Thursday, January 01, 2004
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

CDVS

The last time The Spits played the Huntridge Theater, almost no one noticed. In fact--even though everyone in the band dressed up as sheiks and turned up their amps extra loud--not even the people inside the venue seemed aware that The Spits were performing. Naturally, this upset The Spits, and the band displayed its anger by throwing empty beer cans and calling everyone in the crowd "motherfuckers." After an increasingly sloppy half-hour set, only the keyboard player remained on stage, and he was attempting to light a handful of play money on fire. The toy currency must have been flame retardant, though, because the only thing he succeeded in burning was his thumb, and he eventually tossed the uncharred bills into the air and walked off. It was not an impressive display.

Of course, it could have been a lot worse. Take, for example, the Rolling Stones 1969 show at Altamont--one of the few concerts in rock 'n' roll history that ended with a bona fide body count. At the close of the show, more than 800 people were injured, two were killed in a hit-and-run, one was drowned and an 18-year-old man was slain by a knife-wielding Hell's Angel (a scene immortalized in the concert/snuff film Gimme Shelter). And although no official records were kept on such matters, there's little doubt that hundreds of perfectly good acid trips were ruined in the process.

But this week's CD skirmish does not seek to stir up the ghosts of the past. Rather, it looks to the studio albums released immediately after these concert debacles. After all, the measure of a band can be taken by how it bounces back from disaster, and The Spits rebound admirably with their third self-titled LP. Opening with "Witch Hunt"--a stupid-speed homage to the Ramones--The Spits have clearly evolved from the tantrum-throwing, can-hurling, money-singeing goons of yesteryear. Rounded out by the Suicidal Tendencies-influenced "Violence Cup" and the Mission of Burma-esque "Don't Shoot," this is the finest record yet released by The Spits. The only problem is that the entire album barely clocks in at 17 minutes. Then again, maybe this is to The Spits' credit--all punk, no junk.

By comparison, the Stones seem weary on Sticky Fingers, weighed down in equal parts by the horror of Altamont and the lethargy of narcotic indulgence. Admittedly, Sticky Fingers is one of the Stones' finest records, but it trades in the delirious energy of Let it Bleed for an unfamiliar melancholy (see: "You Gotta Move," "I Got the Blues" and the junkie's lament "Sister Morphine"). In sum, the Stones have regressed while The Spits have progressed. Sure, Sticky Fingers is the superior album, but in this battle for redemption, The Spits win hands down.--Newt Briggs