back catalog—suggestion: “Cold Song.” Put it on loud and spray away your fears of conformity.