Rock ‘N’ Roll Hijinks

I haven’t heard this band before, but Grant Brissey of the Stranger typed out 10 stories told to him by Sean Wood of the Spits. They’re all in a similar vein to what you might find in The Dirt or Please Kill Me, being of the Assholes who Can’t Seem to Keep it Together genre.

The “asshole” part is really important. Stories like these need that particular brand of jerk who live on an edge where they might get roaring pissed at any moment. But hey, maybe I’m dead wrong on that and something like the new Dave Grohl biography This Is a Call has tales that’ll put these to shame.

Brissey includes a couple of songs at the top so people can sample the Spits’ wares. I almost don’t want to listen so I don’t anchor these bits of rock ‘n’ roll storytelling down to anything that concrete. I imagine I’ll get over that bullshit later.

I’ve included one of the stories after the jump — don’t want to offend your Friday morning sensibilities — but you could always read all of ’em for yourself, too.

In 2000, we went to Vancouver, BC, to play a party called Naughty Camp on an Indian reservation, on a huge outdoor stage not too far from Whistler. We were sitting around, as always, drinking beer and waiting to play, when these Native American dudes show up and give us mushrooms. We ate ’em, and all I could think was “Man, we better go on soon, or we’re all gonna start flippin’.” When we finally went on—and for that show we were dressed as “Bob Marley and the Reagans,” with Ronald Reagan masks and American flag capes—everyone start booing. I played almost one whole song before I realized that I wasn’t holding my guitar. I swore I could hear it, but when I looked down I was just fingering air. I found my guitar and we tried to play about 10 different songs, but couldn’t even finish one. We woke up way off out in some field, still in Reagan masks, huddled together under our flags, freezing our asses off.

Author: James Brotheridge

Contributing Editor with Prairie Dog.