Spike Fuck’s return is vital

It’s a tricky challenge for this listener, as a music journalist aiming to treat this work with the respect it deserves. I’m partly swayed by the undeniable mythical quality of who’s responsible: the cult Melburnian creative Spike Fuck. His scarce but deeply cherished output features grotesquely candid, existential art-rock ballads. The magnetic pull of his 2016 EP Smackwave is still as strong as it was upon release. Somewhere along the way, his activity was curtailed by running the gauntlet of heroin addiction, transgender exploration, and religious fascination at separate or simultaneous times, which in turn wrote his peculiar life narrative.

However, harping on Spike’s past does a disservice to where he is at present: he’s miraculously alive. His ebb-and-flow career for the better part of ten years has culminated in evidence. The eight-song collection is probably best perceived as a cathartic, triumphant proof-of-life statement, rather than a comeback record decorated with middling bells and whistles. 

“I find life to be the most intense, vivifying, or life-affirming when I’m following impulses and opportunities that make no sense at all,” Spike says, referring to Australian pop star Adam Hyde, aka Keli Holiday – someone operating in the thick of Australia’s mainstream music industry, well outside of Spike’s whereabouts – who produced evidence. On paper, it’s as incongruous a pairing as Arthur Russell and Vin Diesel. But Spike’s partnership with Hyde was a marvel, a “spontaneous surprise like being gifted by God,” finally receiving the chance to make the raw, rock ‘n’ roll record he always wanted to make. “The narrative that is cultivated from this engagement is extremely life-affirming, and the fact that I’ve been able to put out a record is the greatest gift anyone could’ve given me.”

Spike is measured and attentive with his words as he speaks with me, but beneath his musings is the wisdom from precarious living. For instance, he shelved an entire record titled Pure O, “not at the fault of anyone involved,” he assures. How come? His perfectionist and instinctive tendencies guided him: “This time in history in the Western world generally or in pop music, it’s not the time for contemplative, soft downtempo, adult contemporary rock.” The Hyde-produced record we’re hearing is less self-analytical and intellectualised than the one our ears aren’t privy to; he’s unapologetically diaristic and vulnerable, that impulse untouched and informed by its succinct three-month creation.

“The record I made with Adam was a way to say, ‘I’m a human being. I’m emotional.’ There are all these unresolved tensions in life that will never have a resolution or answer,” Spike explains. “With this record, A: I don’t know exactly what it means. B: I don’t really mind if no one else does either. I wanted to look at it as a true crime magazine, like, ‘Look at that dead body, this gory image.’ I guess that’s what I tried to do in making it – to provoke myself, and the invitation is extended to others.”

Spike then asks me what I got from listening to it, and I answer as best as I can, largely reiterating how I framed evidence earlier: Its meaning to others isn’t definitive, so it’s inherently ambiguous. Listening closely to its lyrics, the audacious themes of Spike’s earlier music remain. Yet since they’re presented as an album, there’s a conscious effort to paint a holistic picture of who and what he’s trying to be, and everything that encompasses his personhood. Spike is no longer compelled to explain himself; he just wants to be.

The way evidence portrays Spike’s honesty is, to him, much more extreme, leaning towards “self-destructive” by “presenting [himself] so brazenly and blatantly.” If Spike conducted himself with a stylised authenticity with Smackwave, then evidence is an unadulterated expression of his thoughts. The country-tinged “SWEET RELEASE” is a self-contradictory admission of guilt; the soulful “BORED TO DEATH” is one part optimistic and carefree, another part disparaging and morbid; and the unfurling closing ballad “HATE ME” is utterly self-deprecating, its narration almost tragic. “You can’t possibly love me, even though you tell me you do, because I’m so wretched and horrible that you hating me makes sense to me, but you loving me obviously doesn’t make sense,” Spike divulges some meaning behind the latter song. “However, I think the whole point of me trying to make art is to be very truthful… I mean, it’s hard to talk about this because it’s like I’m contradicting myself.”

That philosophical wrestle is his MO: Spike finds the purest way to present evidence is by not labelling it a work of art. “To consider yourself an artist or musician is the Achilles’ heel of any creative,” he says. The gratuitous hats such individuals need to wear in today’s fragmented, algorithm-dictated world do undermine the success, idealism, and magic of making art in general. Australia also has its own institutional problems with the arts, where it’s unfortunately not far-fetched to see government powers often starving the industry of funding and support. Spike mentions his brother is a firefighter to justify that he’s living his own life frivolously. But it’s Spike’s conviction that says otherwise: “For me, there is no other way to do this. I don’t want to do anything else. I can’t do anything else.” If art makes life fulfilling, then it is sorely needed.

Spike’s return a couple of years ago included not only the arresting, evocative singles “Other Right Hand of the Lord” and “Eternity & Time”, but also live performances with a backing band. Around evidence’s 2 October release, he’ll be touring extensively across Australia, the UK, and Europe – the biggest tour he’s ever embarked on. Resuming touring after a long absence fraught with trials and tribulations, the scale is bound to be overwhelming. I can’t help but ask Spike how he’s taking it all in.

“How do I feel? I’m pretty terrified, honestly, to release something so on-the-nose, hard-on-the-sleeve, and whatever other clichés there are,” he says plainly. “I said before that I don’t care about being understood, but it’s all I want: I deeply, deeply want to be seen and understood. I think my defining characteristic, if there is one, is that I’m constantly changing. It’s exhausting, honestly. This identity in flux has no central point, and maybe the only central point is to create something, share it, and want for it to be received in the way that I intended.”

He expounds further, “Despite my life, which has been riddled with drug addiction, mental illness, etc., I haven’t become hardened. I’ve remained naive and green in so many ways, and it sucks because every cut feels the same. There’s no scar in a sense; it’s just an open wound constantly.” Recruiting a backing band initially served as a shield for Spike’s closed-off demeanour clashing with his desire to be constantly seen in the spotlight, but despite the different outcome, he knows he must proceed in the way it’s panned out.

“What terrifies me the most is not to be vilified, but it’s if no one gives a shit,” Spike admits. “That might be more likely what it is – to try to get people to listen and stop, because why should they listen? Who cares about me? Who cares about anyone, really? I guess I’m trying to tantalise people to listen, so I don’t know what the way to do that is.” People stumbling upon his life as it’s been laid out may be the best way.