Come now, good children:
is this not the sweet wine of blind rage? For me the misplaced commas
just add fuel to the fire. Add such poetry to the simply wonderful
crunch-guitar and ball-bearings-in-a-blender beats and you’ve
got yourself a recipe for success. Angelic Encounters is to
death metal what a running back is to the football team: the one who
came to play, who’s not interested in being the biggest or the
baddest or the highest name on the marquee. (That’s why Ricky
Williams has had such a hard time in New Orleans, you know: he’s
got all the makings of a star athlete, but all he wants to do is run
the ball. He’s expected to make the highlight reel; he’s
only interested in putting his head down and running directly through
the defensive line. People didn’t change their expectations of
him, and pressure does weird things to a person. Of course, it doesn’t
help that the glaze over his eyes suggests that he’s either a
little crazy or well on his way there.) They don’t aspire to
be heard of outside of death metal circles, and they don’t set
their sites on dethroning the current overlords. They just want to
rock ‘til they drop, and if everybody else on this worthless
planet drops in the process, well, all the better.
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