Are you happy? Are you content and mentally well-adjusted? Do you like your job and spend your weekends buying nice home furnishings? Or do you barely manage to lift your head off that hard, feculent pillow each morning and struggle to remove the veil of shit that forever obscures your vision?
The latter? Err, seek professional help. The former? Then you more than anyone need to have your life ruined by the unrelenting negativity and abject despair of this Denver trio. The glacially slow, impenetrably dense and uncomfortably raw terror of the droning, feedback scoured sludge of Scorn, is battering in its sheer relentlessness.
From the clawing, near-12-minute decent into mono-riff hell that is the title track, to the skin crawling, paranoid narcotic ambience of the experimental Black Smoke, Scorn might just be the best worst thing that has ever happened to you.