Suicide / The Homosexuals (In Exile) / The Flesh

Riff Hewn Altar May 28, 2017

This show was unexpectedly beautiful. When it started, Alan Vega had his whole "I dare you to hate me fuck you" persona on. He got down on his knees, early on, at the edge of the stage to do this baby-I-need-you, soul singer routine. And I loved him so much that I just threw my arms around him. And when he stood up, he took my hand and sang the rest of the song holding on to it. And then everyone wanted to touch his hand. But he didn't want to let me go, so he tucked my hand under his microphone arm -- which felt like sweat and wonder and love -- and clasped everyone else's with his free one. And then it was like the floodgates had opened. The rest of the show was just these waves of love rolling from the audience to the stage, and back, and back again.
There was this painfully shy goth teen who'd clearly snuck in with her fake ID right up at the stage but kinda cowering in the corner, and he squatted down with her to give her a smile and a gesture of welcome. And it was like, in the late 70s, his music was so hated that audiences rioted when Suicide opened for the Cars or whatever. And how he was the ecstatic but avuncular divinity of noisy avant-punk for weird people.
When their set was over, Marty Rev didn't even want to leave. He just kept doing more encores, noodling on his keyboards. And they were wonderful. Alan Vega had run out of songs to sing, so he just came out and smiled, laughed affectionately at Marty Rev, and everyone cheered for him, and then he went away again.