Published on Jul 12, 1997
Suicide, along with so few other musicians or recording artists,
had the ability to musically recreate intense human emotions;
suffocation, sexual desire, alienation, desparation; and they
managed to accomplish such visions using some cheap electronic gear
and a demented frontman – Alan Vega.
Vega was one truly schismatic member of human society: Some
random quotes:
“It’s not worth living unless you can move on”
“When I feel satisfied I get worried”.
Like Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov, Vega was beyond the realm of
society; Vega felt what was really there, and was prepared to spill
blood toward his cause. The reader of genteel disposition should be
warned here, that we’re not discussing someone in the Carly Simon
stable. No, Vega was a thoroughbred, an intense, dynamo of a
performer. Vegagod (as some are wont to term him) is a very
different apparition – a deviant even by punk rock standards. When
the Clash toured the UK in 78, with Suicide as support – the
pro-Clash lobby bottled and attacked the band on a nightly basis,
whilst Vega – an electric wire, charged with amphetemines and a
warped sense of narcissism assualted himself, with his microphone –
beating himself about the head – slashing himself up – screaming
“Ahm on your side maaaaan”.
Suicide’s ’77 debut offering is a masterpiece, and pioneering
lo-fi. It features some tremendous reverb and echo effects (dub
fans take note, there’s some ear shattering delay) and the songs
are generally built around two-chords only serving to increase the
intensity. Martin Rev (credited with ‘Instrument’ on the back
sleeve (and wearing the biggest and coolest pair of shades you’ve
ever seen) is the maestro; clearly one of few men alive who can
orchestrate Vega’s verbal psychosis.
Suicide begins as it means to continue; with “Rocket USA” –
two chord viterol against the hedonism enveloping America in the
late 1970’s;
It’s nineteen hundred and seventy seven/
the whole country is doin fix/
its doomsday, doomsday.
In these words the hypocracy, degeneracy, desparation and
inevitable burnout is conveyed to the listener within two minutes
of the needle touching the vinyl – a world of “TV stars ridin
around in killers cars”. Genteel listener beware, it goes
deeper.
“Ghost Rider” (remember the Marvel superhero?) kicks in where
“Rocket USA” offers reprieve, taking up a similar theme – “America,
America is killin its youth” chants Vega before Rev’s keyboard riff
is joined by a jarring guitar refrain hammering the image into the
psyche (this, let me remind you is the second track). What’s also a
key feature here is the instrumental minimalism – making the voice
of Vega stand out, amplifying every grunt, groan, sigh – in fact
you can imagine Vega’s sneer (you can hear the dissatisfaction), it
punctuates passages of music, like percussion (which I’ll get on to
later).
“Cheree” slows down the pace; but it’s no less intense –
devoloping the group’s overwhelming sound into areas of fetish and
extereme sexual desire. It unravels so many addictive, complex and
confusing states of desire into a four minute epic; “Cheree” feels
like cocaine bugs, the caress of long, sharp, bright red
fingernails, six inch heels, pale white flesh; pleasure which you
know can be had, but you can’t have it, it’s out of reach – a high
piched xylophone sound soon permeates the music, with delicious
melody – disorientating – sort of queasy, while Vega succulently
describes his “black leather lady”, wanting her to “come play with
me” – teasing the listener; the appetite aroused but never
fulfilled. “Cheree” is tight and shiny. Not since “Venus In Furs”
has masochism been so accuratley represented as an audio
experience.
OK so this leaves the centerpiece – “Frankie Teardrop.” It’s a
story. A New York story. A 20 year old man, out of work, no luck,
got a wife and kid, “just tryin to survive”; he’s fighting a losing
battle. Feelings of inadequacy, claustrophobia, uselessness,
isolation, despondency layer over Frankie like a veil; a mask he
cannot remove, New York is hell; Vega’s skillful lyricism and Rev’s
rythmic intensity, set the New York slums ablaze with hellish
feelings of worthlessness and alienation; it all becomes
overbearing, too much, there’s no escape, he can’t take anymore,
the volume increses the beat pounds into the mind; when
finally:
Frankie takes a gun…
points it at the three month old kid in the
crib…
points it at his wife…shot her…
Frankie with a gun to his head…Frankie’s dead
But there’s no escape in death, Frankie finds himself in hell –
no different than before. Then “We’re all Frankies…We’re all lyin
in hell” – the introverted, (self) obsessive nature of the song is
turned outward, and we are all forced to assess our own situation;
in this case New York projects (like a humourless Hubert Selby
penetrating Eraserhead). I often worry about the sheer adrenaline
fixated addictiveness “Frankie Teardrop” has…
Oh yeah, the percussion. Well, it’s all heavy beats and loops;
rapid fire. However, let’s not confuse with Heavy Industrial Rock /
Techno. This music, albeit of a level of excrutiating intensity, an
assualt on the senses has roots – this is music recorded not just
for its own sake, but because its creators have felt like this;
they have experienced outpourings of these emotions. OK so
Suicide may have provided the groundwork for much of today’s
electronica and techno styles; but many of the current crop of
avant garde (yeah you know who you are!!!), well they use machines
to make music, machines are inhuman, therefore no content – WRONG:
Suicide represent the opposite; they prove the contrary.
Before I go, let’s put Suicide into context; into the grand
scheme. They were a post-Velvets, pre-no wave band of New York
lunatics, who made some of the most creative and imaginative music
tape machines have ever had the pleasure to be allowed to
record.
Not for lightweights.