Steve Albini

I've been walking around my house with an Albini-engineered playlist playing off the phone in my pocket. The burnt earth hissing, and scraping, and roaring of those guitars floating in the air of this room like incense smoke in a holy ritual of mourning. Low, PJ, Godspeed, Nirvana, Helmet, Don Cab, McLusky, my god the Dirty Three, Failure. Thirty-some seconds of the Breeders' rhythm section playing a repeated phrase that I would settle on hearing continuously for the next two weeks.