Review Summary: the fuzz pedal planted in your throat will beckon the rawr
Merriam-Webster defines sumac as a shredded coiled cable. Within this cable sincerity could not be contained. Odd. Is that an improvised answer? Well, when logic rises morality falls. You'd do well to remember: logic and morality in Japanese are but one character different.
What has SUMAC become? One suspects that from the advent they were but one character different from a Keiji Haino hissyfit. That character has flipped, and flipped right back. They are monogamous polygamists. They no longer write songs; they perform them. An empty penumbra smothers your firmament, you need only fill it with growth. Go on—expand.
That “regularity” of yours; can you throw it further than me? And I don't mean “discarding” it. Oh no; hurl it from a bridge. If it fractures when it breaks the surface, the rhythm section might just play in unison in celebration of your existential supremacy.
Might.
Yet you don't need such affirmation. Authoritarian assurance is for luddites. You will mine for your own truth, and you may find it weightless. Because the evidence of a fact is valued over the fact itself. The rigid man bathes in the milk of his Mother, the enlightened man is merely grateful to have suckled. In rigidity, Truth (???), assuming one can call it such, becomes fractured. In enlightenment, we are stoic and serious and nourished, and this is enough to make Aaron Turner yell.
Sometimes.
I recall there was a crowd. You cheered. That fuzz pedal you planted in your throat, its screw has started to come loose. Your next effects pedal is up. Do you have it ready? Whatever the case, it is your turn to roar the heavenly tubes toward a higher vibration. Don't you dare hit a major third.
The golden group always have the next effects pedal ready, for it is this which the audience of an uncertain tomorrow crave. This is the deal they have struck with us—we are stricken, and can't let them go. Lo, into this juvenile apocalypse, our golden blood to pour.
Let us.
Never.