It’s not you, it’s me. Just kidding. It’s definitely you, and I’m afraid I must say that with a side-eye on Suicide Silence. If you’ve logged onto the internut in the past couple weeks, you’ve most likely been a witness to the emotional rollercoaster of the five-piece deathcore-turned-Deftones cover band’s release of a complete train wreck of a self-titled album (the whole shitshow is pretty well summarized in Metal Injection’s review). Let’s not get it twisted. I’m all about embracing change. Life happens and people grow. But, I feel the need to ask the same question that I posed in my piece How to Transcend Wheel Reinvention — when a scene dies, where does it go? Even if ’core hasn’t completely flat lined, it has definitely fallen into a bit of a stagnation coma. As a result, if the bands that have risen out of this polarizing subgenre don’t want to completely fold, they very well might have to do some soul searching. That being said, it’s usually good to spend more than all of about .005 seconds doing so. Unfortunately, much like every man who’s wanted to wine me and dine me and then take me to pound town over the past decade of my life, a good, hard look in the mirror has been neglected in favor of lazy efforts and sorry excuses.
Is this a cheap shot? Probably, and I feel like a douche even giving this whole mess the time of day, but to be honest, it’s been making me lawl way too hard not to, and I’ve been feeling way too cynical about relationships lately to not vent some of my hot air by drawing some much-need parallels.
So, here you have it. With a little help from the nu side of my record collection and my collection of fuckboys past, here are 12 nails that Suicide Silence have managed to drive into the coffin of their relationship with their listeners:
- They’re chalking you up to fluff
Never mind the fact that our featured single Doris samples the teehees of South Park’s ode to MJ, we’ve got a sick 360 degree video that kinda-sorta doesn’t freeze, and it’s all just for you guys! God, these kinds of cop outs disguised as effort or caring are honestly the worst, mostly because they’re too surface-level to be meaningful, yet they somehow manage to make the other party look like Justin Trudeau and you look hella ungrateful or high maintenance if you don’t dote all over them. Investing in a relationship through quality time means so much more than pretty colors and doodads. Everyone involved is worth so much more. Next time, put effort into striking emotions in more than just the giggle dick and the rage-quit reflex, and if you want to wrap it up in a pretty bow, at least make sure it’s tightly tied.
2) They’re teasing you with a few good moments just to let you down with a sudden nosedive
Hey, Doris starts out alright. It has a steady build. But then something happens. Something we’re not prepared for — the aforementioned teehee. It’s a pattern that can be found without the album, leaving you hit with the resentful stick after just 44 minutes (a suspiciously brief venture for a band that’s allegedly itching to tread experimental waters). Ugh, either suck or don’t. The rotation of the earth isn’t going to pause while you decide if you want to shave months off my life by wasting my time. While we’re at it with the celestial talk, if you want to be my sun, then you sure as hell better be worth adjusting my orbit to. How’s that for a metaphor? It’s getting fucking Shakespearean up in here. A few social insights for high society and a lot of jokes to be used as peasant fodder. That about sums up Thirsty Thursday. You’re welcome.
3) They’re hiding behind labels
Oh yeah, we’re going to be X now. Just because you decide you’re going to be something doesn’t mean it’s going to automatically produce a meaningful result. So you want to be my boy? Cool, but take note that that requires more effort than just declaring yourself such. On the same accord, if you want to clean sing, rad, but you sure as hell better be capable of doing it. Talk and action are too different things. Just recently I had this real hot dude just trying to smash, and I shit you not, he took more interest in my life in the 15 minutes we talked before he started taking my clothes off than the Tinder suitor before him did in his month and a half of trying to court me. It’s a shame, but a lot of times you can find a lot more fulfillment in staying true to what feels right in the moment rather than trying to /be/ something.
4) They’re half-assedly copying the big shot dudes
Ah, Chino Moreno. Few men can get my pussy dripping so fast. Thirty seconds into Cherry Waves and chill and you might as well throw out whatever chair I’m sitting on. The problem is that it’s one and done, and the people who aren’t worth your time are generally of the “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” ilk, and they adhere to the saying pretty sloppily at that. Sure, he says you’re beautiful and amazing like he knows he’s supposed to or whatever, but what does that even mean when he hasn’t gotten to know you in a meaningful way? Or, he talks a big game about taking you out to try to woo you and show you off, but then he leaves all the planning up to you and acts like you’re being difficult when you ask for his input. It almost makes you wish that they’d stop trying to put on the barfy Hugh Grant front and just be themselves. So, instead of trying to be a Chino or a Jonathan, how about you embrace Eddie? I’m sure he’s pretty cool.
5) They can only hold a conversation about a topic by discussing it in relation to themselves
Not only is this conversation suicide, it’s probably my number one pet peeve in a dude. Me, me, me, and not even the interesting me’s. He doesn’t open up emotionally or try to relate his experiences to whatever it is you have to say (that is, if he even takes a breath long enough to let you get a word in). Instead, he judges everything by his narrow parameters, and if something doesn’t fit, watch out, because he’s probably going to get real dismissive real fast. For Suicide Silence, such a cardinal sin can be found in the way that they cling to certain deathcore elements for dear life while simultaneously reinventing themselves through the artiest band they’ve been exposed to — Deftones. No shade at Deftones at all, but it’s a little sad that they’re the only inventive band you can think to draw inspiration from. Dig a little bit. Try. Expand your horizons. Leave your hometown. Give peace a chance. Do something. For fuck’s sake.
6) They’re being titty boys
There’s only so long you can have your ma and/or Nuclear Blast carry you along before even they get sick of your regression or straight up failure to launch. One troubling trend I’ve paid witness to lately involves dudes in the 30 and under club moving back home with their parents to allegedly save money to buy a house. While there are people who are one hunit in asserting such a goal, there are also many who are just trying to deflect responsibility under the guise of sounding fancy. We’re fucking Millenials. Ain’t nobody buying willy-nilly, and they re-regulated that shit after the market tanked during the Recession to save y’all motherfuckers from the loan sharks/yourselves. Mama may not be raising me no more, but she didn’t raise no fool when she was. Nine months into taking up your junior high address and your bank account is still the equivalent of a sack of russet potatoes because you just had to get that new spoiler for your leased Mazda. Don’t go boasting some grandiose vision for yourself that you don’t know how to make manifest. We all know you’d be selling 24 ounce Faygos at red lights if it wasn’t for your parents’ credit scores and your five record contract.
7) They just can’t stand the test of time
Or, more specifically, the test of your wandering eye. I mean shit, what’s supposed to happen when that new Bell Witch albums drops? Say “naw homie, thank but no thanks; I think I’m straight with fucking Dying in a Red Room?” Yeah, that won’t lead to any resentment at all. And even if you do manage to stay loyal, who says you won’t start flashing back to that time six months back when Iron Reagan fucked your ear holes metaphorically and also maybe literally right as you go to turn on Silence? That’s what I like to call PTSDick. Sometimes, despite all the hype, all the drama, all the gimmicks, you’re bound to fade into the obscurity of a weird life chapter.
8) Everyone tried to warn you about them
They were all over the Metal Injection comment section, but you didn’t want to give in to the opinion of the elite basementsphere. You didn’t want to be judgmental. You wanted to believe that true love emerges when you least expect it and in the most unlikely arenas. But alas, here you are, in an unfulfilling mess with a dude whose stance on pineapple on pizza you can’t even subscribe to. Listen to your fucking friends. They’re on the lookout for what’s best for you. Listen to your fucking acquaintances. A third-party perspective can be the most insightful. I’m willing to serve as both for you right now — pineapple is a delightful addition to the age-old Italian treat, and if anyone wants to make you feel bad about that, delete their asses from the great Spotify playlist of life. You don’t need that kind of negativity bringing you down.
9) Their masculinity is a bulll in a China shop
How to make someone lose respect for you 101: start some pointless beef. Suicide Silence managed to get into it with Thy Art is Murder after accusing them of failing to bring innovation (a term I’m using loosely) to the deathcore scene like they are *massive eye roll*. With TAIM recognizing the absurdity of the situation and remaining more than content with the current state of their sound, they politely told good old Eddie Van Silence to fuck off. Like the grown adult that he is, Eddie came back with a well-thought-out rebuttal: you mad bro? My main motivation for not fucking with dudes who have the chronic urge to fuck people up is unapologetically my money. One minute he’s threatening to fight your ex, and the next your life is flashing before your eyes as you sign your entire life savings over to Big Boyz Bail Bonds. Trust me — it’s just not worth it.
10) They espouse that “changed man” nonsense
Change doesn’t automatically equate to improvement. In fact, it’s a concept neither inherently good nor bad — it’s what you make of it. Fucking christ. I can’t believe we live in a world where this even has to be addressed. Yes, deathcore may be in hospice care, but putting it on permanent treatment status at the dialysis clinic isn’t exactly a rosy portrait, either. And yes, there /are/ methods to calling my name and saving me from the dark effectively. Hey, look at Bring Me the Horizon. Say what you want about them, but they managed to establish a distinct point of view that prevented them from merely shapeshifting into a new form of shitty as they’ve changed sounds. If you’re still confused, try this one on for size: abandoning life as a cokehead scene kid in a bi-vocalist band for the role of a roid-raged Instagram fitness marketer IS a change, but hardly one for the better. Put that in your pipe and vape it.
11) And despite all the change talk, they still want you to rub your nose in their glory hole
Yeah, he may go around asserting what a big man he is now, but chances are, he still makes loads of low key comments about how he was the big wolf on campus in high school. Sadly, like the Hard Times report warned, for the popular kids, it don’t get butter. It gets worse. Much worse. But that wall of death at Mayhem Fest ’09!!!!!!11!1 Bet you were getting stuffed into lockers, Thy Art. I’m sorry to report, SS, but I knew y’all back then, too, and I didn’t really fuck with you then, either. But there’s always that certain circle of old news fuckboys…they start hitting you in the Facebook inbox, most likely in between sharing articles about how to rat out immigrant families to ICE, and you’ve had just enough Smirnoff Ice to think that finessing one of them for some Jameson may not be the worst idea in the world. Hey, you might as well put the same effort into people that they’re willing to put into you. Speaking of which…
12) They can’t hold a nut
One thrust, two thrusts, three thrusts, fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Ta-da, pass me the towel, we’re Deftones now! There’s no clean evolution, nothing to savor and enjoy. Really, this issue speaks to the wavering quality of the self-titled album as a whole, because no, it’s not just Doris that gets worse as it goes along. Matter of fact, just when it starts to get good at any point, homeboy has to whip it out and start awkwardly rubbing your clit like it’s a lotto scratch off just to avoid any unintended fetus-spawn. And so, as you lay there, listening to the sounds of the 11 bus outside and glancing across the room to check the clock, you can’t help but ask yourself, “am I really supposed to be enjoying this?” Once you finally hit your limit and decide to part ways for good, you may be left feeling unsure as to what that was or what just happened, but you do know one thing — you’re glad as hell that it’s over.