“I remember churches with shag carpet, fake wax candles, and felt banners on the walls.” For Melbourne musician Spike Fuck, growing up in 90s and early-2000s Australia, religion felt mundane – a weekly obligation, a chore to endure. But today, those memories carry a different weight. Spirituality, once peripheral, now pulses at the heart of their art. Personal and universal, sacred and strange, these echoes are channelled into Spike’s long-awaited return: Eternity in Time and The Other Right Hand of the Lord – their first new music in three years.

Spike’s voice is arresting – baritonal and raw, somewhere between Lou Reed’s gravel and Johnny Thunders’ ache – yet offset by an almost ethereal presence: blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, a fragile intensity. In this tension lies their power, shapeshifting through the years: from their debut Smackwave EP – a brilliantly uncompromising work grappling with addiction, heartbreak, and sexual disorientation – to a Rick Owens muse (shot for the designer’s SS17 womenswear collection) and underground cult hero for a generation shaped by contradiction and collapse, to a reclusive figure who turned their back on music altogether. “I tried to live without it for a period, when I couldn’t find it within myself to do it anymore.” When it’s all or nothing, sometimes stepping away is the only decision.

Now, after three years, Spike returns with Eternity in Time and The Other Right Hand of the Lord. Reborn, redefined, and surrounded by a band of kindred spirits, the sound is bolder, stranger, and more transcendent than ever, standing at the haunted crossroads of Roky Erickson, Scott Walker, and Gregorian chant.

Maria Stanchieri: Identity – in its broadest sense, not just gender – lies at the heart of your work. In what ways does this mirror your own life, and why have you chosen to carry your stage name into your everyday identity?
Spike Fuck: I didn’t realise identity wasn’t as important to others as it is to me. And by identity, I mean the outward markers that reflect something internal or essential – whether that’s identifying as trans, as a junkie, or more recently, a Catholic. What I sought in drugs, in gender identity, and in religion all seem to stem from the same place inside myself – a deep discomfort and feeling of dislocation from myself and others. And trying to resolve this through a certain lifestyle.

Spike is both my real name and my stage name, as there’s really no meaningful distinction between my identity as an artist and my everyday persona. I just don’t see the point in doing something unless it’s completely all‐encompassing. Completely totalising. I wouldn’t know how else to approach life if I didn’t make art and music like this. I tried to live without it for a period when I couldn’t find it within myself to do it anymore and I completely renounced music for three years from 2021 to 2024. But that just reinforced what I already knew about myself: I have to be all in or all out. Because for me, music isn’t just a hobby—it is, it seems, a fundamental part of what it means to be human. It’s hard to give yourself so completely to something, yes, but life is certainly much harder without doing so.

MP: Yet, despite every hiatus, a loyal fanbase is always eagerly waiting for you. How do you experience the relationship between personal identity and public image? How does it feel to have the authenticity of your lyrics – and the experiences they convey – elevate you into a symbol for your audience?
SF: I don’t fully understand why my music affects certain people quite so profoundly. And if people regard me as a symbol, that’s never been my intent. I didn’t want to be seen as a model Catholic – clearly, I’m not – nor a symbol of being trans, or later detransitioning, or anything else (that chapter of my life is its own complex story). Even when I lived as a transwoman, I never sought to be a “trans icon” or an LGBTQ+ figurehead. In the 2010s, there was a noticeable pressure to define yourself with neat labels. I no longer feel the need to offer tidy answers. And I never really could anyway to mine or anyone’s satisfaction. I think the real essence of being human lies in the tension between all these different, disparate parts of one’s identity – my history with gender, my struggles with faith, my experience with addiction, my attraction to certain aesthetics. And I guess that conflict is what I’m trying to express through art. So if I had to guess why some people connect with my work, maybe it’s because I attempt to speak to this complexity in a way that feels raw and emotionally sharp and not try to be didactic about it. I think that perhaps leaves people with an experience of themselves rather than some kind of contrived life lesson.

“Spike is both my real name and my stage name, as there’s really no meaningful distinction between my identity as an artist and my everyday persona.”

MP: Your latest releases are very much about your recent exploration of faith. How has your Catholic upbringing influenced your life and your music, and how does it intersect with this new album?
SF: My first exposure to Catholicism was pretty typical for a kid growing up in a country like Australia. I remember churches with shag carpet, fake wax candles, and felt banners on the walls. It all felt plain, mundane, banal. I did, very technically, have a Catholic upbringing, but only in the sense of a loose moral framework rather than a daily practice. However, when I truly engaged with Catholicism as an adult on my own terms, I was drawn to its traditional forms, as there appeared to be so much more depth of inspiration there. Instead of an electronic keyboard and someone, granted, trying their best, to sing a hokey, folk-rock hymn from the 60s, you have Palestrina, Mozart, and Gregorian chant. It feels transcendent… I believe in God, and I believe Christ is probably God, but I’m not entirely sure where I stand with all that right now. Still, through music, I think I’m working through this uncertainty. Ultimately exploring how one comes to know God in the modern world.

MP: Can you walk us through your creative process? When do you feel a song or album is truly ready, finished, and prepared for the public?
SF: The truth is, I don’t really know how to write a song – at least not consciously. I can only set up the right conditions for one to emerge: sit with my guitar, start strumming, and slip into a meditative state. But how a song actually forms, or how creativity or inspiration is made concrete, I’m not entirely sure. It comes out through what I’m fixated on at the time, I suppose. Recently, I had an exhibition at an art gallery in Melbourne called Cathedral Cabinet. It was a work that was primarily created to serve as the cover of my latest single, Eternity in Time. It was a collaboration between my girlfriend Cllawde and I, it was essentially a large, painted wooden clock, done in a naïve medieval style. This project consumed me for months. During that time, music felt like a chore. By contrast, when I wrote last year’s songs, I was utterly obsessed with that – three straight months in a fever dream. I wish I could pinpoint what triggers that state; if I could, I’d chase it forever. And I do in a roundabout way. But it always ends and you can’t hold onto it. So the real question isn’t, “Is the song finished?” but “Do I still care about it?” I’m pretty sick of listening to the songs that will appear on the forthcoming record. That’s usually the sign I’m ready to move on.

“…how a song actually forms, or how creativity or inspiration is made concrete, I’m not entirely sure.”

MP: You often refer to the word “obsession” – what does it mean to you?
SF: I think obsession is one of the most fundamental parts of how my mind works. It’s not about the content of my thoughts per se, but the nature of my mind itself. The way it functions. I’ve learned that if I don’t consciously direct that obsessive energy toward something meaningful and generative – something creative and constructive – it will fixate on whatever’s most mundane or superficial and drive me insane. For me, obsession feels like an external force, something outside myself taking hold. I’ve come to see that there are two kinds of obsession: one dark and destructive, the other more positive, even sacred. Looking back, whether it was drugs or music, the feeling was the same – something took over and my sense of self was greatly weakened and dissolved. With drugs, for instance, I still often wonder, “What even happened during all those years? Where did all the time go?” It was like moving through life in a fog, in a dream. And even with music, it’s a similar sensation, I don’t feel in control. I don’t know exactly what is, but I know I want to feel that all the time – that urgency, that immediacy of sensation. That drive.

MP: And what is the urgency in the new album?
SF: I guess I would describe this urgency simply as pure obsession: ten tracks to be released later this year. Though I think I’ll let them speak for themselves.

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