St. Vitus steamrolled over us, like some kind of unstoppable collection of slow-moving gears and belts chomping flesh and bone into mush in its gruesome machinery. The years have not diminished their skill or their energy.

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I mostly love this record. It makes me think about all the stuff good metal makes you think about: ancient ruins, sacrificial rites, barbarian hordes charging across the wasteland astride prehistoric beasts . . . this would sound perfect whilst driving through the desert in a primer-painted van with a druid airbrushed on the side, if it weren’t for that goddamned muppet.

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