“A good blackened thrash album is like coming home to your favorite armchair. You’ve had it for years, the material is soft and has long ago conformed to the exact contours of your buttocks, ensuring maximum comfort when you sit your ass down after a hard day’s work to watch whatever bullshit you can find on Netflix. Yet occasionally, an album will feel more like a chair you’ve owned too long. There’s potato chip crumbles stuck in the crevices. Stuffing is coming out of the edges. The recliner no longer works. It’s still a good reliable chair, but it doesn’t quite warm the heart as much as it once did.” Sofa worship.
