Shitlist

Raw, live-wire energy compressed into under three minutes. This track runs almost entirely on attitude — the guitars are serrated and upfront, the drums hit with blunt precision, and the arrangement leaves no decorative space whatsoever. It's minimalist in the way a clenched fist is minimalist. Donita Sparks delivers the vocal like she's reading aloud from a private grievance list she's been maintaining for years, the performance sitting somewhere between spoken word and a bark. There's almost no melodic indulgence here — the song refuses to seduce you, preferring to confront. Lyrically it's an unambiguous catalog of people and institutions who have earned contempt, and the directness is itself the point: no metaphor, no distance, no irony cushioning the blow. It belongs to the riot grrrl and women-in-hard-rock moment of the early nineties, a period when bluntness was a political act. Reach for this when you need to convert frustration into something kinetic rather than letting it sit.