Most attendees at a Suicide concert these days would claim to respect the "work" of the streetwise electronic innovators—provided that said "work" consists of their confrontational eponymous debut and, possibly, their glorious Ric Ocasek helmed sophomore album. I, on the other hand, am a Suicide fan, one who eagerly pounces on the members' infrequent solo albums with the same vigor as I did the reissues of their underrated third and fourth records. Simply receiving a copy of this release in the mail was a perverse joy unto itself.
Last time we heard Martin Rev on record was his last File-13 release, 2003’s lo-fi rocknroller To Live, which superficially appeared to be comprised of hooky tracks that Suicide vocalist Alan Vega rejected for 2002’s American Supreme, rightfully reclaimed by their creator. Far heavier than his prior output and even a tad conventional for the aging auteur, it violently contrasted with the sincere bubblegum pop found on See Me Ridin’ and Strangeworld. Evidently, Rev had no intention of being boxed in by expectations, his youthful zeal and fuck-you attitude stubbornly refusing to wane over time. I admire this, and at the handful of Suicide gigs I’ve managed to attend this century I’ve been all too willing to express this sentiment, perhaps to the dismay of less passionate concertgoers. Let them be perturbed by my unrestrained enthusiasm and uncouth willingness to throw elbows, I say. I have a right to force my way to the front of the stage, hooting and hollering all the while at living legends, at royalty.
That passion—tinged with an otherworldly optimism otherwise lacking from the rest of my daily life—surged upon receipt of Les Nymphes. Opener “Sophie Eagle” excites instantly with springy electronics speckled with the serene plink-plonk of a piano and some breathy vocal echoes. With just a little guidance from someone more familiar with today’s dance music scene, the groovy “Cupid” could do more than affectionately nod backwards towards stabby 90s house classics. Dripping with dubby and near tropical vibes, “Venise” brilliantly resurrects and remixes the dreamy melody from “Misery Train,” a highlight from American Supreme.
However, not everything here is quite as appealing or effective. The puzzling “Triton” palms a dated KMFDM-style guitar riff straight out of Gunter Schulz’s classic playbook, saturates it in murky effects, and slides under this gelatinous gloop a limp-wristed loop unfit for The Crystal Method to wipe their filthy trainers on. “Les Nymphes Et La Mer” nearly recycles that formula, though fortuitously sidesteps the non-blockrocking beats. While sonically adequate, “Valley Of The Butterfly” comes across as almost comical with such wanton oddness, though I suspect that I’m not meant to snicker at the spoken word bellows of Rev’s longtime partner Mari. I wont even go into the awful elevator funk of “Nyx,” which seems hardly fit to grace the stereo at my dentist’s office.
Having had the time to experience these 11 tracks, I find myself marginally satisfied as a fanatic. As a music journalist of the lowest order, however, I’m decidedly not on the fence about Les Nymphes, an unbalanced basket of tasty tangerine dreams and a disproportionate number of discarded orange peels. I’m meant to believe that some Greek mythological theme carries the album, yet the only musical constant I perceive here is Rev’s craven lust for the wet reverbs and delay effects he deliberately drenches these tunes in, no doubt to ferment them into ambrosia. No such luck.
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