More than a decade after their debut at the now-legendary new wave spawning ground, the Mercer Arts Center, Suicide are still ahead of their time, still waiting for the world to catch up with their intrinsically radical sound.
Suicide, in essence, created the electronic roadmap for the future, stripping pop as far as it could be stripped, far beyond the already extensive demolition work done by the punk scene around them. Alan Vega and Martin Rev threw out the guitars, bass and drums and replaced them with an ear-shattering drone of throbbing organ and drum machine. They kept the attitude, though. Suicide's early performances were classic rock and roll bedlam. Vega strangled audience members with his mic cord and spit out lit cigarettes onto crowded tables at Max's, prowling around the stage like a caged animal, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
He hasn't changed much, and neither has his music. Suicide's brilliantly minimalist work has influenced a generation of underground artists like Lydia Lunch and DNA. More mainstream performers – from the Eurythmics to Depeche Mode to Sigue Sigue Spiutnik – have picked up their imaginative use of electronics. But a visit to Suicide country is still a shock, even to the most jaded ears.
The band's CBGB's show opened with a rather romantic ceremonial piece of classical music that was gradually attacked and overcome by a relentless drum machine which got louder and louder, an aural war taking place on a darkened stage. The music retreated as if beaten in submission. The drum machine, victorious, continued. And continued. Many bands strive for an unpredictable, dangerous quality in their live shows; Suicide achieved it before even coming on stage. The drums continued, getting louder, causing confusion. How long was this going to go on? Was this going to be the whole set, just to piss people off?
Vega and Rev finally made their entrance and launched into an aggressively cold synthetic beat, with Vega's echo-laden war hoops screeching above the throb. The effect was that of the No. 6 IRT subway train, roaring into the 14th Street station – when you're stuck on the tracks. Many metal bands pride themselves on a drum beat that's loud enough to be felt by the audience. That quality is present in every note of Suicide's sound. They don't play, they attack. The sound crawls up your face, infiltrates your bloodstream. It has a thickness, like the humidity on a hot city day, that settles in your chest cavity, making it hard to breathe.
The "song" droned on like an endurance experiment, as if Vega was conducting a top secret military test for some new weapon which causes insanity through sound wave damage. Suicide create mutant rock and roll for the Road Warrior age – the apocalyptic choir of machine drones, spewing forth killer noise.
Vega has mellowed a bit since his earlier performances; his worn-looking face and fattened body hint that it's rough out there on the edge in Suicide's vision of reality. Unlike the high, cerebral cool of many noise bands, Suicide's music has deep emotional impact – it's frightening and haunting, and it's coming to get you.
Vega's stage presence is similarly disturbing. He radiates anger, pacing back and forth in sharp, ominous movements – one minute suggesting ancient Egyptian religious rites, or kung fu the next, wrapping his wrists in the mic cord, simulating bondage.
Vega does not sing, as he does on his much more accessible solo albums. With Suicide, he is a living sound effect, ranging from animal barks to shrieks from the netherworld – like screams of a psychotic locked overnight in the city morgue. In sound and movement, he is both frantic and controlled, always combative, hitting an audience member's hand, prowling in and out of the stark white light provided by a ceiling spot.
It was a performance that was more to be admired than liked, and the CBGB's crowd had a mixed reaction. Many fled in the middle of show. Someone in the audience called out "turn on the jukebox!" during the one and only silent moment of the set. Suicide played only four songs, including "Ghost Rider" and "Rocket USA" from their brilliant groundbreaking 1977 self-titled debut album, thought by many to be a classic (and due for re-release on CD this month). But, considering the relentless intensity of their performance, 35 minutes was quite enough.
In an odd interview, when asked what his advice would be to the youth of America, Vega answered, "shoot up." Though not a heroin addict himself, Vega still clearly lives in a junkie's mindset – divorced and alienated from mainstream society, vehemently uncommercial, not giving a shit if he's likable or not, immersed in the sadness and decay of modern urban life.
With their morose, discordant grunts and harsh electronic whispers and screams, Suicide convey these feelings of extreme malaise more effectively than most groups who have lyrics and melody lines at their disposal. Perhaps someday, say, 1999, mass audiences will have grown sophisticated enough to appreciate them. Or perhaps not. But in the meantime, seeing Suicide live is still a memorable experience – rather like watching a nuclear reactor melt down before your very eyes.
This review originally published by The East Coast Rocker on September 10, 1986.
