“April is the cruellest month,” wrote T.S. Eliot in a poem that no one quoting it has ever finished reading. And while Eliot was quite metal in his exquisite, existential despair about WWI or whatever, he never understood true existential dread. I speak, of course, of the dread of being force-fed twenty-five promising albums, half of which are drenched in so much reverb that you feel like you’re swimming, only to realize that you didn’t even review the Record o’ the Month yourself
