Suicide

The Link is a magnificent place that its owners have masterfully turned into Bologna's most-alternative-of-all venue (and I consider Bologna to be the true, unrivalled homeland of the radical chic). All lies: 15.00 euro entry (thirty grand, for anyone not handy with the euro-converter bestowed on us by our P.M.'s Office) and annoying scheduling demands imposed by the big business of the "discoteque" (downstairs. But the show started very, very late anyway), which we 'yoof so love.

That aside, the space is great and hats off to the people who give semi-unknown (to the wider masses) musicians a chance to make the most of it (two weeks ago, it was Wire's turn). Great night.

In the large hall where the concert is about to take place, you can feel the excitement of seeing two of the few surviving remnants of our beloved new wave (now more than ever – it's back in fashion!)…

At exactly one twelve (!!!) Suicide take the stage.

At this point I'd need a long tracking shot à la Robert Altman to describe exactly the endless seconds that split my experience as a listener in two: before and after the "mystical vision" of Suicide.

Alan Vega and Martin Rev (both dressed in black, with huge sunglasses they never take off for the entire show) have visibly aged: they move slowly like two elderly gentlemen. A friend of mine once had me in stitches claiming that Rev had only learned to play (!?) the synthesizer because, that day, the guitar shop was closed…

Rev "switches on" the "synth", starts up a "house" beat, and the concert opens with an unrecognizable cover of "L.A. Woman" by the Doors, mangled by a merciless Vega (still hooded) who spews out despair, drama and boredom: within a few minutes, unease spreads through the packed crowd.

Every now and then Rev abandons the keyboard and wanders around the stage with a cigarette in his mouth, while Vega jokes with the audience and hams it up with the microphone.

The duo shows no mercy to the songs that made them famous, offering a woozy version of "Ghost Rider": it's pure delirium. Live, the songs' structure is less bare-bones, fleshed out with more rhythmic and complex backing tracks.

Tension rises sky-high when people start to realize that in the next song Vega is mumbling a name, the name of a frustrated, desperate worker who, at the end of his shift, comes home, kills his wife and children, and takes his own life… "Frankie Teardrop" is the highlight of the night.

The concert will last an hour and a half, during which Vega and Rev also play a few tracks from the new album.

Suicide are still absolutely great and haven't lost their ability to turn music into a whirlwind of emotions, the same one that defined their immeasurable debut.

Frankly, it wasn't among the best concerts I've ever seen, but I'm convinced I witnessed an event that will never happen again. It's rare, after all, to have the chance to hear live music that is as simple as it is ahead of its time.

Suicide's music was "ahead" twenty-five years ago and, inexplicably, it has kept its freshness to this day. For a moment, at one point, I imagined I was inside Manhattan's CBGB's…

Ride the wave of great music

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