Purchase digital directly from the band at: thespitfires.bandcamp.com

SWEAT. BLOOD. PISS. VINEGAR.Let’s face it, on any given night these artefacts (OK, maybe not the vinegar) would be ground into a messy pool in the already well-worn stage of the Piccadilly Pub, a place of ill repute hosting the crème de la crème of rock’n’roll revolution once upon a time here in nitty gritty Vancouver BC. But upon this particularly glorious occasion, a group of roustabouts from just beyond the city limits have ground into (what will most assuredly be) the well-worn grooves of the record you hold in your perspiratin’ palms something just a little bit more than the sum of those aforementioned cringe-inducing parts. Sure, there’s plenty of POWER on display thanks to the percussive pummel of Marty Peters and backstreet bass boogie of CC Voltage, all kindsa grandiose guitar ACTION from the deadly duo of Jay Millette and Mr. Dean-O and certainly copious amounts of SASS served with a smile from singer Jay Solyom. Add to all this the FRENZY of a fired-up crowd fuelled on the beer and bad decisions of another wasted weekend and…” WAIT A MINUTE! This ain’t no Kick Out the Jams!”, you protest. No duh, Dilbert. However, having seen this band over the years consistently lay waste to any venue smart enough to let these guys dutifully demonstrate their devotion to louder than live records by KISS, Cheap Trick and the Rolling Stones, the Spitfires have achieved in my estimation ALL of the above, but more importantly the sonic equivalent of what Cyrus meant to all the gangs of New York: MAGIC…a whole lotta MAGIC.

Bryce Dunn
Humble Scribe