M.V. (music writing)

There’s a monolithic tick of bass, anarchically simple; throbbing. There’s a sudden contorted, crackling death rattle permeating the room, hanging in the air like smell. It’s the sound of choking, murderous fumes blown through the nose. It’s the picture of a smoking bull squaring up to a matador with a dead-eyed stare.

Without warning, in an instant, that plodding tap is transmogrified. Atop the naked ear, a new beast is astride. By the alchemy of overdrive, from a cocoon of spitting, spluttering, immutable distortion emerges a primal, guttural lashing of power-chord violence. In the indecipherable hiss, from the depths: from the smoky din of the mundane… there rises a scratchy-throated warrior, one who rasps indignant to whomever will listen.

And listen they will.

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