During a telephone call frontman Gary Eagling (Eagle Spits) stated his frustration with the lack of real punk and informed me that Spitune's quest was to do what they want to do, to test barriers, indulge in their own specific vibe and to alienate as many people as possible with their pure unadulterated dinnage. The mischevious chuckle came and I could almost see the impish optical glint even though I was a few miles away on the other end of the communicative cable. Many, as we know, would misunderstand this statement, many would scratch their addled bonses and look bewildered but, rest assured, we two conversant lovers of noise knew what the crack was and where it was undoubtedly going - I was, in all truth, intrigued.

A band slot became available on the Horn and Hoof promoted gig, I recommended Spitune, they came, played to an almost empty venue (Friday night in a city with a massive population - now that deserves some head scratching) and what the band produced wasn't tick box fodder to please the punter, wasn't digestible noise only the most idle partaker could swallow - no - the persistant acoustic puke that was upchucked from the stage was a patchwork pleasure designed to test new water, to brave new worlds, to transcend the limitations set by a rule ridden scene and, most importantly, to let the players have their own way. Eagle roared, waffled, wordily wanked away whilst bass was fingered in double ended fashion, keys were pushed, prodded, molested, and various tympanic devices were pitter pattered, occasionally battered and of course 'twattered'. Rattles, baking trays, hammers, sticks and a busted string in a cup all came into play, the improv insistence was prevalent throughout. Crassite utterances, the death squad of ATOS all came and went, sweat was broken, so were the flimsy interest levels of a few punters and the sparse room only contained the perverse, the insightful and, may it be said, the hypnotised. This was an eclectic experimentation by 4 people absorbed with a radiating consuming energy that had me transfixed. They highlighted the intolerance of the scene, the travesty that darn runt punk has become, a shambling cripple with no spirit and no time to be provoked it seems. One or two got it though, and that is what matters - small light in a bleak arena.

Afterwards I thanked the crew - great work and we chitted and chatted about their next gigs on a Fungal stage, how things were generally flowing and ideas how to enhance the output (a busted wheelchair may come into play as an acoustic accoutrement - think on). Spitune do just that - Spit Tunes and amid all the clogging phlegm we get some tribal release into a natural approach that really should be so more widespread. Hey ho. Thank goodness for the dude from Germany who loved it and stated his disappointment with the UK scene and how the scene in his neck of the woods would have lapped up the vibe emitted tonight - there is some hope it appears after all.