worsening raze when e. coli brought will wiesenfeld to his knees, he poured his pain into an album named for the volcanic glass made by lava's rapid loss of heat. listen to the wailing wordless vocal harmonies after the drop on the opening track and tell me that isn't the sound of someone ripping their soul out of their body and sticking a microphone in front of its mouth to learn what kind of music its mourning makes. the cover art is a song all its own. there's a second face tucked into the folds of the robe, and an unlit cigarette hanging limp from the lips of a man shrouded in night as bright as any blinding light. 230818 what's it to you? who go blather from