Joyful Yetis on the Open Sea

The sludgy, swampy delirium of Clutch is perfect for maritime marriage proposals

It was really very sweet.

I've since spent the last several days trying to create the ultimate Concert Marriage-Proposal Longevity Spectrum, which predicts how long the couple will last based on who's onstage when the question is popped. Getting down on one knee in the presence of Guided by Voices, Marilyn Manson, Kool Keith, Morrissey, the Cold War Kids, Lil Wayne, or the Volcom stage at the Warped Tour does not inspire confidence; a trusted colleague insists that the absolute worst concert you could possibly propose at would be the Electric Six. From this, you can glean that characteristics to avoid include inebriation, rampant irony, chest-beating melodrama, and (possibly feigned) mental illness. Taking the plunge at a Clutch show, though? Bodes well. Sardonic but sincere, guttural but brainy, astronomically heavy but lighthearted, they strike a perfect balance—sharp-edged enough to cut through the current but buoyant enough to stay afloat. Consumed with lust, but in it for the long haul. Whatever the case, it's good material for rock 'n' roll lyrics.

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