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Writer, Father. Entrepreneur. Bum. Atheist. Recluse. Garhwali. Foodie. Downloader. Drifter. In no particular order.



The speakers spew the deliciously gloomy sound of impending doom. The fat slug bass of Butler laced with Lommi’s epileptic riffs and the nasal automaton drone of Ozzy. That’s how heavy-music should be, I think to myself. A deliberate, colossal force of demolition, not the attention seeking antics of an ADHD pre-teen.

13, the recent release by Black Sabbath, is the kind of album that, encountered at the right stage in life, can bring you to the dark side permanently. Absolute hyper-distilled U-235 of doom, the album is ideal to listen to on loop in a cave as one slowly and deliberately skins an elk and contemplates tribal warfare. Comprised entirely of a dense dark matter, this one sounds like the heavily greased gearworks of a monster truck and is designed to corrode the last vestiges of sunshine off your disposition. 

Truly masterful

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