After leading us on with thirteen minutes of magnificent drone,
Quadriplegiac’s opening track devolves into a stoned, floppy
masturbation session, as happy to adopt rock and metal’s biggest
clichés as it is to ignore their ground rules. This sets the tone
nicely for the two other epic-length tracks on the album, which both
shift carefully between abject, angst-ridden doom and massive power
riffs barely visible through the cloud of bong smoke around them. And
as if the ‘stoner-rock’ (what a stupid term) posturing wasn’t bad
enough, it also seems haphazardly thrown in, as if an afterthought. The
tough-guy blues riffs have been done to death, and frankly the album
doesn’t need them. It functions perfectly well as an exhibit of
glorious, unforgiving sludge, as entrancing as it is satanic.