The Alias Question

Falco was born Johann Hölzel, went by Hans around the house, and became one of the defining voices of 1980s European pop under neither name. That gap between Hans Hölzel and Falco isn’t incidental—it’s the whole argument. The name you’re given is an accident of parentage. The one you choose says something about who you’re planning to become.

The examples pile up once you start looking. My favorite author writes as Mian Mian, whatever her birth certificate says. Farin Urlaub—frontman of Die Ärzte, Germany’s most enduringly beloved and chaotic punk band—has been Farin Urlaub so long that the name underneath reads like trivia. Cher dropped the last name entirely and never needed it again. In Japan, taking on a socially navigable alias isn’t a stage persona but a functional parallel identity—something you use in contexts where your birth name would create unnecessary friction. There’s an honesty in that system. It acknowledges that names are tools, not destiny.

I’ve been thinking about this because I need one. Something functional: easy to remember, good to say out loud, honest about what I do and who I am. The problem is I’m still working out the last two parts, which makes the naming difficult. Maybe that’s the point—you pick the alias slightly ahead of yourself and grow into it. Falco probably wasn’t fully Falco the day he made the choice. But he knew he wasn’t Hans anymore either.