And so finally, the Suicide s/t debut album has made its new home in CD Condo, a.k.a. my archives, shelved cozily in between Suicidal Tendencies and Sunny Day Real Estate. This record has been on my wishlist since time immemorial but kept getting snaked in line by pop-up 'collector's whims' of mine (Like my most recent one for the early work of Lonnie Liston Smith which is fantastic!) Thankfully, I was gifted a copy of this for Father's Day otherwise I may never have gotten to cross this thing off of my list. Welcome home...
Suicide were under my radar until I was first introduced to them quite a few years ago via an article in, yep, Thrasher Magazine (which has a fine tradition in my household for breaking new sounds to me since 1986.) But that would be all of the info that I would possess on these cats for a while. When I finally did hear them for the first time, it wasn't even actually them but Henry Rollins covering what I presume is their most widely known cut, "Ghost Rider". I can say with full honesty that in June 2020 AD I am listening to this album with virgin ears; all the better to listen to and summarize it with, my dear. There will be no pre-programmed proclivities or biases that may shape or form my opinion.
I can tell you that in preparation for this post, I exceeded the quota of lifetime listens to this album by 200%. I often run an album on 'Repeat' mode while I listen and absorb before beginning to pontificate. In doing so for this particular album I exhausted my reserves. I am not trying to tell you that this record blows because I don't find that to be the case.
In fact, this is a must have in my opinion, especially if your bread-and-butter is Punk. Not that Suicide is Punk as you and I may know it, but they were the first to use the term to describe music. Trip back with me to 1970. An advert in The Village Voice reads "Punk Music By Suicide", announcing a 10 October gig at M:APFLA (a gallery space for radical NYC artist/activists.) This is the uncontested first use of the term "Punk" in a musical context. On the merit of that anecdote alone, this album is a must have for a thorough collector of Punk.
Also, while Suicide are by no means originators of electronic music (which has been recorded since the 1930's), they certainly were the first (if not among them) to inject the form with Rock N'Roll attitude, later to be identified as 'Punk' attitude. Way before your grandparents were appalled by a freak with an orange 'hawk and combat boots, Suicide were Punk.
The thing is, their take on 'electro' is sooooo minimal that it doesn't hold up to the times. They make Tank from the Atari 2600 sound like the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra (which I am happy to brag that I once took a broad out on a date to see. Ahh, Flor Magdalena, que clase de hembra!) It is certainly a very cool listen if music triggers your imagination. Upon processing, I perceived Suicide as a post-apocalyptic, electric rockabilly duo (think Elvis Presley doing the soundtrack for Tron.) The recording also captures all the warmth and pulsating qualities of the music, nuances of old recordings that audiophiles jizz their Hane's over.
However, having said all that, I get the feeling that the true beauty, the true magic of Suicide was all in the performance art which no recording can really capture. Legend has it that co-conspirator Alan Vega was inspired by the confrontational nature of an Iggy and The Stooges show and wanted to have a go at inciting audiences to violence. Suicide was notorious for having a knack at pissing off the crowd. They would come onstage and the booing would commence just from how they looked -like Art School felons escaped from a sanitarium. To envision their wild appearance coupled with the music makes that much more sense and of course would make for a much more entertaining experience.
But Suicide, as a strictly audio experience has a short and quick shelf-life. After this post, I won't be due for another listen until the year 2030, and I may be deaf by then so perhaps I may never hear this joint again. Also, although there is a definite 'dystopian' feel to this album, one that urges me to hop into the whip at one in the morning and cruise 8th Street east of 27th Avenue to see what kind of dirt I can smudge on my face; the current health crisis makes nocturnal thrill-seeking a distant fantasy. Otherwise, I would have more reason to interact with this joint. The thought of hunting 'night-creatures' down the shadowy streets of Calle Ocho while bumping "Ghost Rider" makes for a perfect scene for when they make the bio-pic of my life...
Do snatch this up, though, if you're a collector of music. If at all possible, shoot for the 2019 reissue on Mute Records (BMG). It comes with a beautiful layout that opens up like a hardcover book -it's really nice to look at and read from while listening.
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