It's rapidly approaching springtime here in Chicago, with baseball, barbecues, and other summer goodness finally near at hand. It's been a hell of a winter here, with lots of snow and even more cold, so I'm definitely stoked to be able to put on a pair of shorts, grab an ice cold beer, and commence my acquisition of some good ol' melanoma. Yet there's a part of me that's going to miss winter. Maybe it's just Stockholm Syndrome, but as the days warm and the fair maidens of Chicago find less and less reason to cover up, I just find myself yearning for frigid temperatures, longing for a sense of cold bleakness that seems endless. I'm sure I'm not alone; spring is great for being outside, but it's pretty shitty for contemplating the futility of life, which is necessary thought process for a Monday morning. Luckily for myself and everyone else looking for a bit of misanthropy to accompany their sunshine, Indianapolis' Coffinworm has returned with IV.I.VII, an album that will make the next Polar Vortex feel like a balmy 70 degrees.
