(Vizzah Harri is both back home and back at NCS after a hiatus and has brought with him a group of reviews, with the following typically fascinating one focused on the 2025 album by I don’t do drugs, I am drugs from the UK.)

Delaying things can cause them to grow in size from a molehill into an impassable reach. That sheer face presenting its final summit you can’t even process for the valleys, outright tears and fissures in the earth leading up to it, woods less penetrable than a despot’s drive toward self-preservation, and stacked with ghoulish specters of the darkest deepest reaches of self-nebulized phantasmagoria of your brain that need more than a score of filthy twenties to roll to beat. Internalizing these beasties and challenges as this big thing you’ve got to surpass to attain a summit that does not exist in anyone else’s mind. And that is the scariest part.

Time is only the enemy if one so chooses to enter in melee against it. Harrowers of darkened benthic silts. Grubbing and raking, digging deep with numb appendages in them already murky waters of untruth, to meet that sweetest slice and gash, that prick and tear, that hack and rip, of the bloodletting surety of the acidulous blades and pincers of veritas. Fleeting elation as that sinking in and setting of sedimental disdain for the passage of sands still nascently swishing in the alluvial flow of streams and seas of air. Continue reading »