I'm not that patient

I’m glad I wasn’t “there in 1974/
The first Suicide practices/
In a loft in NYC/
…working on the organ sound…”

I’ve come across the worst album I’ve listened to this year, and I heard the entirety of Now That’s What I Call Music! 10 last week.*

Anyone who claims that Suicide is worth hearing is posing. Maybe this “band” is at the root of ‘eighties synth-pop, Wax Trax, and/or micro-house (which I know nothing about), but just because you’re seminal doesn’t mean you don’t suck. I’d bet you’d rather hear George Harrison’s Moog noodles or Popcorn’s “Hot Butter” (or was it Hot Butter’s “Popcorn”?). I know I would.

Really, people who swear by this have been duped like modern art patrons (not a coincidence: Suicide’s singer came out of NYC’s avant-garde artist community). I suspect the reason that Suicide was a duo was that they were so dreadful the drummer and guitarist left. And the remaining two wrongly believed they were good enough to carry on.

Shall we examine Suicide’s “gritty lyrics of love”**?

From “Cheree”

“Cheree Cheree/oh babyuh/oh babyuh/I love you/Cheree Cheree/My comic book fantasy/I love you/oh baby.”

Hmmm. The grit must be later in the song. Lessee. Repeat above. Then “My black leather lady***/Oh come play with me/Oh buhay-bee.”

That’s it, the sum total of the song’s lyrics.

Okay, that was the single. I mean, they prolly bent to the conventions of the marketplace; the demands of capital necessitated simplistic words, right?

Here we go with “Girl”:

Oh girl.

Turn me on.

Yeah.

You know how.

Oh Touch me soft.

You might think a song 4:04 in length might contain more, and you’d be right. There are some orgasm sounds that are too embarrassing to relate here.

All right, love songs are just silly anyway. This one is called “Che”—it must political, huh? (Unless it’s a variant on “Cheree”…)

He’s wearin’ a red star

He’s smokin’ a cigar

And when he died

The whole world lied.

Said he wazza saint.

But I know he aint [echoey sound effect on the vocals here]

Chuh…Che

Hooray Hooray

Chuh…Che

Hooray Hooray

(There are also some yelps here and there.)

So you’re arguing that good lyrics aren’t necessary for a good song; it’s about delivery and music. Alan Vega sings in the manner of a heavy-breathing midnight caller, occasionally lapsing into psychosis. There are great gaps between the each line, suggesting he made up the words as he went along.

On every song there’s a synth background that sounds like bugs at night in the summer. Occasionally there are tinkly melodies that recall opening novelty "musical" Christmas cards. Sometimes the “music” becomes a perfect replication of your fridge when it’s humming loud in the middle of the night and making it so you can’t sleep. Sometimes it sounds like a ill-grounded circuit, like how your laptop might sound when plugged into an outlet in Tanzania. From time to time some kid must’ve come on to mash organ keys randomly.

I do believe I’m going to record one of these to give to anyone who betrays me in the future.

--

*Okay, okay, I skipped Marc Anthony’s song.

**Roni Sarig, The Secret History of Rock.

***This is mumbled, so possibly mis-heard.