The Spits

Everyone’s favorite space-age mutant skate punks are back with their long awaited fifth album (self-titled as were the previous four) and and it does not disappoint. Twelve new action-packed songs of apocalyptic fuzzed-out over driven madness.

The Spits are already as ingrained in modern punk music as possible, yet still manage to devour the rip-offs and influence the youth of today without even looking like they're trying. Going strong now for over fifteen years, smashing the windows and tearing down the walls of our minds every time they roll through town, these truly vicious visionaries have cooked punk down to its most powerful base form, crawling like Neanderthals through the muck, and creating a flaming trail of hits that'll take quite a fit of dementia to ever forget. A perfect distillation of punk's original

open-ended weirdness, and modern music's serrated salvation, The Spits have proven themselves to be no one to fuck with, over and over again. True headliners, never to be followed and for good reason.An old tape passed along through one of their biggest and earliestSupporters—Sir Lord Bob Kondrak of Seattle—was what really blew up the spot everywhere we managed to hijack the stereos during that magical summer of 2001, and ever since, The Spits have been setting the bar high, throughout the Midwest, and soon after, the world over. With an ingenious amalgamation of DEVO's early synth work in tandem with the absolute best Thug-Punk grunt the Ramones could ever maliciously muster, The Spits never try to reinvent anything, they just rip it's head off and drive it home time and time again.

They've always been one of the most original bands of the twenty-first century, yet it never really seemed like they weren't doing anything too experimental, save their signature, yet refreshingly just-ahead-of-their-time, synth/drum machine noise they forced the fickle punk crowds to gladly swallow. When we finally caught wind of them, the demonic void that they filled was utterly too much to handle, and hence became the number one band everyone wanted to see, and we became the first of many fanatics to fly the band into town for our Chicago Blackout festival.

It was that pre-information overload-type of underground music mystery that just gets all the endorphins rushing. I mean, were they even real? And the way their throbbingly addictive songs just drip like sticky tar out of the speakers, their guitars that sound like food processors seemed to dull all our senses, just at the same time that the impeccable lyrics invigorate us beyond belief.

Possibly one of the only modern bands to have several of their songs being covered by their contemporaries, The Spits have already done so much, but still have so much more to come, as they continue to influence anyone with a penchant for irresistible punk music, played like there's nothing to lose.

In The Red records couldn’t be happier or prouder to finally have the Spits as part of their roster!

Useless Eaters

Seth Sutton learned a lot from Jay Reatard in the last two years of his life—a time that included taking Sutton’s band (Useless Eaters) on tour and pressing one of their many limited singles—but one lesson stood out above the rest.

“Jay always felt like he was running out of time,” explains Sutton, “so he thought it was important to try and be as musically productive as possible.”

That’s certainly been Sutton’s case over the past four years, as the singer/guitarist crammed a couple side projects (the nihilistic hardcore of Vile Nation, the power trio transmissions of the aptly titled Feral Beat) into an already packed schedule of rehearsing/replacing band members and releasing as many records under the Useless Eaters name as humanly possible. That includes such standout releases as the catalog-combing Cheap Talkcompilation and the road trip-ready Daily Commutealbum. The latter’s a glaring example of Sutton’s meaty melodies, loose-limbed riffs, and undying love of punk-not-punk artists like Television, Wire and, well, just about every other glass-gargling history teacher in Legs McNeil’s legendary Please Kill Me book.

“It showed me that punk is more of an idea and an attitude than a fashion statement,” says Sutton, a self-taught musician who considers dropping out of high school “the best decision I’ve ever made,” because it “gave me the freedom to focus on my art and music.”

While that phrase has been uttered by many self-taught musicians over the years, Sutton’s songwriting actually speaks for itself. Take his forcoming LP Hypertension, for instance. AsUseless Eaters’ cult following first heard on the “Addicted to the Blade” 7’’ and Black Night UltravioletEP, Sutton’s cleared yet another layer of dust from his scrappy sound and pushed a revolving door of haymaker hooks and restless rhythms to the fore. That goes for everything from the neon-bathed locked grooves of “Life on a Grid” to the welcome, climatic cacophony of “Vertical Africa.” Meanwhile, Sutton continues to channel a lonely childhood of living on army bases—and eventually finding his creative footing in Memphis, Toronto and his current hometown Nashville—into lyrics that reach well beyond tired punk tropes, whether that amounts to metaphorical love stories or brutally honest nervous breakdowns.

“I think everyone struggles with things like that,” he says. “The whole idea behind Hypertension is that most people aren't aware—or just don't care about— their situations and will buy into anything.

He pauses and adds, “I guess I just write about people and thoughts.”

If only things were that simple...

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The Spits with Useless Eaters

Friday, October 18 · Doors 10:00 PM / Show 10:30 PM at The Bishop