By Ashley Victoria Auer

I almost died last night around midnight. What happened was this: I was driving home, I switched on the radio, and caught the last few lines of "Lazy." By Suede. In America. On KROQ. After regaining control of my car, I cranked the volume and milked that moment for all it was worth. You see, prior to that instant, I came from a land of No Doubt and Soundgarden. Of Pearl Jam and Sheryl Crow. A land where the radio stations do not play The London Suede at midnight, or at any other time of the day. Perhaps this could be attributed to the fact that most Americans have tended to prefer less subtlety in lyrics, less eccentricity in style, and more good ol' fashioned "let-me-spell-it-out-for-you" noise. In other words, Americans just didn't "get" Suede. But last night, to the gloriously indulgent tune of "Lazy," something changed. Last month, Suede (known officially as "The London Suede" due to a legal snarl so ridiculous we shan't bother with it here) released their third LP, entitled "Coming Up". Upon its September 1996 European release, the album entered the UK charts at #1. "Coming Up" is nothing short of a smugly stunning, glamorously heart-wrenching slice of pure genius. And to each fair-weather fan who jumped ship alongside Suede's former guitarist, Bernard Butler, it was a smack in the smirking face. Seventeen-year-old replacement guitarist Richard Oakes didn't merely fill Butler's shoes; he kicked them aside and helped bring Suede to a level not at all anticipated by even the most faithful devotees. This is not to say, however, that Suede wasn't always a brilliant band. Just one sadly overlooked in the wake of more "mainstream" Brits like Spice Girls and Bush. From day one, they refused to sacrifice their delightful originality in order to cater to the demands of the typically more "commercial" American market. Gulping down the entire 43 minutes of "Coming Up" is like taking the whirl of your life on an adjectival roller coaster. The album opens with a jubilantly explosive track entitled "Trash". It is simply impossible to listen to this song and not revel in its enthusiasm for being young and wild and free. The ripe campiness of Brett Anderson's vocals, combined with an Oakes attack of musical wizardry, manages to deliver a track you won't mind having stuck in your head for a week. The mischievousness of "Filmstar" will steer you through "Lazy" with a grin that will suddenly drown in the numinous serenity of "By the Sea". But don't dust yourself off quite yet. You've still to grind through the gutter with "She," swagger through the glittery drama of "Beautiful Ones," and churn through a womb of angst in "The Chemistry Between Us". By the time you've reached the album's 10th and final track, you'll be spent just enough to drift peacefully through the intoxicatingly romantic "Saturday Night". Unlike too many of their peers, Suede has refused to sell out. Maybe this is the reason why for so long they remained strangers to American radio. For five years they've waited patiently for Americans to "get" it. This is why last night, I almost crashed my car; because I guess, finally, someone got it.

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