For ten years Spike Fuck has existed more as a messy myth than an art-ist; sporadic works forever poised on the precipice of triumph, rumours of death or insanity and so on.

Spike’s mission is to distill the sacred and profane, balancing the melancholy and humour of life; “to be alive is to be traumatised.” Luckily, the devotion to his music persevered, some-what bolstered by his inconsistency and inaccessibility.

This inexplicable goodwill towards his artistry is perhaps partly due to Spike’s timeless, pained and confessional lyricism, though more pointedly, the fragility of a life mired in addiction. His being or works does not question the virtue of life, but simply addresses the numb, pragmatic and far more immediate matter of surviving another day, an almost ineffable senti-ment only justified by his distinct, poetic audaciousness.

Free from his arresting thoughts, evidence, the long anticipated debut album, is a bra-zen proof of life statement. Convicted by the outlandish idea of evidenc-ing a ‘you had to be there’ mentality, the record honours the presence in body, a record to be felt, never to be rationalized.