Suicide are the cockroaches of New York rock—and that is a compliment. While so many scenes, movements, and characters burned through Manhattan in the past five decades, the duo of Martin Rev and Alan Vega valiantly survived, despite never reaching the fame enjoyed by some of their proto-punk peers. Over their 45-year career, Suicide haven’t been super prolific (though Rev and Vega both spent extended periods on solo work after the band’s initial burst of energy in the '70s). But they’ve never broken up, nor framed returns as nostalgic reunions. Even after Vega suffered a heart attack and stroke in 2012, Suicide persevered, performing as recently as last spring at NYC’s Webster Hall.
Veteran rock writer Kris Needs compellingly documents this hard-nosed survival in his new biography of the duo, Dream Baby Dream. Suicide’s longevity surely grew from Rev and Vega’s unwavering dedication. But as Needs makes clear, it’s just as due to those they inspired. Countless venue owners, show promoters, tour managers, label heads, and rock critics zealously supported Suicide when the rest of the world ignored or rejected them. Those include Marty Thau, whose Red Star Records released Suicide’s self-titled 1977 debut; Peter Crowley, who revitalized Max’s Kansas City in the late '70s and gave Suicide headlining residencies when most clubs wouldn’t book them as openers; and Ric Ocasek, who brought them on tour at the height of the Cars’ stardom, even refusing to perform when venues wanted Suicide off the bill.
Suicide has also endured because of its native city, which is why Needs subtitled his book A New York Story. Deftly delving into many interesting behind-the-scenes figures who’ve been lost in the shuffle of post-punk myth-making, his portrait of '70s New York serves as a nice companion to Bryan Waterman’s similarly context-rich 33 1/3 installment on Television’s Marquee Moon. Needs’ overarching point is not that Suicide could only have happened in NYC—their story is so idiosyncratic that it was unlikely even there—but that they would’ve been lost without the metropolis that informed their vision. "I have to always admit that New York must have been essential to something in [our] sound," Rev tells Needs. "The environment, the architecture, the tension, the intensity, the particularity of it." For proof, take their 2002 album American Supreme, which directly and profoundly addresses 9/11.
Needs lets Rev and Vega do a lot of the talking; at times he errs on the side of letting them ramble and repeat rather than cutting them short. But both artists are engrossing, and Needs coaxes some amazing tales from them. My favorite is Vega’s early memory of being summoned to Allen Ginsberg’s apartment. Vega took it as a sign that Suicide "was going up in the world," but was quickly surprised to find Ginsberg physically attacking him and yelling "How could you use that word suicide?"
Vega and Rev are most engaging when discussing their respective backstories before the birth of the band. Rev’s is especially interesting: he spent years becoming a well-versed jazz pianist and aficionado, worshipping Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis at Manhattan night clubs and taking lessons from legends Lennie Tristano and Tony Williams. Rev could’ve easily pursued a stellar career in jazz, but his childhood love of classic pop—especially doo-wop—compelled him to join forces with the similarly-obsessed Vega, and you can hear their passion for the music they grew up on in Suicide’s simple, hummable songs.
Still, Rev and Vega came at pop from a distinctly odd angle. Early on the instrument Rev used in Suicide (which he literally called "The Instrument") was a morphing hybrid of keyboards, drums, electronics, primitive beat machines, and busted amplifiers. When placed behind Vega’s Elvis-on-quaaludes singing, it generated a wall of noise that often cleared rooms. Even the band name turned people off, viewed as a confrontational act in and of itself. The duo did little to discourage that perception. When performing live, Vega often ventured into the crowd menacingly, inspired to push Iggy Pop’s self-destructive style a step further.
That chaos isn’t readily apparent on Suicide’s studio albums. Those records were ahead of their time in many ways, but they aren’t especially noisy (though a live box set does offer some denser cacophony). To get the full scope of their unprecedented squall, you had to be there, which is why Needs is such a fitting biographer. He witnessed some of their early shows, and crossed their paths frequently over the next four decades. Yet he smartly resists the temptation to make Dream Baby Dream about himself, inserting his experiences only when they help reveal what made Suicide so singular musically and historically. Suicide’s concerts were legendarily disruptive and even violent, and Needs’ firsthand accounts make the tension palpable, helping you imagine being part of the crowd rather than merely boasting that he was.
Ultimately, Dream Baby Dream is a book about history, and a vital one given its subject. Suicide paved the way for so much, from punk to no wave to industrial, but are cited more often as an influence than an important band in their own right. How they survived through all the upheaval of New York over the past half-century, and how their music stayed so bracingly unique, had to be documented permanently. Needs has thus done a service, and in the process told a tale that anyone interested in unbreakable artistic dedication will find fascinating.