OK so I know I’m in the minority loving this album, but who cares.
This was one of the first albums I bought when I moved back to the US, after having heard all my punk friends back in Greece talking about this “badass punk band called the Suicide Machines“. This would be my first time listening to this band. With this album, right here. Yup.
And it is badass record, from a badass band. It’s badass in a number of different ways than you’d think, though. Everyone knows this band from songs like “The Vans Song” and “New Girl”, sounding like the best parts of the Gorilla Biscuits, Minor Threat, and Operation Ivy. And later on when I’d get my hands on their other albums, I found out about that sound and why it ruled.
And yet, this album still holds a special place with me. I don’t know what it is about the somewhat experimental nature of this album, from pop-rock to rap-rock to classic hardcore to a cover of “I Never Promised You A Rose Garden”, with some songs utilizing everything from a little turntable to string arrangements, I love it. I love it all and consider it one of my favorite records ever, despite it probably being an attempt at mainstream success by the band. I still consider it to be an attempt at experimentation on the band’s part, in trying to kick shit around and do something outside of their traditional hardcore ska-punk sound. I think that the only Suicide Machines album I’ve listened to more is the first one, Destruction By Definition, but I’m not entirely sure. This might be up there as one of my most-listened to records of all time. Because that is how I roll.
About the time I got it and started listening to it, I was finally making friends at my new high school, and one day, as had become my habit, I had my then-favorite record (THIS) in my Discman in my bag for listneing to later on. I end up hanging out with some people at one of the side entrances to the school, and put my bag down on the ground. Where it ended up being used as a soccer ball. The first thing that came to mind, and thus out of my mouth;
“HOLY SHIT NO MY SUICIDE MACHINES!”
To which this one guy with giant black UFO pants, way more facial piercings than anyone else I knew, and purple hair, who I later learned was the boyfriend of an acquaintance and most likely a drug dealer, paused in mid-kick, looked up at me, said “What? The Suicide Machines?” and promptly turned around and walked away.
Nothing was broken. That Discman lasted until a few years ago actually, and I still have that CD to this day.