The titans face off, massive neon knuckled hands hold magnetic discs like cosmic heart paddles. The discs are opposed and the giants push, and in the cosmic sandwich of ineffable polarizing force…Blunter S Whompson is throwing down. Oscillating out of the ground like a crystalized DMT monument to a bygone era of pure subwoofer goo, Blunter S Whompson is the kind of galactic event that evolved the monkeys into wooks. They point with their bones, Blunter laughs, and half time dub riddims barf out of the stomach of a dying star. The radiation is soothing. The vibration is a message. Blunter, Son of the Whomp. King of the 37th Hertz, Bearer of the Krest. He has arrived.