A Teardrop for Frankie

My last post on this blog was a tribute to David Bowie upon his passing. It's six months later and another one of my musical Buddha's--Alan Vega of the legendary punk duo Suicide--has passed away. I think I'll always remember 2016 as the year the music died.

But rather than write another tribute post like my last one, I thought I'd share a short story I wrote for a zine a few years back. The story was inspired by "Frankie Teardrop" and other songs from Suicide's 1977 self-titled debut. I could list a thousand artists and albums that I love, but only a handful that changed everything for me. Alan Vega is one such artist, and the first Suicide record is one such album.

Anyway, here's the story:

A Teardrop for Frankie

by Andy Andersen

based upon “Frankie Teardrop”

 and other songs by Suicide

            Frankie had a wife and three kids and a job working all night at the factory. Let’s hear it for Frankie.

            Frankie couldn’t make enough money for his wife and three kid’s at the factory. Let’s shed a teardrop for Frankie.

            Queue the soft electric beats of dying industry. This was the beat that followed Frankie home on the last night he came home from working at the factory from 7 to 5. He had been laid off that day. He decided he couldn’t make it. He had no job, not enough food, and he was getting evicted.

            Frankie can’t make enough money. Let’s hear it for Frankie.

            Frankie’s desperation peaked when he reached his apartment, and the sun set and the drum machines in his head kept drawing from his last day at the factory and spinning industrial beats that pierced his temples. Then they were slowly but surely aided by the accompaniment of an electric wheel, spinning out terrible vibrations and the vibrations omitted evil electronic melodies in Frankie’s head.

            Frankie gonna kill his wife and kids. Let’s hear it for Frankie.

            Frankie entered his apartment and let out a short scream to break the repetition of the wheel spinning and the drum machine omitting the factory beats in his head.

            Poor little Frankie.

            Frankie pulled a gun from a hidden compartment behind the top shelf in a kitchen cabinet. Then he went to the room of his kids and more electric wheels were spinning drones of synth chords that pulsated in his head. Together they made more and more horrific melodies.

            Frankie gonna kill his wife and kids. Oh Frankie, Frankie.

            Frankie pointed the gun at his 6-month old kid in the crib. Oooh Frankie.

            Frankie let out another short scream and the electric punk music in his head kept moving. He left the kids room and went to the couch where his wife had fallen asleep in front of the record player.

            Frankie’s so desperate. Frankie gonna shoot his wife.

            Frankie pointed the gun at his wife. He tride to hold back bursts of violent whimpering and mumbling. “Mmm…mmm…ah…mmm….mm..” Frankie pointed the gun at his wife and pulled the trigger and screamed a horrific, all-encompassing scream. The scream overcame the musical vibrations of the drum machines and wheels spinning violent melodies in Frankie’s head, and when Frankie pulled the trigger the music omitted light and pulses of color from the barrel of the gun and the light and colors enveloped the room, and then replaced the room ‘till there was nothing but black and colorful visual representations of electronic punk music coming from Frankie’s head, and he was alone, still whimpering and mumbling violently. “Mmm…aahh…mmm…what’veahdone….what’ve….what’veahdone…mmm….”

            Frankie pointed the gun at his head, then he went, “ah….aahhh….aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!” He screamed and his head was opened and the music was outside him now, more and more wheels and drum machines pouring out and spinning more melody laughter.

            Mmm, Frankie’s dead.

            Frankie woke up in a hell of his own making. All was black except for the music. Sounds of children’s play things and winds and cars driving by at top speed on the desert highway resonated quietly from far away. Carnival noises. Orchestras tuning up. And at the center of it all was the beat of the drum machines and the electronic vibrations of the spinning wheels, and now a primitive synthesizer executed high pitched chords through violent punching of keys, sounds that burst through the droned wave of every other sound in the darkness.

            Frankie looked toward the distant sound of the desert highway, and saw a ghost rider, a dead motorcycle hero, riding one of Frankie’s screams all the way to the corner of Hell closest to the surface of the earth. Frankie shouted after the ghost rider. “Tell them they’re all Frankies! Tell them they’re all Frankies lying in hell! Aaahhhh….aaAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

Mmm Frankie’s dead.

Then the ghost rider was out of sight, and Frankie waited for the right time to interject with the beat of the drum machine, and spoke with the music.

“You’re all Frankies.” He said. “You’re all Frankies lying in hell.”

Frankie let out one final scream to drown out the music, though it didn’t drown out the music even if it was louder than the music.

Frankie sings in hell, “Rocket rocket U.S.A. Doomsday, Doomsday.”

Let’s shed a teardrop for Frankie.

Frankie died on November 4^th, 2012. Nobody heard his screams in life, and nobody heard his screams in hell, except for a couple of punks in New York in 1973 who heard Frankie’s call from the ghost rider. They heard the call and wrote it all down, and one banged on his synthesizers and drum machines and the other sang, Rocket Rocket U.S.A. Doomsday doomsday.

RIP Alan Vega