Well, I think it’s time to say it. The Spits are—whatever generation this is—Ramones. They simultaneously make the same record over and over again. But that’s a fuckin’ lie. Because there’s always some new mutation radioactively lurking from under the bed or zip-zap lightning bolting from an airborne creature’s eye with each self-titled record. They’ve taken back the alleys. They’re now in the water supply and spray painting dongs on the top of Mt.Shasta. Like mold culture spreading, changing colors, and sprouting hair on the forgotten last slice of pizza rattling around in the box, the Spits have harnessed the power of readymades-made-dangerous. All you—as the listener—have to do is decide to chomp on down instead of throwing The Spits away like an empty box. Pupils dilate. Motor skills slacken. Craving for glue increases. Durable punk for these weird-ass times. Who knew The Spits would have such legs, be so prolific, be some of the last men on earth? Great radiation-mutant rock.
–todd (In The Red, intheredrecords.com)