I put up with a lot of nonsense, but this is too much.

“I’m not a word person,” she says, semiapologetically.

With great heavings and throes, with snortings and bellowings, with scratchings and tearings of its great claws and lashings of its terrible tail, it writhed and fought to be free, and the light of thousands of fireworks illuminated the gigantic struggle.

It’s impossible to find the center of a Hella song, which explodes in multidirectional streaks of percussion and squawky guitar like a Jackson Pollock painting.