Last Thursday at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow’s beloved sweatbox of broken dreams and brilliant noise, Die Spitz proved that hype is only irritating when it’s undeserved.

Founded in 2022, Die Spitz — Ava Schrobilgen (guitar/vocals), Ellie Livingston (guitar/vocals), Kate Halter (bass), and Chloe De St. Aubin (drums/vocals) — have made a name for themselves on pure, unfiltered volatility.

What started as childhood friends making a racket in Austin has mutated into one of the city’s most feral exports, their live shows defined by a weaponised wall of sound. Making noise together has evolved into one of Austin’s most vital live acts. Now firmly embedded in the city’s music scene, Die Spitz have pushed far beyond Texas state lines, joining national tours alongside kindred spirits such as Amyl and the Sniffers, Sleater-Kinney, and OFF!, proving their particular brand of volatility travels very well indeed.

At King Tut’s, that reputation arrived ahead of them like a storm warning. The sold out venue was packed to the rafters with notably, a few of the cities own finest musicians in attendance.

They opened without ceremony — straight into the jagged pulse of “I Hate When GIRLS Die” and “Monkey Song”— and suddenly the room felt two sizes too small. Sonically, they sit somewhere between the humid heft of Deftones and the serrated snarl of The Distillers, with flashes of Hole’s scorched-lip glamour and the confrontational stomp of modern punk’s brattier revivalists. But comparisons only get you so far; Die Spitz sound less like revivalists and more like they’ve mugged the past for parts and rebuilt it louder.

Up front, Ava Schrobilgen and Ellie Livingston share guitar and vocal duties like co-conspirators. Ava plays with a kind of controlled aggression — riffs that swing like a wrecking ball in comfy trainers — while Ellie’s guitar lines slice and shimmer, adding a wiry tension that keeps everything teetering deliciously on the brink. When their voices collide, it’s not harmony in the Sunday-best sense; it’s harmony like two sirens going off at once — urgent, thrilling, impossible to ignore.

On bass, Kate Halter is the band’s gravitational pull. She doesn’t just hold down the low end; she stalks it. Her tone is thick, muscular, faintly menacing — the kind that vibrates up through your ribs and sets up camp there. If the guitars are the fire, Kate is the heat that lingers after.

And then there’s Chloe De St. Aubin, part engine room, part instigator. From behind the kit she plays like she’s trying to outrun something — all pounding toms and snapping snare — but on the fifth track, “My Hot Piss,” she flipped the script entirely. Climbing out from the drums to take lead vocals, she left the kit momentarily in someone else’s hands and prowled the stage, voice raw and unvarnished. It wasn’t a gimmick; it was a gear change. The song took on a new, almost unhinged energy, as if the band had collectively decided to drive faster just to see what would happen.

Standout cuts came thick and fast. “American Porn” was all bile and brilliance, spat out with a grin that suggested both disgust and delight. “Down On It” swaggered with a loose-hipped confidence, while “Punishers” coiled and snapped, its dynamics stretching and recoiling like a muscle about to punch. Mid-set, a growled aside — “Fuck ICE, this shit is real, our people are being taken” — sliced through the distortion, a reminder that beneath the chaos there’s conviction. And that conviction is spreading solidarity – better we stand united. It’s a sentiment that is met with rapturous applause from the Glaswegian crowd.

By the time they barrelled into “Pop Punk Anthem,” baiting the crowd with a sarcastic “I wanna hear you shout ‘woop, woop!’”, the audience had surrendered happily. It was pop punk put through a shredder — hooks intact, edges sharpened. Think the punch of Amyl and the Sniffers with the bruised melodicism of Japanese Voyeur, all delivered with the communal snarl of a band that actually like each other enough to share the mic — and the mayhem.

The encore kicked off with “Hair of the Dog,” and the crowd erupted as the Ava stormed back onto the stage—this time dramatically crab-crawling across the floor, grinning wildly as the band launched into the riff. Part performance art, part house-party meltdown. It felt less like a gig’s tidy conclusion and more like the night had simply boiled over. It was chaotic, theatrical, and completely on brand.

They closed the night with their breakout lead single, “Through Yourself to the Sword,” from their debut album Something to Consume—a powerful finale that had the entire venue singing along, ending the show on a triumphant, unforgettable high.

In an era where too much guitar music feels algorithm-approved and emotionally focus-grouped, Die Spitz are thrillingly unhousebroken. Raised on the righteous noise of their forebears but unwilling to be museum pieces, they play like they’ve got something to prove — or maybe just something to purge.

Either way, King Tut’s didn’t know what hit it.

Article: Angela Canavan @ zombiefang_