Suicide Note "Gag Reflex" Video by Elizabeth Cline.
Too Sick To Dance (Forever Fucked)
The four of us rendezvoused in Indiana before making the cross country drive to Boston, because that’s where everybody grew up. Like home base, except the
most inconvenient thing ever. We’ve all been waiting to begin work on
what will be our second full length record, and we’ve all been waiting a
little differently. We all live spread out across the country, which
makes practicing nearly impossible….but we’ve been playing music which
each other so long that we read each other’s minds like Miss Cleo. Golday had this cd with him that contained his ideas for the new record - crudely laid out in MIDI format with a variety of orchestral instruments representing the notes that would eventually find
a home on the album. At first listen, it was almost impossible for me to
imagine that these noises I was hearing would ultimately translate into a
Suicide Note record. Fuckin flutes, and techno drums, monks singing and
shit like that. It wasn’t bad. It was just beyond my comprehension at the
time. Before we had even gotten to Boston we had already begun fucking
with each other, taking things far beyond the limits of good taste. As a
band, and as human beings, we redefine fucking around. We showed up at
God City with no record. Nothing finished, and nothing started as a
group. Just a handful of computer songs, a stack of somebody else’s cash,
and Gagovski’s first bag of weed. And by this measure, maybe we redefine
procrastination, too. So we started the painstaking process of collective
writing, with everybody offering their different ideas and opinions. We
rabidly worked to crank out songs that we were happy with, consistently
working twelve hour days in the studio - capped with nights of bad horror
movies and relentless practical jokes. We were at a point where we
couldn’t afford to fuck around and waste time anymore, and we still did.
Kurt somehow managed to keep us relatively on-track, and as the sand ran
out of the proverbial hourglass, the songs started coming. Yeah, in a
studio surrounded by a gypsy flea market, the songs started coming. We
were shown the pale titties of a teenage witch in a Salem park, and still
the songs came. Golday got this close to having a piss-drunk threesome
with a celebrity, but nothing could stop the songs. And when all was said
and all was done, we had thirteen of em. Thirteen songs about futility,
the feeling you get in your stomach when… , and the boundless trivialities
which rule our lives and tune our ears. Lyrically, thematically, and
musically, these songs are our lives recorded. We worked hard like we
never did in school creating them, and we don’t think they suck.
