SPITTING IMAGE "Full Sun" LP

[274LP] SPITTING IMAGE "Full Sun" LP (PRE-ORDER)

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€18.00
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Also available on limited edition CREAM vinyl and cassette. Only longtime and well-connected west coast punks - and any lucky dirtbags, cowboy hat goths, and broken-down romantics who have passed through the sagebrush hills and smoky casino bars of Reno, Nevada sometime in the last decade - know Spitting Image. Unless you heard them on a few small run cassette tapes or 7" records with cryptic art and far-out distortion, or at a party they ritually summoned to any warehouse, parking lot, basement, or Great Basin lake shore they could find, you didn’t catch wind. Thanks to Slovenly Recordings, who shares a hometown with the band, and has sought out the finest and grimiest punk sounds from every corner of the globe, the rest of the world at last receives a report back from these scuzz punk art freaks on their deep in the desert: “Full Sun.”


And it’s dark, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad trip. Donovan Williams’ merciless drumbeats drive rippers like “Devils Bloom,” and tracks like “Plea Dealer” play up the conversation between Jack Scribner’s beating-heart bass and Julian Jacobs’ alternately schizophrenic and soaring guitar. The 12 poems that make up this record pull together the stranger fringes of the ‘80s wave: Wipers, Gun Club, Sonic Youth, Television and early Siouxsie, with basement hardcore and hints of krautrock, psych, and industrial that show the band’s “fascination with repetition, patterns, transposing things and ideas into new contexts.” These sounds aren’t genre conventions to mash up and reference; they’re tools to express a razor sharp focus on the bliss and insight found in the periphery, the underbelly, the “places of edges,” feelings that are fleeting and serendipitous, but indisputable and eternal once felt. Austin Pratt’s zen lyricism finds unity in opposites, "full sun / humming in wisdom / sight clear" and "full shade / resting in peace" all at once. The discarded casino chips glowing under faded, disorienting neon lights, and the otherworld fossils disintegrating under the relentless desert sun: now remember they’re the same thing, and you’re getting it.