Suicide: pioneers return to re-introduce the future

The stage is simply without décor, just the inhouse-lights: solitary, rather small, keyboards are positioned to the left and a microphone is in the middle. That’s all required by this two, collectively revered as Suicide, the New York City’s prime veterans of experimental noises, and still they push decibels to the level of a fully manned outfit. Well, after a false start: Martin Rev’s ‘machine’ decides to go offline about 30 seconds after Suicide take to the stage for the second night of their performing weekend. It prompts singer Alan Vega to comment that this was the best shortest-gig ever and it couldn’t be more perfect!

Order (or controlled chaos) re-boots within a minute and we are on track of cyber-punk gone funk, this is disco-claustrophobico, sonic fodder for the music lovers who like their music as an intellectual pursuit. Suicide have always made music for cultural outsiders, the ones who refuse to buy into mainstream at its face value and search (to destroy) the pukesville of daily grind known as popular music. (Several hours earlier DJ Sammy reaches the singles summit – quad erat demonstrandum.)

Suicide trade in nothing else and although songs have melody that could easily make them chart contenders, it is the details, the disturbing undertow in their music that undermines the comfort of escapism. Mixing songs from the new (first in ten years) album, ‘American Supreme’ – ‘Televised Executions’, ‘Power Au Go-Go’, the title track – with few choice cuts from the past, ‘Dream Baby Dream’, ‘Cheree’, ‘Fast Money Music’ (dedicated to The Sex Pistols), they truly sear neurosis.

All-black clad with matching shades on, Vega’s beret is covered with a hood; he wears a jacket that looks like half-a-boxer’s robe to deliver a performance that is a bit low on the audience participation. It is Sunday night, some 45 minutes into the pre-witching hour but it puzzles Vega who comments on it. But then, Suicide’s music has always felt like being more suited for showcasing in galleries and museums because it often sounds like aural sculptures. Moshing among the artefacts – that’s some punk-funk!

They were more than aptly supported by label-mates Liars, the band that likes to conjure mini-series with their song-titles alone! When the fellow New Yorkers are let loose on the boards, it is a clash of punk-experiment-pyschedelic-prog-stoner-rock elements to rush your sensual system.

These two nights went under the banner of ‘The Sonic Mook Experiment: Future Rock’n’Roll Weekend’. It certainly was.