Released: January 11, 2000
Spit doesn’t announce itself as a debut trying to break through. It arrives already confrontational, already hardened, carrying an aggression that feels instinctive rather than aspirational. Spit doesn’t ask for permission, and it doesn’t soften its edges to explain itself. From the outset, Kittie sound less like a band introducing their identity and more like one asserting it.
The album opens with “Spit,” a track that sets the tone through blunt force rather than buildup. The riffs are jagged and immediate, built on sharp rhythmic shifts that favor impact over flow. There’s a rawness here that isn’t about looseness or inexperience — it’s about intent. The song doesn’t settle into a groove so much as grind against it, establishing confrontation as the record’s primary mode.
That tension carries into “Brackish,” one of the album’s most recognizable tracks. The song balances aggression with restraint, using repetition and space to amplify its weight. Morgan Lander’s vocal delivery shifts between controlled venom and outright rupture, never lingering long enough to feel theatrical. The track’s power comes from contrast — quiet pressure giving way to sudden release — without ever tipping into excess.
Throughout Spit, rhythm functions as a weapon. “Charlotte” and “Do You Think I’m a Whore?” lean into staccato riffing and abrupt transitions, creating a sense of instability that feels deliberate rather than chaotic. The guitars don’t glide; they stop and start, reinforcing the album’s confrontational posture. The songs feel compressed, tense, and unresolved — as if cutting them loose would dull their impact.
What separates Spit from many records of its era is its refusal to aestheticize anger. Tracks like “Get Off (You Can Eat a Dick)” and “Suck” don’t frame hostility as spectacle. They’re direct, abrasive, and unapologetically plainspoken. The bluntness isn’t shock value — it’s function. The language matches the sound: sharp, minimal, and unsparing.
Mid-album cuts like “Choke” and “Raven” slow the pace without releasing pressure. These tracks introduce a heavier drag, allowing riffs to linger and thicken. The atmosphere becomes more suffocating, less volatile, but no less aggressive. Even when the tempo drops, the album never relaxes. It simply shifts how it applies force.
Vocals across the record operate as texture as much as message. Morgan Lander’s performance avoids polish, favoring presence over clarity. Her voice cuts through the mix when necessary, but often it blends into the guitars, reinforcing the sense that the songs are built as unified assaults rather than platforms for performance. The backing vocals add weight without softening the delivery, keeping the album grounded in tension.
Production on Spit is raw but controlled. The guitars are abrasive without becoming brittle, the drums hit with authority but avoid flourish, and the bass remains thick and functional. There’s no attempt to smooth edges or chase clarity. The sound feels immediate, as if the record were built to hit first and linger later.
What Spit ultimately captures is confrontation without mediation. It doesn’t contextualize its anger or frame it for consumption. It simply exists in it. The album isn’t interested in accessibility or refinement — it’s interested in pressure, release, and refusal.
By the time it ends, Spit hasn’t evolved or resolved. It hasn’t offered catharsis or closure. It has held its ground. That persistence — raw, abrasive, and unfiltered — is what gives the album its staying power. Spit doesn’t ask to be reconsidered or reinterpreted. It remains exactly what it was when it arrived: confrontational, unyielding, and unapologetically direct.
Written by Rob Joncas for DeadNoteMedia.
Artist information and music courtesy of the band.
© 2026 DeadNoteMedia. All rights reserved.
DeadNoteMedia 