If I’m nostalgic for any remnants of years passed, it’s probably most for the feeling I used to get anxiously awaiting record release days at my local music store. Sometimes the mission took me to local shops like Poway’s Music Trader, or Flagstaff’s Gopher Records, but most often, I remember the trips to The Wherehouse.
The Wherehouse was great because they used to have a dry erase board where the names of artists’ new albums where scribbled neatly next to release dates. Spotting a favorite band or artist on that board back in those days used to ignite a level of anticipation and excitement in me that would often times result in a relentless pursuit of a new release as if I was a loan shark or bounty hunter. You could bet that If an album was supposed to drop on a Tuesday, I’d be in the store each and every day relentlessly hounding the shit out of a 23-year-old clerk, who could give a damn, as to the arrival status of my record.
Beyond the pursuit of new music, I must confess to really missing the feeling of physically sitting with a CD or cassette for the first time.
Slowly peeling off the shrink-wrap, digesting the cover artwork, pouring through lyrics and linear notes were careful acts of ritual as first chords and bass lines would start to ring through the flimsy headphones of a Discman or portable stereo that brought each album to life.
The beauty of album artwork, is that sometimes it perfectly communicates the sonic world that awaits you before you even get to press play. This was the case in 1996 when I sat solitary in a Northern Arizona University dorm room holding The Suicide Machines newly-released “Destruction by Definition.”
The cover of “Destruction by Definition” felt to me like it was bottled electricity. A black and white portrait from a live show. Band exploding in the air, kids ready to stage dive and the beauty of a punk rock gig essentially encapsulated in one perfect moment.
I couldn’t wait to listen. I couldn’t wait, to be there.
CD pamphlet in hand, I gave it a spin.
The album, as it turned out, was spectacular. Energetic, ferocious, angry and somehow, hopeful. I loved it. Twenty-four years later, I still do.
I guess the rest of this story is supposed to play out in a predictable manner. You find a band you love, eagerly devour their albums, buy tickets to the shows, they eventually break up, you get older and the good times, fade away.
That could have been the case with The Suicide Machines.
I certainly thought it was when I watched them dissolve on stage in the final moments of a live set in Los Angeles at The Troubadour in 2006.
“Goddamnit, I’m never going to get to see one of my favorite bands again,” was all I could think as I walked out of the club after a Dan-less encore of “The Vans Song” closed out a rather odd night on stage, with a lot of kids looking at each other like “What the fuck just happened?”
That should have been the end.
But somehow, it wasn’t.
And my hopes, that maybe, just maybe I’d get to see TSM live again were suddenly given a slight breath of life when I started seeing one-off reunion shows and benefits (2009, perhaps?) begin to pop up every now and again in Detroit and on the East Coast.
The years went by and unexpectedly, the one-offs seemed like they were building up steam, until an actual tour of the Mid West in 2015 was announced.
“Chicago isn’t that far away from LA,” I thought, as I tried to contain my excitement about the prospects of resurrecting a part of my musical past that I thought had been laid to rest nine years prior.
I spoke to my girlfriend. Bought the tickets. Booked a flight. Went to the show.
And…..
Discovered that the band, that I had loved, was…
Still as fun, solid, energetic, explosive and relevant as I’d hoped they’d be.
To me, it looked like everyone on stage was energized, having fun again and that translated into a crowd that went absolutely fucking crazy that evening.
Most impressively, what I witnessed was not a performance based on nostalgia. I had watched what appeared to be a rejuvenation of the original entity, now fueled to be just as strong as before, which is no easy feat in terms of longevity and time’s proclivity of dulling even the sharpest of punk rock knives.
Little did I know, that night was merely the beginning of what would be the start of an incredible run of TSM shows that I had the good fortune to attend in the years to come.
San Diego. Los Angeles. Santa Barbara. Santa Ana. Orange County. Korea. Wait, Korea? Fuck it. Korea! And Japan, not once, but twice, with the girlfriend who ventured to Chicago - and was now my wife, in-tow (even though 90-degree punk shows aren’t exactly her cup of tea).
Each show, was as fun as the last. And I discovered, that traveling to see a band and getting to connect with kids from different states, countries and cultures provided me with a human experience, and unfiltered joy, that I could never put a price on, nor could I have expected when I held that first CD in my dorm room so many years ago.
It’s been a fun journey.
And that journey just got better, because remarkably, after a 15-year hiatus since their last effort, The Suicide Machines released a new album, “Revolution Spring,” on Fat Wreck Chords today.
I will let someone more well-versed at critiquing the complexities of music handle the review of each song in detail.
For now, I will only say that upon the first several spins, I absolutely love it.
One must acknowledge, that most bands typically don’t take fifteen-year breaks only to release fresh material that rivals their best work. And yet, I believe they’ve done just that.
It feels good, more than twenty years later, and amidst some fairly dark times, to have music deliver a shot of energy, hope and life into my veins.
I guess it just feels great to have The Suicide Machines back.