• Rating:
There’s no time to perk up ears now well turned over, as they're already there, once more making a whole bundle of ganja by squeezing out more obese riffs over sixteen minutes of molten flows; placeable among the offspring of dopesmoker, here the music stretches like never before, beyond the distorted, several leagues below the aquarian that touched the sun, where the mega note is a simple and important gesture; Mr. Pike's wing structure, in relation to his weight, is not suitable for flying, but he doesn’t know it and flies anyway: while it radiates the usual mixed sounds, al chews grass tired of screaming and good jason is like a mass damper pendulum to the dilations of the track; the air is viscous, the record plays like a walk on fresh cement and with the tunings even deeper everything descends delightfully; however, since the sound seems much stockier and bolder than sciences, I tend even less to appreciate these digifile playings, after all, with a quarter of an hour of music like this, it would be enjoyed better on a mini vinyl, but I foresee a rather unfriendly southern lord asking for thirty slaps for a single in a few months.
But oh well, it almost remains figuratively to me as a metaphorical continuation of antarcticans thawed, it sinks as it promises, sings with heavy legs and spreads the closure with certain botanical tunes; as far as I'm concerned I don’t want the first impression to have a second chance, here we gallop with pleasure, it was better than a milkshake at the dampkring after a clam of good johnny; those looking for the ssleepp can find them aplenty here, they can still use their name well and this is a notable summer hashteroid for all terminal riff addict.
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