Like most Suicide songs, Cheree is a lesson in mood. It takes what could be a beautiful, pop-perfect keyboard line and perverts it with droning feedback and mechanical drum beats. Not even a glockenspiel-esque twinkle can fully draw it out of the darkness and into the light. That right there is the brilliant conflict of Suicide’s work: they meld melodic central themes with pulsing, discordant undercurrents. Add to that Alan Vega’s demented, confrontational vocal and you get music that makes your skin crawl in more than one way. Cheree barely has lyrics to speak of, complimenting Martin Rev’s child-like arrangement. It’s probably the closest to outright pretty the band ever come, but it’s still chilling and not without threat.