Spider Kitten

Spider Kitten is not a band for everyone, and they don’t give a damn about that. They're the bastard offspring of Pink Floyd, Killdozer, and Eyehategod, born in a flop house somewhere, choking on cheap weed smoke and bad intentions. It’s the kind of sound that keeps you awake at night, gnawing at your insides, like some nightmare you can’t wake up from. There’s something beautiful in it, if you’re sick enough to hear it. And when they hit that sweet spot between noise and melody, between rage and release, you’re there. With them. Whether you want to be or not.

Don’t expect any feel-good anthems. Chi’s lyrics are confessional—raw, full of the kind of brutal honesty most people don’t have the guts to write. Mental illness? Check. Addiction? Check. Despair? Oh yeah, it’s there. They  don't sing about hope. They sing about what happens when it all falls apart.

Chi plays the guitar like a man with nothing left to lose. It's thick, dirty, and slathered in fuzz, like Buzzo from the Melvins losing a fight with his amp. Each note is a punch to the gut. He bends strings like he’s bending fate. And then there's his voice. Jesus. It’s a wreck. You listen to him and hear Layne Staley on the worst day of his life—raw, desperate, but with a kind of beauty in the pain.

And Chris hits those drums like a man who’s been pissed on by life and isn’t afraid to return the favor. He’s got power—real power—but he doesn’t just hammer away like some slob. No, he knows when to hit hard and when to lay back and let the thing breathe. Like Bonham, there’s that weight, that deep rumble that shakes you to your core, but he doesn’t just beat you with it. He knows how to pull back, keep it smooth for a second, then slam you with something that’ll make your chest feel like it’s caving in. There’s no fluff, no filler—just the sound of a man making the world bend to his will.

Rob used to play lead guitar, back when things were different, back when Spider Kitten felt like it might break apart at any second. He left in 2016, and for a while, the band dragged itself along like a three-legged dog. But now he’s back, playing bass instead of guitar, and somehow it’s better this way. His basslines aren’t just the glue—they’re the guts. Deep, heavy, inventive, cutting through the noise like a dirty thought you can’t shake.

They’ve been through the wringer. But thats why they can produce these moments of brilliance. Like finding the right gear in a car you’re just about to crash. And every note they play feels like a response to the kind of world that’s always been broken and never will be fixed. You don’t just listen to Spider Kitten. You survive them.

This isn’t music that’s going to save you. It’s music that makes you feel the weight of everything you’ve been trying to ignore. There’s no redemption here, no promises of a happy ending—just the wreckage, and the realization that maybe that’s all there ever was.

Line-up

• Chi Lameo - vocals, guitar
• Chris West - drums
• Rob Davies - bass

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