debrajean

Last night I saw SUICIDE for the first time. I believe it was a free concert to promote the new art installation that Alan Vega just put up. I walked up to the space that they were playing at and not only was it 100 people over capacity, folks were spilling out on to the street for about fifteen feet in all directions hoping they had a chance to see them play. A miasma of disappointment was thick in the air. A stench of " I'm not old or cool enough to get in", like feral black animals they waited. I passed through the crowd like a leper and walked inside.
I stood a handshake away from the two men that bear the name SUICIDE. The first band to call themselves "punk", one of the longest lasting rock bands ever. Their first performance was in 1971, since then they have released four studio albums and four live albums.
Marty Revs rhythmic punching of his keyboards produced a sex beat for rapists. Alan's screams punctuated every thrust. They were puppets with the strings cut, syphilitic prophets given a second chance. Hungry bunnies looking for love.