Melvins
Bullhead

The slow exasperating ceremonial "Boris" opens the album, with a distorted guitar loop grafting onto the sonic backdrop while we rhythmically witness the celebration of Crover's drum power, which delivers caveman-like blows, just as you collapse from the feedback and distortions of a sabbath no one really wanted to join... and here comes the inhuman voice of King Buzzo, a voice that seems to come from some deep cosmic recess, filled with pain and frustration.

It's truly wicked. At least he is.
But you don't realize it until you've listened to the introduction of "Anaconda" with deep introductory bass lines from a living cemetery before the bastard explosion of a metaphysical/mephitic sound wave that kills even the last hope of hearing something normal and human within the coils of this tortured album... they are monsters, they possess your mind, nothing makes sense anymore except for them and their music.

Listening to it causes an overwhelming sense of darkness in the mind, but it's pointless because before you realize it, you'll press play again and everything will return, like in the worst nightmares of a serial killer... so that your soul can be purified and the sabbath continue, enjoying your suffering... The Sludge. Everything necessarily goes through here and must pay its debt to this album...