When it comes to punk rock, The Spits don’t piss about. Referencing late 80’s garage punkers The Mummies by wrapping themselves in toilet paper and generally nodding to vintage American punk with Richard Nixon masks, this, their fifth self-titled album (no time to name records, too busy trashing venues), as with its predecessors, has all the attributes of the old school. While it might be tempting to quip that the Ramones phoned up and they want their music back, The Spits’ stabbing, no frills guitar chords, 1-2-3-4 drum beats and snotty, slack-jawed vocals are positively delicious to those of us who cut our musical teeth on the likes of the Clash and the Sex Pistols. Each track is short, sharp, and to the point – perfect for pummelling your best mate to. I am pleased to announce, in the words of The Exploited, “Punk’s Not Dead.”

By Polly Rappaport

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