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. The material on evidence touches on elements of new wave, glam, soul and doo-wop, citing Pere Ubu, New York Dolls, The Temptations and Bettye Swan as key influences. Melodically it emits the energy of a down- and-out CBGBs band who cashes in by recording a lucrative Christmas album. Spike frequently uses sonic and lyrical juxtapositions to perform comic twists of sincerity, a reflection of society's obsession with ‘getting a rise’. On “Bored to Death,” a scuzzy, laidback and soulful tune, paired with morbid ragebait lyrics that payoff as a stand up joke “when I look up at the sun it makes me so happy cause I know one day it’s gonna kill me, and it’ll kill you too!” Lead single “All By Myself” carries on in this fashion; with feelgood, family-friendly punk doo-wop production, Spike is misleading on if his joy comes from the pride in solitude, or from lone- liness and a ‘give me everything’ mentality in the act of shooting heroin. The vocal performances oscillate between being blasé, vulnerable and manic; “Sweet Release” meets power-ballad criteria solely due to Spike’s deteriorating cries into the void, the jittery delivery on “Getting Sober” embodies religious fanaticism while sounding like a pop song written by Suicide for a David Lynch film. evidence is an album that lives outside the limits of discourse; its purpose is eponymous and self-evident. It is what it is, and is subject to interpretation. There is no point in interrogating attachments, virtue or value. The only rightful way to live is to be.