Like many who would become fans, I can vividly recall discovering Suicide. I was barely eighteen, having returned home from yet another ill-advised rural Northern Irish Saturday night out. A few days before, a classically myopic Nirvana devotee a tad too immersed in late-teen hubris, guitar angst – I seem to have told myself – just wasn’t cutting it much anymore. Suddenly gluttonous almost to the point of panic for musical discovery, I had recently spent several consecutive late nights in the back room downloading countless vigorously recommended albums by two sonic savants I recall swearing by then, Piero Scaruffi…