So imagine writing, recording, and then releasing
a brand new album every six months. Oh, wow.
Yeah, and doing that for seven years straight.
That is just, I mean, that's relentless. Right,
now imagine doing all that while, you know, sleeping
on a different stranger's floor across America,
like almost every single night. You aren't doing
it for fame. You certainly aren't doing it for
money. You're just doing it because if you stop
the... the entire machine you've built with your
own two hands completely falls apart. Yeah, it
is a staggering level of output. And, you know,
it requires a kind of psychological endurance
that, frankly, most people simply don't possess.
Exactly. Because when you look at the economics
and just the sheer physical toll of that lifestyle,
it's a miracle anyone survives it, let alone,
you know, thrives creatively within it. Absolutely.
So welcome to today's deep dive. Today we are
unpacking the fascinating, relentless, and ultimately
really turbulent life cycle of a true indie rock
workhorse. We're looking at the American indie
rock band, kind of like Spitting. And we're using
them as a lens to really understand the raw reality
of underground music. It's a perfect case study
for that, honestly. It really is. We're drawing
all our info today from the band's Wikipedia
page, which covers a story that spans roughly
three decades. And the mission for you, the listener,
Today is this. even if you have never heard a
single note of their music, we want to look at
how the sheer volume of their output and the
dramatic arc of their career makes this an incredible
study of just extreme creative drive. Right,
because this isn't just a biography of one band.
It's really a blueprint of an entire era of independent
music. It shows us exactly how art was made,
how it was distributed, and how it was consumed
before the streaming age just completely rewrote
all the rules. Right, before Spotify and Apple
Music changed everything. Okay, let's unpack
this. This story starts in 1996 in Portland,
Oregon. The band forms, but the driving force,
like the singer -songwriter at the absolute center
of it all, is Ben Barnett. Yeah, Barnett is the
core. And right away, the comparisons being thrown
at Barnett by critics are, I mean, they're incredibly
lofty. Oh, for sure. He's being mentioned in
the same breath. as some legendary songwriters.
We're talking Elliot Smith, Mark Eitzel, Billy
Bragg, and Robert Pollard. See, that specific
combination of names tells you almost everything
you need to know about what this music sounds
like. How so? Well, you have the... The fragile,
really confessional intimacy of an Elliott Smith.
Right. You mix that with the sort of working
class, heavily political folk punk edge of someone
like Billy Bragg. And then you add the prolific,
almost manic indie weirdness of a Robert Pollard
from Guided by Voices. That is quite a mix. It
is. It paints a picture of an artist who is on
one hand deeply invested in the craft of songwriting,
but who is also just channeling this massive
amount of complex completely unfiltered emotion
directly into the microphone. Yeah, but making
the art is really only half the battle here.
Oh, absolutely. Because the real story is how
that art was delivered to the world between 1996
and 2006. Kind of like spitting. released 12
albums in just seven years, 12 albums. And that
number, honestly, it doesn't even account for
the reality of their day -to -day existence during
that time. Right, because they were touring.
Constantly. They were constantly touring the
U .S. Sometimes Barnett would be out there with
a full backing band, and other times he'd strip
it all down and just tour alongside David Jeripovich.
Oh, from Novi Split, right? Exactly, from Novi
Split. And they were literally living in vans.
They were playing basement shows, tiny clubs.
basically anywhere that would open their doors
to them. Okay, let me try to put this into perspective
for you, the listener, because releasing 12 albums
in seven years is just mind -boggling. It really
is. It's like a novelist churning out two complete
published books every single year, but doing
it while constantly traveling the country and
sleeping on floors. Yeah, it's exhausting just
thinking about it. So I have to ask, how does
an artist maintain any sort of quality control
when they are essentially operating as a fire
hose of music? Like, does this level of output
suggest this desperate, burning need to communicate?
Or is it just a reflection of an era where indie
bands had to release constantly just to survive
financially? Well, what's fascinating here is
that it's a collision of both. Okay. The compulsion
to create is obviously there. You don't write
that much if you don't have something to say.
But the mechanics of the 90s and early 2000s
indie scene... absolutely demanded this kind
of hustle. Because there was no internet, really.
Not for music distribution, anyway. Right. You
have to remember, without the massive marketing
budgets of major labels, bands survived purely
on momentum. You didn't have algorithms pushing
your music to new listeners while you slept.
You stayed relevant by constantly touring. And
you financed that touring by constantly having
something brand new at the merch table to sell
to the kids who showed up. It's almost like running
a grassroots political campaign. That's a great
way to put it. You aren't buying national television
airtime. You were literally out there shaking
hands, playing in someone's living room, and
selling cassette tapes one by one to build a
local base. Precisely. And that grassroots nature
is entirely reflected in the wild patchwork of
their discography. Yeah, the labels are all over
the place. Right. They didn't just sign to one
label and stay put. They hopped between a variety
of really cool independent labels. You had Jealous
Butcher, Hush Records, New American Dream, Barsuk.
All the classic indie labels. Exactly. In the
year 2000 alone, they released a full length
album called You Secretly Want Me Dead, and then
turned around in that same year and released
another one called Nothing Makes Sense Without
It. Two full lengths in one year. Yes. It wasn't
just traditional studio albums on CDs either.
The sources list an overwhelming array of other
formats. They were heavily releasing cassettes.
They were putting out live albums recorded at
places like the Electric Factory and the Fireside
Bowl. Which, I should add, those venues are incredibly
culturally significant. Oh, totally. The Electric
Factory in Philly was a major proving ground.
Yeah. And the Fireside Bowl in Chicago, if you
don't know, it was a literal bowling alley that
served as basically the absolute mecca for DIY
punk and indie bands in the 90s. Recording live
albums, there wasn't just about capturing a performance,
it was about planting a flag in the cultural
soil of the underground. They're also constantly
releasing what are called split records with
bands like City on Film and Rosa Shams. Yeah,
splits were huge. So for anyone listening who
is unfamiliar with the term, what exactly is
the strategic value of a split record? Why not
just release your own songs? Well, a split record,
which is usually a seven inch vinyl, where one
band takes side A and another takes side B, it
was the ultimate survival mechanism of the underground.
Because of the cost. Exactly. Pressing vinyl
is incredibly expensive. So if you split the
cost with another band, you immediately have
your financial risk. That makes sense. But more
importantly, you cross -pollinate your audiences.
If, say, city on film fans buy the record for
their song, they are literally forced to flip
it over eventually and listen to kind of like
spitting. Right. They can't avoid it. Exactly.
It was a brilliant, highly communal way to hack
the system and grow a fan base before the Internet
made sharing music frictionless. OK, so they
were hacking the system. They are relentlessly
touring, pressing splits and building this massive
wall of creative effort. And eventually that
hustle actually the attention of the gatekeepers.
It does. Because in 1999 they released a seven
-inch single called Birds of a Feather and it
gets picked up in the UK by the legendary BBC
Radio 1 DJ John Peel. Which is, I mean, that
is the holy grail of critical validation for
an indie band. John Peel was arguably the most
important tastemaker in alternative music globally.
Having him play your record on the BBC signaled
to the hardcore music fans, the journalists,
the record store clerks, that you were the real
deal. But here is where the reality of the music
business completely shatters the fairy tale we've
all been sold. Yeah. Because the text explicitly
notes that despite this massive cosign from John
Peel, the track never received regular airplay.
Right. And wait, we always hear the Hollywood
version, where a famous DJ plays a song and a
band explodes into superstardom overnight. So
why is the reality of the indie grinds so different?
How is it that John Peel, the biggest tastemaker
in the UK, plays their track and they just go
right back to sleeping on floors in a tour van?
Because, unfortunately, critical cachet does
not equal commercial capital. Tastemakers like
John Peel can validate your art, but regular,
sustained airplay, like the kind that gets a
song stuck in the heads of millions of people
and actually translates into a lucrative career,
that requires a massive, expensive machinery.
It takes money. It takes a ton of money. radio
promoters who actively lobby stations, it requires
high -powered publicists, it requires hundreds
of thousands of dollars that a band operating
on independent labels like Hush or Jealous Butcher
simply does not have access to. So you get the
critical applause, you get the prestige of the
BBC, but you don't actually get the paycheck.
Exactly. You still have to pack up your gear,
drive the van 12 hours to the next gig, and just
hope you sell enough t -shirts to buy gas. And
that is the exact psychological friction that
breaks bands. You know your art is good enough
to be recognized by the best in the world, but
your physical reality is still exhausting, unglamorous,
and extremely financially precarious. That gap
takes a massive toll on a human being. Which
leads us right into the first major turning point
of this timeline. Because in 2006, after a decade
of this relentless fire hose level pace, 12 albums
and endless miles on the road, the band announces
a breakup. Yeah. And the official reason given
is simply personal reasons. They hit the indie
ceiling and the machine shuts down. Which is
understandable when you burn the candle at both
ends for that long. Burnout isn't just a possibility.
It's an absolute guarantee. You have to step
away. or it destroys you. But what happens when
an artist walks away from the project that defined
a decade of their life? Well, the creative drive
doesn't just vanish into thin air. Right. And
Barnett stays deeply embedded in the music world.
Our sources note he actually had a stint playing
in another prominent indie band, The Thermals,
2002, 2003, which overlapped with his own band.
And after kind of like spitting ends, he fronts
a new band called Blunt Mechanic, which releases
an album called World Record in 2010. So he's
still creating, but he's shifting the context.
He's exploring different collaborative dynamics,
stepping out of the immense pressure cooker of
being the sole visionary for a project that demands
an album every six months. He also takes on a
completely different role. Starting in 2007,
Barnett shifts to teaching music at the Paul
Green School of Rock in Seattle. Yeah, that's
a big shift. And here's where it gets really
interesting to me. It's almost like a veteran
wizard passing down spells to the next generation.
I love that analogy. You take all that hard -won
knowledge, the songwriting, the performance,
the literal survival skills of the 90s indie
scene, and you channel it into education. It's
a profound shift in utility. But there is also
a very real psychological phenomenon that happens
when professional musicians start teaching. Oh,
what? Well, when you are forced to break music
down to its absolute fundamentals for a young
student, like teaching them their first chords
or analyzing why a melody works, it strips away
all the industry baggage. It removes the stress
of record labels and touring logistics, and it
reconnects you with the raw, visceral enthusiasm
of discovery. It basically reminds you why you
picked up a guitar in the first place. Exactly.
And inevitably, that process often rekindles
the desire to perform the very songs that defined
your own youth. You start to miss the specific
emotional resonance of your primary catalog.
Which perfectly explains what happens next, because
in 2014, kind of like Spitting Returns, they
reunite as a trio, bringing in Brian Grant on
bass and Dante Johnson on drums. They record
a brand new debut for Top Shelf Records called
It's Always Nice to See You, and they head out
on a tour with the band Lemuria. and then jumping
ahead even further in the sources, on November
8, 2024, they release a three -song EP called
Soon via near -mint records, which is explicitly
noted as their first official release in a decade.
Yeah, another long gap. So my question is, what
pulls a musician back to their original moniker
after a decade away? Why return to the name kind
of like spitting in 2014 and then again in 2024
instead of just starting fresh? Because of the
enduring gravity of the catalog, when you pour
that much of your soul into a specific project,
and you release that much volume under one name,
it becomes inextricably linked to your identity.
Yeah, that makes sense. The name holds the history.
It holds the connection to the audience who grew
up listening to those 12 albums. Starting fresh
under a new name means abandoning the equity
of that shared history. And it's clear they were
deeply obsessed with history in general, honestly,
not just their own. During this entire run, their
discography is peppered with wildly eclectic
side projects. Oh yeah, the covers. Yeah. They
cover the 60s protest folk of Phil Ox. They do
a tribute album to the Carl Hendrix Trio. They
contribute to compilations covering Motown, Bjork,
and Led Zeppelin. It shows an artist in constant
active conversation with the music that shaped
them. They aren't creating in a vacuum. By engaging
with Phil Ox and Bjork, they are bridging genres
and eras, essentially proving that good songwriting
transcends the boundaries of just quote unquote
indie rock. It really feels like a triumphant
narrative arc. The exhausted workhorse steps
away. rediscovers the joy of music through teaching
and returns to secure their legacy. It does.
But then we arrive at the year 2025 and the narrative
takes a sudden incredibly sharp in a very complicated
turn. It does. And it's important to note here
for our listeners that we are looking strictly
at the historical record provided in the sources.
Yes, absolutely. We aren't here to litigate or
take sides in any way. We are just reporting
what's there. But the timeline shows a definitive
and abrupt halt. Right. So according to the source
text on September 17th, 2025, following allegations
of grooming and sexual assault made by the vocalist
of a band called February, a statement was released
announcing the end of kind of like spitting.
The documentation also notes that Ben Barnett
later issued a statement explicitly denying the
allegations against him. However, the operational
result was absolute. Barnett announced the immediate
end of the band. And the timeline notes one final
detail. Shortly after the announcement of the
band's end, their final album, which was titled,
I Do It For My City, was released posthumously
on October 3, 2025. Releasing an album mere weeks
after a band disbands under the cloud of serious
controversy creates an incredibly dense cultural
artifact. Yeah, I can only imagine. It places
a massive weight on the music fundamentally altering
how it will be received and analyzed by the public.
So what does this all mean? How do you as a music
fan listening right now process a situation like
this? How do you grapple with a reality where
a 30 -year catalog of deeply emotional prolific
art is suddenly brought to a halt by such serious
allegations? This raises an important question.
It's the defining tension of modern fandom. Yeah.
Audiences are constantly forced to navigate the
abrupt collision between an artist's personal
controversies and their public body of work.
For decades, listeners engaged with these songs.
They projected their own heartbreak, their joy,
and their identity onto the lyrics. Right. The
music becomes part of their own life story. Exactly.
And then an event occurs that permanently alters
the context of that relationship. The legacy
doesn't disappear, but it becomes permanently
complicated. It's fractured. It forces every
individual listener to decide how or even if
they can separate the deeply personal connection
they have to the art from the reality surrounding
the artist. It retroactively changes the shape
of the entire timeline we've been mapping out
today. It really does. You can't look at the
1996 formation in Portland or the superhuman
output of 12 albums or the John Peele cosign
without looking through the lens of that final
2025 bullet point. The history is essentially
rewritten in the mind of the audience. And if
we connect this to the bigger picture, the story
of kind of like spitting acts as a profound microcosm
of the independent music world as a whole. It
encompasses the entire spectrum. It shows the
relentless burning drive to create at all costs.
It highlights the unglamorous exhausting reality
of the working class musician who survives on
split seven inches and tour van floors. Yeah.
It shows the triumph of returning to your art.
And ultimately, it shows the messy, deeply human
flaws that can tear a three decade legacy down
in an instant. It is the complete spectrum of
the underground experience, all contained within
the margins of one sprawling Wikipedia page.
We've looked at a discography filled with dozens
of splits, live acoustic sessions, and tribute
albums. We're talking about thousands upon thousands
of hours of human connection pressed into vinyl
and wound into cassette tapes. Yeah, so much
history. Sweat on the stages of the electric
factory in the Fireside Bowl. 30 years of a life
lived at maximum volume. And yet, when that history
is formalized, when the life's work of an artist
is codified onto a digital encyclopedia, the
formatting fundamentally changes how we perceive
it. Exactly. It takes three decades of loud,
chaotic, relentless emotion and flattens it into
dry bullet points, culminating in a final, controversial
end, which leaves us with a lingering thought
for you to mull over today. Look at that discography.
Look at the thousands of hours of connection.
When you look at the internet's sterile factual
record of an artist's controversial end, does
that digital permanence inevitably erase the
lived human experience of the art itself? Or
can the messy, complicated reality of the music
and the cold, hard bullet points somehow exist
in the exact same space.