I'm having my back waxed in Stockholm tonight. Alas, I cannot meet the deadline for tonight's review. In place, Colin Oldhamshire from England's hot weekly rag, HMSMC (Her Majesty's Smashing Musical Critique), will drop a Suede review.

Ciao,
Brent DiCrescenzo

Suede have been boggin' it down right near a bleedin' decade now. They're still pale and svelte as a soggy fag and posing on stages like Alexander McQueen's puppets. Boggles the ol' noodles to think they've made it this far, slogging it in the Glasto mud as headliners in '99. Back when Brett Anderson first hopped around in bollock-squeezing leather knicks squealing like his bits were tucked about "Animal Nitrate," I would have bet a wad of quid on Crystal Palace winning the bloody F.A. Carling before Suede would drop their fourth, chart-topping platter before the Mil. I can even picture a Vauxhall assembly grunt in Leeds discussing the new synth-n-digi-heavy single "Electricity" over a pint with his mates.

Back in the day, most expected a washed-out Suede to be watching Channel 4 in the Ol' Farty Wannabe Popstar Tart Home with the likes of Menswear and the New Fast Automatic Daffodils. But damnit if they haven't become as quintessentially English as Richard E. Grant wrapped in an H.B. Sauce-soaked Jack, prancing about Piccadilly. Just as we'll never understand mic-swallowing, floor-scraping Yanks like Limp Kookie, Korn, and Klown Posse, so, too, will Suede forever remain solely cherished in the Queen's realm.

While the band's former guitarist, Bernard Butler, is off in the hills in some hut counting his chest hairs and strumming fairy-tale toss, the newer, still-pimply guitar lad, Richard Oakes, is doing quite splendid, thanks. He's making Suede meatier in more ways than his expanding silk shirt size. Chunky riffs and searing shards of keyboard-channeled axe cut through the hip-swaying percussion. "Can't Get Enough" goes from '90s buzzsaw loops to splashing '70s chunka-chunka to '80s new wave solos. An' that's three decades of rock right there for you, mate. I mean, these guitars, they have more gloss and sparkle than Eddie Izzard's lips and tits. The instruments cocktail perfectly like neon, galvanized steel, concrete, and smoke, which separately would seem industrial and cold, but when combined, they bring out a sexy, minimal, noir nightclub atmosphere.

Shuffling beats and twidling bleeps certainly perfectly futurize this album, but it's the glam decadence that keeps groins swaying. Few would ever accuse the old Suede of ever coming close to even applying soft pressure to an arse, but this new direction swiftly kicks on occasion. Hear Anderson declare, "I love that deafening, thundering sound," like he stuffs bangers in his trousers over the drumstick-twiddling and crashing of "Elephant Man!" Who else in the U.K. is stomping kickdrums with such style? Certainly not the sweaty, baggy rockskulls in Reef or 3 Colours Red. Suede got the lipstick and crunch!

Nobody will accuse Brett Anderson of being original. He still limits his vocabulary to "she," "taxi," "night," and "mind." He's as doggedly committed to his style as sack-smashing Chester Shillen was with his blood-and mud-covered kit for Arsenal in '72. Right stubborn bastard. But that's why we love him. At least he'll never go prog or weep about how cellphones are stealing his soul. And what comes to mind when you listen to Suede's chilled, slinking sound? Taxis, sure. But also birds, wet London streets under lamplight, hangovers, comedowns, and shagging. It's called "knowing your market." Suede is always there for us like a tab o' the E, a can of lager, and ten hours of darkness.

In short, they keep getting better with age. No worries about these blokes getting shaggy like Noel and spouting off about how great the Beta Band are. We should cherish Suede, if for no other reason than that listening to Head Music is as much a part of our national experience as swishing Marmite off the roof of our mouth with Irn Bru.

-Brent DiCrescenzo, July, 1999