No live music till 2021 says Dr. Ezekiel Emanuel, an oncologist and bioethicist at the Center for American Progress. The idea is astonishing; a crude joke in the middle of a novel we’re barely halfway through. Try tellin’ me last time you felt that kind of hard tug at your career, your weekend/summer plans dashed. 2021? I’m still not even sure we’re going to make it through 2020. And for all of it to fall away in days, and to take months to come back. You can almost hear the ghosts sweeping up the basement floors, bar counters, and bathrooms. The last reverb of chords strummed should be done ringing? The last of the lights in the venue finally dimmed. Walking down a street-side in Minneapolis doesn’t lead to the same kind of release as it used to, without the music overflowing onto the sidewalks like melting snow down the storm drains. An air of funk, blues, rap, and punk makes my city feel hollow and surface level. No more holes to venture into in search of riches of sound, no more late nights chasing the bottle, no more early mornings hitting the spice. The city isn’t just hollow; we all are.
Dashed plans hurt TINFOILS’ Spitting the most, as this tune most certainly would be a roof ripper live. The song speeds ahead in Jon Spencer Blues Explosion fashion and doesn’t quit for the entirety of its two and a half minute runtime. One can only assume the ferocity of the live act unless you caught it before the lockdown and don’t HAVE to imagine it. In which case you can be the peanut butter because I’m jelly. Spitting almost suffers from sounding too old school, until you get into the groove and realize none of it matters when it balls this hard. The track is addicted to rolling basslines, loud vocals and shrieking guitars. Trying to picture it on stage isn’t hard, and trying to consider pogoing to it isn’t either. Truly, Spitting is TINFOILS in overdrive. Don’t let the backing vocals in the verses pass you either; it’s cash money.
Spitting is a song that deserves a vinyl pressing, to add the depth and physical need for the record. Nothing quite like party punk in a quarantine, dancing to yourself in a dirty and messy bedroom.
