Tevs Articles
This piece originally appeared in TEVS magazine
"The Best Worst Record I Think Of, Suicide's American Supreme"
Suicide is a band that built their reputation on being contrary, on being scary even. Their first album is a blue print for an incredibly diverse array of groups that came after it, everything from Soft Cell to Big Black to all sorts of nameless newer bands still flailing away in various hinterlands. The minimal organ drones and primitive drum machine coupled with the deranged and dangerous (like really) front man were (are) a potent mix. Not quite as many folks love the second Suicide record which is a bit more of a pop record (Ric Ocasek behind the boards), more craft, but still and maybe in its way an even more evil recording. And then no one's heard (or talks) about the other records from various points in the 1980s and early 90s (one of them was on Enemy, ha!). By the time American Supreme came out in 2002(!) the only people who cared were Europeans and probably not very many of them. But Alan Vega and Martin Rev have been at since 1970 for cryin' out loud, since before anyone gave a shit what they were doing, only makes sense they would still be at long after anyone gave a shit.
The very instant that American Supreme starts its clear we aren't in familiar Suicide territory anymore. "Diamonds, Fur Coat, Champagne" is one thing, this is something altogether different. A brace of truly dated turntable scratching is followed by a wet/farty bass line and some thin funk guitar. It is a lot closer to a late 80s super slick R&B song then an infamously confrontational performance art band. I mean seriously in 2002 what other record had scratching on it? There isn't even turntable scratching in rap anymore and that fact that I'm sure it’s not even an actually turntable and record being scratched, but a sample of one makes it even more absurd. But then Alan Vega starts to sing. The effect of his psycho-street-hustler Elvis thing in combination with this fucking dated, by-the-numbers "funk" music is sickening. Vega's voice isn't that croon of old, now it’s a throaty, old man growl pushed way up front in the mix. It works. It really does sound like music for gross, coked-out 80s Reganaughts, which maybe is the point. Or maybe not. Vega did note that this was a "post-9/11" record, which makes sense, tanks, soldiers, dread, zombies and "American Mean" all pop up in the lyrics and of course the album cover. Except by that logic every Suicide record has been a post-9/11 record.
Perverted, that's what this record is, it’s perverted. Perverted to make a dance record that's actually about something. "I buried my brother today" sung gently over this anonymous background music, except the music isn't simply anonymous, it’s annoying. Nothing about the music is original or good, but dammit I keep listening to the damn thing. These creepy old dudes playing tunes that take you over. Its a queasy, ugly record, I don't know if its suppose to appeal to raver dorks or soft & plump brain-fried Eurotrash but certainly no one into the tough, "classic" Suicide sound wants to hear them appealing to the Cat-in-the-Hat/pacifer goons.
By the time "Beggin' for Miracles" starts though, maybe you are wishing you were listening to the album while in the front seat of a Black Raven Cadillac Escalade. With the crazy spinner rims, the neon lights underneath and inside Nuance Leather Seating Surfaces that swallows you whole. Prowling around the necropolis, American Supreme creepy-crawling out of the Bose® 5.1 Cabin Surround® Sound System, black sunglasses on adjusting the tri-zone climate control so the air around you is completely icy cold, sealed off in a bubble inside a bubble. Looking but not looking for anything. "Cuz he fucked her". Driving with nowhere to go, the car's super bright halogen lights making everything look twice as ugly as it really is. Maybe if you've hung with the record this long it has started to corrupt you.
The album progresses and the music seems less straightforward, it still has that highly processed chrome sheen but it’s also working at cross-purposes. It doesn't even sound like songs as much as it does a swirling fog of junked up noise. Not the noise of amplifiers feeding back, but real street level noise of shrill frosted pop music blasting at you unwanted from every direction.
Space raygun noises...especially "Dacau, Disney, Disco" sounds definitely like proto-Excepter, whooshing, ping-ponging fuckery w/ a chorus of altered Vega voices chanting the song title over and over until you know, you get the point. Some of the album has the feel of those weird mid-90s Fall records like Levitate that featured the experiments in a sort of house music. There's a general lack of grit over all though, too often Vega's vocals float on top of the music instead crawling naked into the scrum, crawling naked over broken glass and barb-wired crucifixes.
It could be that I am putting more thought into this record than it really deserves. Maybe it’s just a half-assed late period record made by a couple dudes who are probably past their prime. But maybe being “past the prime” as it were is like going through a black hole and coming out the other side, man you are different. You might not be able to throw down like you use to and your old moves seem all weird and strange, like they aren’t being made by your body. That’s American Supreme.
"The Best Worst Record I Think Of, Suicide's American Supreme"
Suicide is a band that built their reputation on being contrary, on being scary even. Their first album is a blue print for an incredibly diverse array of groups that came after it, everything from Soft Cell to Big Black to all sorts of nameless newer bands still flailing away in various hinterlands. The minimal organ drones and primitive drum machine coupled with the deranged and dangerous (like really) front man were (are) a potent mix. Not quite as many folks love the second Suicide record which is a bit more of a pop record (Ric Ocasek behind the boards), more craft, but still and maybe in its way an even more evil recording. And then no one's heard (or talks) about the other records from various points in the 1980s and early 90s (one of them was on Enemy, ha!). By the time American Supreme came out in 2002(!) the only people who cared were Europeans and probably not very many of them. But Alan Vega and Martin Rev have been at since 1970 for cryin' out loud, since before anyone gave a shit what they were doing, only makes sense they would still be at long after anyone gave a shit.
The very instant that American Supreme starts its clear we aren't in familiar Suicide territory anymore. "Diamonds, Fur Coat, Champagne" is one thing, this is something altogether different. A brace of truly dated turntable scratching is followed by a wet/farty bass line and some thin funk guitar. It is a lot closer to a late 80s super slick R&B song then an infamously confrontational performance art band. I mean seriously in 2002 what other record had scratching on it? There isn't even turntable scratching in rap anymore and that fact that I'm sure it’s not even an actually turntable and record being scratched, but a sample of one makes it even more absurd. But then Alan Vega starts to sing. The effect of his psycho-street-hustler Elvis thing in combination with this fucking dated, by-the-numbers "funk" music is sickening. Vega's voice isn't that croon of old, now it’s a throaty, old man growl pushed way up front in the mix. It works. It really does sound like music for gross, coked-out 80s Reganaughts, which maybe is the point. Or maybe not. Vega did note that this was a "post-9/11" record, which makes sense, tanks, soldiers, dread, zombies and "American Mean" all pop up in the lyrics and of course the album cover. Except by that logic every Suicide record has been a post-9/11 record.
Perverted, that's what this record is, it’s perverted. Perverted to make a dance record that's actually about something. "I buried my brother today" sung gently over this anonymous background music, except the music isn't simply anonymous, it’s annoying. Nothing about the music is original or good, but dammit I keep listening to the damn thing. These creepy old dudes playing tunes that take you over. Its a queasy, ugly record, I don't know if its suppose to appeal to raver dorks or soft & plump brain-fried Eurotrash but certainly no one into the tough, "classic" Suicide sound wants to hear them appealing to the Cat-in-the-Hat/pacifer goons.
By the time "Beggin' for Miracles" starts though, maybe you are wishing you were listening to the album while in the front seat of a Black Raven Cadillac Escalade. With the crazy spinner rims, the neon lights underneath and inside Nuance Leather Seating Surfaces that swallows you whole. Prowling around the necropolis, American Supreme creepy-crawling out of the Bose® 5.1 Cabin Surround® Sound System, black sunglasses on adjusting the tri-zone climate control so the air around you is completely icy cold, sealed off in a bubble inside a bubble. Looking but not looking for anything. "Cuz he fucked her". Driving with nowhere to go, the car's super bright halogen lights making everything look twice as ugly as it really is. Maybe if you've hung with the record this long it has started to corrupt you.
The album progresses and the music seems less straightforward, it still has that highly processed chrome sheen but it’s also working at cross-purposes. It doesn't even sound like songs as much as it does a swirling fog of junked up noise. Not the noise of amplifiers feeding back, but real street level noise of shrill frosted pop music blasting at you unwanted from every direction.
Space raygun noises...especially "Dacau, Disney, Disco" sounds definitely like proto-Excepter, whooshing, ping-ponging fuckery w/ a chorus of altered Vega voices chanting the song title over and over until you know, you get the point. Some of the album has the feel of those weird mid-90s Fall records like Levitate that featured the experiments in a sort of house music. There's a general lack of grit over all though, too often Vega's vocals float on top of the music instead crawling naked into the scrum, crawling naked over broken glass and barb-wired crucifixes.
It could be that I am putting more thought into this record than it really deserves. Maybe it’s just a half-assed late period record made by a couple dudes who are probably past their prime. But maybe being “past the prime” as it were is like going through a black hole and coming out the other side, man you are different. You might not be able to throw down like you use to and your old moves seem all weird and strange, like they aren’t being made by your body. That’s American Supreme.
posted by Chris Besinger at 5:11 PM
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