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Death Grips: Exmilitary

John Calvert, Quietus, The, 24 May 2011

"And every proton and neutron in every atom . . . swollen and throbbing, off-color, sick, with just no chance of throwing up to relieve the feeling. Every electron is sick, here, twirling off-balance and all erratic in these funhouse orbitals that are just thick and swirling with mottled yellow and purple poison gases, everything off balance and woozy" — David Foster Wallace, whose writing was as brain-twisting as Death Grips' raw but avant music — speaking on the depression that killed him, and whose description of a polluting micro-system hatched in the cerebra but raging in his guts finds a perfect analog in the aggro-gothic Exmilitary.

Total word count of piece: 1196

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