Show Review: SUICIDE @ Club Europa

Reunions are by nature always awkward affairs usually made more taxing by long drives and the sudden realization that after 20 some years things are never the same. So when faced with a reunion we have two primary means of dealing with the weirdness: denial and alcohol. We make such journeys in the perverse desire to see what may very well be a train wreck, one that we might come out feeling better about ourselves for having seen.

So finding myself in Brooklyn after a three hours on the turnpike in the pouring rain and drink in hand; things were going as planned. Accordingly I spent the first few moments of A.R.E Weapons set looking for familiar faces in the crowd only to give up and resign myself to watching the band. The venue was somewhat large and unfitting and there were a lot less people than I had expected, and while it wasn't a high school gym, I still didn't feel the need to talk to anyone at all.


When Suicide did finally came on I could only think "Fuck these guys are old." The fact that Martin Rev was wearing ski goggles and orange pants didn't even phase me, I could only think
how much Alan Vega looked like my grandfather posing as a street thug for Halloween. Then band proceeded to spend the first 10 minutes of their set phoning in Rocket USA and by the time the shock had worn off I could see the situation for what it was. They were playing techo beats.

Unlike Madonna, The Rolling Stones or our parents, with bands like Suicide we never got to witness the subtle procession into irrelevance that accompanies age. We only have fixed images of them, fixed to a time when they weren't only young but also free of the trappings of the contemporary. This is where the reunion confronts us with a horrible Dorian Gray moment of realization; that time will inevitably erode even those that seem to escape it. There may exist an inertia within any band ahead of their, time barring death or insanity, to eventually reunite. While such instances always seem to tarnish or compromise that band's legacy, many of us still indulge to relive what we often missed out on.

So Suicide did just what you would wish from any artsy nihilists with thirty years of under appreciation would do: stand up in front of those foolish enough to pay to see them and confront them with the reality of what they were seeing. No matter who Suicide were, this is what they are now. Two men, a mid price keyboard and an image that no longer fit them. After 45 minutes or so of indulgent key board mauling and mumbled lyrics, it was probably the most confrontational thing they could do.