On January 20, 1987, the band Suicide played a concert at La Locomotive in Paris, France. With the concert well under way, lead singer Alan Vega announces to the French audience: “This is a little song for Bruce Springsteen.” The crowd jeers in response with a few boos and claps mixed in as well. Vega tries to reason with them: “Hey hey hey hey hey. It’s our version of it. We’ll fuck it up. Don’t worry about it.”
Suicide was one of the original New York City punk bands, made up of visual artist-turned-rockabilly singer Vega and Martin Rev, who oversaw the keyboard and drum machines. Suicide released their first two albums, neither of which gained much commercial success. By the time of the Paris concert, the band was about to release their new album A Way of Life. The 2023 re-release of the record includes newly discovered recordings from the 1987 Paris performance, featuring their rendition of monster hit courtesy of Bruce Springsteen: “Born in the U.S.A.”:
Vega’s introduction of the song is a vow, both reassuring and threatening the French audience in the same breath. Vega announces the song, “Born in the U.S.A.,” dropping the pronunciation of the last letter, creating a new musicality for this known song without having sung a single note. The crowd responds with even more jeers. “I’ll fuck it up. Don’t worry,” Vega promises. Immediately, Rev’s keyboard and drum machine kick in to a song that is decidedly not Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.”
Springsteen’s anthem is a yearning, at times overwrought, plea to understand the lack of options for the working class, especially Vietnam vets who had been overlooked upon return to their home country. Released only three years before Suicide’s performance, Springsteen’s song was ubiquitous after being overplayed on the radio and MTV. It was everywhere and couldn’t be avoided. Suicide’s version shares similarities with the original: both are made up of only two chords and dominated by a keyboard riff. At the beginning of the performance, Vega provides a few rockabilly yelps and then begins singing the chorus:
I was born born born born born
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
The words are the same, but the entire feel of the song is fundamentally altered. Vegas moves into the verse, such as it is:
Yeah, Louis Armstrong
When the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
When saints go marching in
Yeah
Yeah.
Vega pauses while the instrumentation continues unchanged and unabated before Vega shifts to a new shout-out:
Fats Domino
Fats Domino
On top of blueberry hill.
On top of blueberry hill
Yeah
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
Vega and Rev are riffing on the idea of what being born in the U.S.A. means to them. Vega creates a simple pattern. He calls out a performer — Louis Armstrong and Fats Domino to start — and a famous song by that artist and inserts them into the such-as-it-is melody of this new “Born in the U.S.A.” Most importantly for Vega and Rev is the “in the U.S.A.” part of the song. In their version, Suicide envisions America to be a land of innovation, offering examples of artists and songs who not only influenced them but could have only found their voices in the United States of America.
Suicide making “Born in the U.S.A.” their own is not an uncommon occurrence with that particular song. Many have written about the misunderstanding of Springsteen’s intent for “Born in the U.S.A.” and how it was co-opted by Reagan and others for jingoistic reasons while ignoring the stories that Springsteen tells in the verses. Instead, they focused on the rousing chorus. This embrace of the song by American right-wingers may be why the French crowd boos when Vega initially announces “Born in the U.S.A.” They could be booing the Reagan crowd, or maybe they share the same misunderstanding about the song’s intent. The French have long-held fascinations about the meanings of America, resulting in endless examinations and its own kind of myth-making. Perhaps the boos aren’t in response to Springsteen, but to the idea of America breaking the promises of itself, whether the United States’ persistent self-centered and destructive foreign policies, the ubiquity of American culture in the rest of the world, or an overwhelming exhaustion in anything having to do with the country of Suicide and Springsteen. Another possibility: Maybe the people in the French crowd resent Springsteen for presenting a song that both upholds and kneecaps the myth of America. They’re upset because that’s what they’re supposed to do since they’re French! The last possibility of why the crowd boos is the most likely: they were simply sick of hearing the song.
In the wake of misinterpretation and perhaps his own exhaustion with the song, Springsteen began performing the song in its original arrangement. This demo version features only Springsteen on vocals and acoustic guitar with the desperation of the song’s narrator evident as he wonders why he deserves the curse of being born in a country that would leave him handcuffed without any options. The original demo of “Born in the U.S.A.” was part of a series of home recordings by Springsteen that eventually resulted in 1982’s Nebraska. Springsteen said that “State Trooper,” another song on Nebraska which was written and demoed at the same time as the original “Born in the U.S.A.,” was directly influenced by Suicide’s song “Frankie Teardrop.” Springsteen was quoted in a 1984 Rolling Stone interview as saying: “That’s one of the most amazing records I think I ever heard..I really love that record.” Vega himself was a little confused after hearing “State Trooper” for the first time:
“I remember walking into my label just after it came out…I thought it was one of my albums that I had forgotten about. But it was Bruce!”
The mutual appreciation between Springsteen and Suicide didn’t end there as Springsteen regularly covered Suicide’s “Dream Baby” in concert and eventually released his own version on 2014’s High Hopes.
The respect between Suicide and Springsteen is real and sincere, so Suicide’s “cover” of “Born in the U.S.A.” is not an act of taking the piss out of Bruce, but rather a loving transformation of the song, of “fucking it up.” Suicide take their own cues from the spirited chorus of the 1984 “Born in the U.S.A.” and conceive their own celebration of art, creativity, and jubilation. The first two songs that Vega invokes — “When the Saints Go Marching In” and “Blueberry Hill” — are utopias, visions of freedom in which anything can happen. That’s the dream that Suicide also creates for the United States of America.
The artistic roll call of Suicide’s “Born in the U.S.A.” continues as Vega calls upon Little Richard and his song “Lucille,” screeching the titular woman’s name twice before Rev’s drum machines shift to a machine gun sound. This serves as an introduction for the next artist named: Elvis Presley. It’s inevitable that Elvis would be included as Vega’s singing sometimes verges on an Elvis impersonation. He sings:
Then there was Elvis
One for the money
Two for the show.
Hey baby let’s go
Elvis Presley
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
In the U.S.A.
After cooing a few times, Vega declares, “Yeah I knew Ricky Nelson too.” It’s unclear if Vega is doing another shout-out to the next source of rock ‘n roll inspiration or if he is boasting to the French crowd about being friends with Ricky Nelson; I’m friends with Ricky Nelson and you’re not. Vegas moves on and names Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, and The Big Bopper in quick succession and then sings the words “Chantilly Lace” which is its own parody/celebration of early rock ‘n roll. Vega returns to Johnny Cash as he shares with the crowd, “Singin’ the ‘Folsom Prison Blues.’” There’s always a strange, out-of-body, metaphysical bit of commentary when a singer sings that they are singing something as Vega is doing here. But then Suicide is performing in France and the French of all people should be willing to accept this philosophical conundrum. Vega continues:
And then there’s Bob Dylan
Highway 61
Highway 61
Hey God said to Abraham
Kill me a son
Kill me a son
In the U.S.A.
Bob Dylan in the U.S.A.
Vega sings the lines “Highway 61” in a weird, nasally voice that’s different from how he delivers the rest of the song. Is that supposed to be his take on a Dylan impression? Regardless, the song invoked by Vega — “Highway 61 Revisited” — is another place song such as “Blueberry Hill.” But instead of utopia, Dylan contends with many different possibilities of what is happening on Highway 61. As previously explored on Recliner Notes, Dylan cites everything from sacrifice to renewal to get-rich-quick schemes to cynical cash grabs to the apocalypse. Vega knows that he needs to include the many promises and curses available on Highway 61 while he maps out his own myth of America.
Vega moves on to his next shout-out: “Then there was a group called Question Mark & the Mysterians.” Rev immediately starts playing the infamous keyboard part from “96 Tears.” With the seamless transition to “96 Tears,” it’s fair to wonder if Suicide have actually been playing it the entire time and not “Born in the U.S.A.” without the band or the French audience realizing. Released in 1966, “96 Tears” hit #1 in October with Billboard ranking it as the #5 song for 1966. After the initial sugar rush of “96 Tears” wore off, its influence increased as the punks cited it as one of their garage rock cornerstones. David Byrne of Talking Heads, contemporaries of Suicide’s at CBGBs in the late 70s, wrote about the song in his 2012 book How Music Works. He said that “96 Tears” enabled him to realize that:
“It was possible to mix ironic humor with sincerity in performance. Seeming opposites could coexist. Keeping these two in balance was a bit of a tightrope act, but it could be done.”
Suicide themselves took that same lesson as evidenced by their re-alignment of “Born in the U.S.A.”
Speaking of early influences on punk, Vega continues the song, pronouncing, “Then there’s Lou Reed. Nice guy, Lou Reed.” It’s an amusing example of Vega’s straight-faced comedy since the public’s understanding about Reed’s persona probably ranges from curmudgeonly to nastily cruel. Vega off-handedly and hilariously dismisses that consensus. He then sings the phrase “Sister Ray” four times, invoking the name of one The Velvet Underground’s most provocative songs. It’s a 17-minute long tale of debauchery, but is reduced to size by Vega as he sings only one line from the song: “Suck on my ding dong.” Vega isolates what he loves about Reed’s poetry — the silly, sexy parts — and adds it to Suicide’s bizarro Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame.
Rev transitions out of this passage with weird firecracker effects as Vega provides another rockabilly yelp and followed by a long instrumental passage. There’s yelling, and it’s hard to determine if Vega is working the crowd off-mic or someone from the audience yelling at Suicide (see Byrne’s quote about tightrope acts). The music continues as Rev’s keyboard lights off more firecrackers. Vega punctuates this section with rockabilly yelps before declaring: “Iggy Pop.” He then proceeds to scream, “I wanna be your dog,” summoning The Stooges’ 1969 debut single. This is another seminal act who had a tremendous impact on punk. Vega follows the Lou Reed line of “Suck on my ding dong” with Pop’s beseeching plea of animalistic lust, proof that Vega loves to go for the lowest sexual common denominator, and there’s nothing more rock ‘n roll than that.
Vega then yells, “No fun” repeatedly, channeling another song from The Stooges’ debut album. This is followed by screaming as Vega builds “Born in the U.S.A.” to a crescendo. His wails include different parts of song lyrics and titles jumbled together. It’s hard to figure out everything Vega is saying because of the howling and blaring, but parts of The Stooges’ song “1969” figure into the cacophony. Everything is barely discernible and it doesn’t matter. Vega wants the listener to feel the impact of the sound of the words being screamed. It’s unhinged and outlandish and not too far from Little Richard singing his version of a drum intro: “A-wop-bop-a-loo-mop-a-lop-bam-boom!”
Vega stops screaming for a moment, probably to catch his breath and also provides relief to the audience. The song’s not over because Vega has one more shout-out, singing, “Hot Chocolate. Everyone’s a winner, yeah” in reference to Hot Chocolate’s 1978 single, “Every 1’s a Winner.” This gesture by Vega pulls disco into his rock ‘n roll pantheon, decidedly rejecting the sometimes racist and homophobic “disco sucks” movement conducted by the more reactionary wing of the punk crowd. Vega isn’t having any of that.
Finally, Vega returns to what must be considered the chorus of the song, repeating “In the U.S.A.” After this, the driving rhythm slows down as the keyboard barely produces sounds. It’s as if Suicide is exhausted and can’t continue. Eventually, Vega whispers, “Bon soir, bon soir,” the French words for “Good evening.” The crowd cheers as the song winds down after the more than 10 minute performance.
In 2002 — 15 years after Suicide’s performance of “Born in the U.S.A.” — LCD Soundsystem released their debut single, “Losing My Edge.” LCD Soundsystem is the brainchild of James Murphy, who formed the band as a platform for his singular obsession with sounds and rhythms, mixing electronic music with live instrumental performances. Murphy wrote “Losing My Edge” at a time when he was uncertain if his particular musical obsessions were being subsumed by the younger generation. The narrator of “Losing My Edge” boasts about being present for critical moments in experimental music history. His repeated declaration of “I was there” is a seemingly irrevocable badge of insider-dom. One occurrence that Murphy sings about is:
I was there in 1974 at the first Suicide practices in a loft in New York City.
I was working on the organ sounds with much patience.
The brags carry more than a hint of desperation as the narrator needs to share these experiences as a way of demonstrating that he is cool, all the while knowing that this need to share is the complete opposite of cool. Even with his awareness of this dichotomy, he can’t help himself. That’s why the title of the song is “Losing My Edge.” The flop sweat on the narrator’s forehead is evident. Murphy shares, “I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.” This stated sense of consciousness of trying to be cool, failing, and examining the entire process while also shifting between irony and heart-on-the-sleeve earnestness is what makes the song an appropriate reflection of an aging Generation X musician like James Murphy. He doesn’t know what to do with his over-education and all of the knowledge and, well, stuff that he’s accumulated. As the first sound anyone had heard from a new band called LCD Soundsystem, it serves as an announcement of the significant talent that is James Murphy. “Losing My Edge” is a declaration of paranoid independence.
“Losing My Edge” is more than simply an act of personal myth-making. It’s also a banger. All of the lyrical content happens over the relentless rhythm and drive of the backing sound as it builds and builds to a crescendo. When the music reaches its peak, the narrator brags by asking, “But have you seen my records?” He then proceeds to list EVERY. SINGLE ONE:
“This Heat, Pere Ubu, Outsiders, Nation of Ulysses, Mars, The Trojans, The Black Dice, Todd Terry, the Germs, Section 25, Althea and Donna, Sexual Harassment, a-ha, Pere Ubu, Dorothy Ashby, PIL, the Fania All-Stars, the Bar-Kays, the Human League, the Normal, Lou Reed, Scott Walker, Monks, Niagra, Joy Division, Lower 48, the Association, Sun Ra, Scientists, Royal Trux, 10cc, Eric B. and Rakim, Index, Basic Channel, Soulsonic Force (“just hit me”!), Juan Atkins, David Axelrod, Electric Prunes, Gil! Scott! Heron!, the Slits, Faust, Mantronix, Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines, the Swans, the Soft Cell, the Sonics, the Sonics, the Sonics, the Sonics.”
Perhaps the experimental music Zelig narrator of “Losing My Edge” not only worked on the organ sounds during the sessions of Suicide’s debut album, but he was also present at Suicide’s 1987 performance in Paris. The list the “Losing My Edge” narrator shares is supposed to provide him with an all-access pass to being cool as if knowing these names and having all of the records will let him into some sort of club. Yet, because of the musical build-up and explosion of sound, the list serves as an act of recognition and influence. It’s a celebration of the great artists who came before and those whom the narrator can’t live and make music without. That is the lesson that the “Losing My Edge” narrator would have taken from Suicide’s 1987 Paris performance of what they called “Born in the U.S.A.”
In Suicide’s “Born in the U.S.A,” Vega and Rev acknowledge and laud the musicians who made their lives relevant and, well, alive. The idea of being born in the U.S.A. means taking on the ability to find one’s own voice as heard in the rock ‘n roll created by Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino, Little Richard, Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson, Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, The Big Bopper, Bob Dylan, Question Mark & the Mysterians, Lou Reed, The Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop, The Stooges, Hot Chocolate, and, of course, Bruce Springsteen.
Like the country it describes, “Born in the U.S.A.” is big enough to hold the many interpretations of it: from Bruce’s original desperate demo to his pop hit to the proto-fascists misunderstanding the pop hit to the French audience booing the song and its composer to the paranoid cool of the narrator of “Losing My Edge.” Both the song and the country withstand Suicide turning the song inside out, “fucking it up,” and feeding it to a French audience. Suicide names the artists who were literally born in the U.S.A. and, in this way, map out a personal mythic America. Could all of this have simply been a way to piss off the French? Possibly, namely because Vega recognizes that saying anything about the United States can be taken as a provocation and also because few things are more American than making French people angry. Nevertheless,, Suicide’s performance of “Born in the U.S.A.” also works as a creation myth of Suicide themselves. They had been together for years at the time of the French concert, but they wouldn’t be there without the artists named in the song, the innovators who were born in the U.S.A. and enabled Vega and Rev to find their own voice and expression.
Many thanks to Matt Pogatshnik for his input, advice, and prodding in the writing of this post.
Image: National Museum of the U.S. Navy, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Recliner Notes 
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