Everett True: THE 10-MINUTE REVIEW: SUBURBAN DEATH TWITCH
Recently I’ve been listening to crap, or nothing.
Recently, I’ve been struggling to come to terms with this cavernous, yawning gap at the centre of my life knowing that it will never be filled.
Recently, I’ve been reliant on the comfort of strangers and the patience of friends. Before you own a dog you fail to realise the world is split into two types of people – those who own dogs, and those who don’t. Before you become a teacher, you fail to realise there are two types of people. No, three. Whatever. I’m not going to follow this path
“Do you remember when the sound of your heart beat so loud it would fill a room? Now you keep it all alone at the back of your fridge, a layer of fat and then some mould.”
One dear friend saw Brighton’s Suburban Death Twitch perform recently and found himself dismayed and more than a little angry that such casual, soulful brilliance should go unrecognised. He has little recourse to publicity like many of us, so he used what he could. He bought a copy of their new EP for me, knowing that I could not fail to love this beautiful, soulful music (like a general scouring in the area that involves ABBA’s break-up album, the mould at the back of your fridge, half the towns of Hastings and St Leonard’s, the three-point acerbic harmonies of The Roches, the wayward belligerent swagger of Band Of Holy Joy, #metoo, friends that still cannot grasp why half their world seems to give up soon as they have a steady revenue and a person, any person, to fill the void, and so forth).
There’s comforting cello and trumpet, or something. There are harmonies to kiss for. There is intelligence and awareness, so much of it painful. (How can this be nostalgia when it hurts so much?)
Feminist punk rock, in other words (hello Poison Girls) – but not astringent or noisy, just beleaguered and still angry after all these years, and not understanding (put it bluntly) #adultlife. Not that this music is tired or childish, far from it.
My friend called it wrong, by the way.
I fucking HATE Suburban Death Twitch, same way I always hated those songs about suburban life of the early Jam and Siouxsie And The Banshees albums – i.e. not at all, but also with EVERY FIBRE OF MY BEING.
I listen to nothing, or crap for a reason. Reason being, this is my life. Suburban Death Twitch remind me that there is something more out there – that there still is, that there always will be. Living in Haywards Heath, I thought I had escaped such knowledge. Living in Haywards Heath, I thought I could be sucked under the current, become another faceless cipher like I have always dreamed of becoming. Suburban Death Twitch simultaneously prove the lie and the truth behind this so how can I not hate them?
EMBRACE YOUR CONTRADICTIONS.
“You can turn the lights off/You can take all your clothes off/If it makes you feel younger”
No one will listen. No one ever listens. But my friend thought of me and I listened and… ARRGGGHHH. It’s like that bit where Harry tells Dumbledore that he does NOT want to care anymore, he is done caring, that caring is far too painful and Dumbledore points out the obvious…
Music critic Everett True helped publicise the original riot grrrl movement via his writing in Melody Maker. He currently writes for The Friendly Critic.
Follow Everett True on Twitter @everetttrue
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