Among Gen-Xers favoring subterranean sounds, if Suicide and Alan Vega happened to land on their radar, the person to thank was most likely Henry Rollins. Aside from his post-Black Flag jazz-punk outfit Rollins Band and his surprisingly popular spoken-word shows, the hardcore legend also stayed busy during the Clinton era by manning two record labels: the sonic arm of his publishing company 2.13.61, and the Infinite Zero imprint he co-founded with Rick Rubin as a means to highlight out-of-print punk, post-punk, and new wave treasures. Chief among the titles the pair rescued from cut-out bin obscurity were several of Vega’s solo albums, including 1981’s Collision Drive, 1991’s Power on to Zero Hour (a collaboration with his wife Liz Lamere), and 1993’s New Raceion.
Having been a close friend of Vega’s for a solid quarter-century, it was actually Rollins who broke the news of the singer's death early Sunday with a post on his website. “One of the greatest aspects of Alan Vega was his unflinching adherence to the demands of his art,” Rollins wrote. “He only did what he wanted. Simply put, he lived to create. After decades of constant output, the world seemed to catch up with Alan and he was acknowledged as the groundbreaking creative individual he had been from the very start.”
Pitchfork spoke with Rollins by phone on Tuesday about his longtime friendship with Vega, and how the singer’s relentless adherence to his art continues to inspire generations of young auteurs to create without compromise.
Read our career-spanning interview with Vega himself, from 2002.
Pitchfork: My condolences on the loss of your friend, Henry.
Henry Rollins: There are 365 days in a year. I first met Alan Vega on July 15, 1991, and he died 25 years and a day later. I remembered that because I had been going through my journals the night I heard the news. I was here at the office and his wife Liz Lamere wrote me an email saying, “Call me as soon as you get this.” I didn’t think anything of it at first. I was just like, “Oh, OK, cool, they’re coming out to L.A. or something.” So I called and she told me what had happened.
It’s hard to believe he was older than Bob Dylan. Alan seemed ageless.
Well, 78 years of age Alan got. Yo, I hope I get to 78. In my opinion, it’s tragic, but it’s not like he was torn away from us at 50 or something. What I told Liz that night was that he was appreciated in his lifetime. The world had caught up with him. Those guys had started in 1970, and all they did was get abused at their shows. But they held their ground. Alan was extremely uncompromising in his art. He painted. He did all kind of interesting video art. And then there was the music. But I don’t think people are completely aware that he had this whole other creative output that was non-music, which kept him really busy. And what makes it really fun for the naysayers was that it sold really well. It’s not like he made stuff and it just piled up. He would do these gallery exhibitions and people would come and buy the whole wall. And Liz is an extraordinary person who gave him the freedom to just art out. She really got it. She knew who she married. She told me just the other day he had all these paintings he just finished. They had bought new canvases for him, because he had this whole other thing planned. There’s a finished new album called It. I heard part of it. The guy was always starting the next thing while he was in the middle of other things. Even seeing him live at the Barbican in London last summer at age 77, his age never occurred to me.
Did you hear from Martin Rev after Alan passed?
I got an email from Martin, which is a miracle. He usually talks as much as the Sphinx. He wrote me on Sunday and said, “Hey, I hope you are OK. Your version of ‘Ghost Rider’ was tops.” I wrote back saying, “Hang in there.” It was nice to hear from him. Those two were brothers. They been through musical war together. It’s a friendship that goes for over 45 years. They’re both extraordinary guys.
The Suicide/Alan Vega Anthology Number One was the first music release on your 2.13.61 label. How did it come about?
I played it the other night. I’m sitting here with it right now. It’s all about Alan, that thing. The company that physically made it was run by one of the guys from the band Savage Republic. And sometime in the ’80s or ’90s, you started seeing CDs packaged in this fashion with the recycled paper and this cardboard with silkscreen. The Savage Republic albums were like that. I think R.E.M. did a single using this company. It was almost like origami how they designed it. I wanted to make this release something where you would have to stop what you were doing and deal with. It was something you had to read and had to look at and give a minute to unfold. I wanted to make it something you wouldn’t just toss out. It was an eyeful.
To me, it was synonymous with how I think of Alan: a rare and really interesting thing you have to unfold and engage. It was a very high-minded artistic endeavor, and as anything with a slight bit of levity in life, it was really costly. I did it all with my own money 21 years ago. But this anthology was given away for free. It was never sold, never in stores. I gave it away to press and radio people. I also did a talking show at the Beacon Theatre at the time, and we left one on every seat that evening. It was thousands of dollars I spent—without hesitation—to say, “Hey, here’s a guy who is big in France but should be big here.” And Alan and Martin Rev suffered that thing where in Europe they were gods, but struggled in America.
And then you released the Alan Vega solo albums on Infinite Zero. How did you shift to that?
I pitched the idea to Rick Rubin one day. We hung out a lot. I told him I had an idea for a label that I blueprinted revolving around records that were not out in America or were out of print. And I thought, “Why should you pay $45—this was pre-eBay—from some snooty collector guy to buy Alan Vega’s New Raceion or Jukebox Babe?” Why couldn’t it be 11 bucks, remastered with full liner notes and available right now like any David Bowie record is available? They’re both legit—why is one rarer than the other? I hate rare music. Everyone should have these records. And he agreed and said, “Let’s do it. I’ll make a phone call.” They broke the mold with Rick. Eight months later, we had an office and began putting out records. And Alan was one of my top priorities. And Rick was true to his word, we managed to get most of his solo albums back in print, at least for a time.
Alan was signed to Elektra as a solo act, right?
Yeah, but he had an uneasy relationship with them. They didn’t know quite what to do with him. But he told me once that Bruce Springsteen had gone to a record meeting with him as his backup, and everyone in the building went, “Holy shit! It’s Bruce Springsteen with Alan Vega!” So hats off to Bruce for getting behind Alan. And when you’re Bruce Springsteen and you cover a song, millions of people hear it. And he covered Suicide with that beautiful version of “Dream Baby Dream,” which he had been playing for years.
In the liner notes to the Anthology, you said you picked up the first Suicide album in 1979. Where did you get it?
I got it at a record store called Orpheus Records on M Street in D.C. It was a used record store that me and Ian MacKaye used to go in once a week, because it was all we could afford. We were only making about $3.75 an hour at the time, so we were low on resources but high on curiosity. And there’s the Suicide record in the cutout bin, with the iconic cover with the blood and then you flip the back and there are these two guys—Alan Vega, vocals and Martin Rev, instrument. We were like, “What is it??” Well, for a mere $2.99, we were able to find out. So I bought it and then we headed back to Ian’s sweltering hot, tiny attic bedroom where we listened to thousands of records and put it on.
We were young guys with not a ton of music experience. It’s not like we had Can records or anything. It was mostly punk rock, Nugent, Zeppelin. We were products of our time. And Suicide had something that nothing in my language could compare it to. I didn’t own a Kraftwerk album back then. I didn’t know to say, “Oh, it’s sounds like 1974 Germany with the motorik rhythms.” I didn’t have that knowledge in my young arsenal at the time. We just put it on and listened to it. And then you hear “Frankie Teardrop” for the first time and nothing in your record collection or your life—outside of war—prepares you for the storyline. To this day, no record I own compares to that first Suicide album, and that song in particular. It remains the most intense thing I ever heard.