Alan Vega has departed this realm, but the music he made in partnership with Martin Rev in a union known as Suicide will long endure as a beacon at the crossroads of defiant individualism and fascinating leftfield imagination. Earlier this year Superior Viaduct reissued the duo’s first two classic singles on vinyl and now they’ve done the same with their stunning debut album and its underrated follow-up; Suicide is a sui generis cornerstone of punk’s grand 1977 convulsion, as alien as it is eventually incendiary, while Alan Vega Martin Rev explores refinement without marketplace capitulation at the dawn of the 1980s.
On September 19, 1981 Alan Vega and Martin Rev played a tenth anniversary concert at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, MN. The show is documented on Ghost Riders, just one of numerous authorized, grey market, and bootleg Suicide live recordings; cult status has since been established, but jump ahead ten years from that night at the Walker Art Center and the jury was still deliberating the pair’s artistic success rate and overall value.
By 1991 all of Suicide’s proto and first wave NYC cohorts were pretty easily categorized. The Dictators were smart-aleck celebrators of trash culture, Patti Smith and Richard Hell rough bohemians mingling rock and poetics, the Heartbreakers glam graduates brandishing Stones-like edge, Talking Heads essentially art-rockers helping to define the parameters of new wave and paving the exit ramp of post-punk, Television expansionist jammers in punk threads, and Blondie and The Ramones swipers and solidifiers of classic pop and rock moves into fresh and groundbreaking territory.
However, two decades after their formation exactly what Suicide was up to was still difficult to parse. Vega surely exuded an abundance of rock attitude, but thanks to Rev’s one man wrangling of his musical rig (the “instrument”) they landed outside of the genre in formal terms; this blend of rock attitude and non-rock execution is at the root of why quite a few (rockist) listeners continue to disdain their work.
For many they played a major role in the sheer excitement of punk circa ’77, and in ’88 Suicide still existed on the outside, with their belated third album A Way of Life emerging that year on Wax Trax! The association aligned Rev and Vega with the era’s industrial dance brigade, e.g. Ministry, Revolting Cocks, and Front Line Assembly, rather than emphasizing their existence as a geographical precursor to No Wave and Sonic Youth.
That would come later, as A Way of Life was eventually reissued by Blast First, but as the ’80s wound down and the ‘90s ramped up Suicide’s first two albums weren’t easy to come by, though live material a la Ghost Riders and the corralled performances, demos and rehearsals of Half Alive, both initially issued by ROIR on cassette only, could be obtained without too much trouble.
After due diligence and a little good luck, used copies of Suicide and Alan Vega Martin Rev did turn up in this writer’s neighborhood, and upon time spent with the debut the ingredients were pretty easy to discern; rockabilly, doo-wop, elements of ’60s pop and spasms of mutated garage were interlaced with proto-electro/ industrial bedrock, the mixture further enhanced by drone motifs and aspects of experimentation.
But even as late as 1993 there were enlightening occurrences; specifically, there was Gary Stewart and Bill Inglot’s choice to include “Cheree” on the New York volume of Rhino Records’ DIY compilation series, the song’s placement at the end of Blank Generation helping to further illuminate the tune for those having not experienced it as a single. Of course, questions persisted and surely still linger today regarding Suicide’s overall rate of success, though as they near a half century of existence the consensus is decidedly in their favor.
Brandishing minimalism, swagger, and moments of outright antagonism, it becomes pretty clear why Suicide was passed over by major labels looking to capitalize on the new wave. Skillfully co-produced by Craig Leon and Marty Thau, the record remains a transfixing listen today, mainly because hardly anybody has fully adopted the duo’s sonic approach, though their influence has been pretty widespread; opener “Ghost Rider” has been covered (and sampled) many times and was amongst the songs tackled as part of Blast First’s series of tribute EPs marking the occasion of Vega’s 70th birthday.
The combo punch of “Ghost Rider” into “Rocket USA” basically sets the template for Suicide’s captivating strangeness, the low-tech (but not lo-fi) churning and throbbing repetition serving as a catalyst for myriad electronic offshoots to come as the temperament remains closer to Nuggets and the Stooges; that these tracks were confrontationally gushed out from the stage at Max’s Kansas City as part of a shared bill with The Cramps is ultimately not a surprise, especially given the electro-rockabilly of “Johnny” and the classique teen clamoring at the root of “Girl.”
The gorgeous pop dirge of “Cheree” has hopefully culminated scores of mixtapes, but here it lands smackdab in the middle of side one, where it counterbalances the jolt of nastiness comprising the majority of the flip. The ten and a half minutes of “Frankie Teardrop” present Suicide at their most riveting and uncompromising, offering the story of a destitute factory worker who after losing his mind, murders his wife and newborn baby and then kills himself, the narrative then following Frankie to hell.
This might read like fodder for a slice of miserablist art cinema with an extreme shock horror twist, and that’s not necessarily inaccurate; but if visceral “Frankie Teardrop” isn’t relentless, and in terms of shock songs has aged better than “Slug Bait” by Throbbing Gristle. “Che” provides the record with a steady denouement with an undercurrent of lingering foreboding courtesy of Rev.
Naturally Suicide didn’t sell well, but the more approachable and more classifiably electro nature of Alan Vega Martin Rev, which found them moving from Thau’s Red Star imprint to Michael Zilkha and Michel Esteban’s Ze label and hooking up with admirer Ric Ocasek as producer, lacks any sense of desperation. To the contrary, the LP exudes even greater confidence than its predecessor; reportedly, Zilkha wanted Giorgio Moroder in Ocasek’s spot, and if true the union could’ve resulted in a total doozy as opener “Diamonds, Fur Coat, Champagne” and side two’s “Be Bop Kid” insinuate a perfect fit.
The actual album benefits from across the board focus and discipline. Smartly, there are no attempts to repeat “Frankie Teardrop,” but simultaneously Alan Vega Martin Rev doesn’t skimp on the weirdness; “Mr. Ray (To Howard T.)” and second side opener “Harlem” are delicious extended excursions into the duo’s cracked best. Meanwhile, the connection to synth-pop, techno, and electronica becomes more overt throughout, particularly late in the record via “Shadazz” and “Dance,” though the speedy electro reverberation of “Fast Money Music” transcends category.
Maybe the coolest aspect of the set is the continued attention to off-kilter retro-chic, with the skewed pop of “Sweetheart” and “Touch Me” finding Vega giving Bryan Ferry a run for his money while the Presley-ish quaver in “Las Vegas Man” points to his collab with Alex Chilton and Ben Vaughn. Sure, there might be a little Ze-like gloss around the edges, but that fits the circumstances quite well. It’s not as amazing as the debut, but this underappreciated sophomore effort doesn’t miss by much.
As the finishing touches were being made to this piece the sad report arrived of Alan Vega’s death, the shock of the news undiminished by his age of 78 and the realization that Suicide had existed in some form for as long as this writer had been alive. Over four decades after they joined forces the defining work of Alan Vega and Martin Rev is still way ahead of its time.
SUICIDE:
A+
ALAN VEGA MARTIN REV:
A
