Really, that's all that should need to be said.
Joe Preston possesses a teeth-kicking resume that puts Chuck Norris to shame (you know who he's played with). Thrones is one of those groups that helps you to organize your friends (if you're one of the chosen few riding the google + comet, the first thing you should do is create a Thrones circle and non-Thrones circle ... and then never speak to the non-Thrones circle again). A one-man orchestra, Thrones moves away from the "days-of-yore-two-degrees-of-separation" indy-metal and strips it down to its most primal parts.
Thrones has released a slew of albums in its close to two decades of existence, but for my money, 2000's Sperm Whale is like staring into the mirror at 4am -- hide the tweezers and razors because Joe composes layers of sound that are thicker than any Rothko painting. You want to lie belly down in it and dig in your fingers, but you soon begin to lose your limbs. It's hard to swim so it's better to just let go and hope that the teeth that are mashing you save your brain for last. You need to feel it. A friend recently told me about centipedes in Maui that still bite weeks after she cut off their heads. This seems like an apt metaphor for Thrones -- an unstoppable, nightmarish beast that keeps calling you back for more. You brave the bite because the experience is therapeutically surreal. Adjectives are pointless here. This is the stuff that crafts your dreams.