Autopsy Macabre Eternal

Autopsy Macabre Eternal

(Peaceville)

By: Chris Davison

For our younger readership, it might come as a shock, but death metal wasn't always synonymous with producing ultra-blasting drum beats, being more technical than the schematics of Gus's supercomputer from Superman III, or being obsessed with producing authentic recreations of ancient Mesopotamian myth and legend. Not every death metal musician used to have schooling in some swanky music school, have their own branded line of musical equipment, or po-faced grim adherence to the “art” of death metal. No, once upon a time, the death metal movement had more in common with cheap splatter gore B-movie VHS productions than high-brow psychological horror Blu-ray releases, and was all the better for it. Unashamedly sloppy, noisy and thoroughly unpleasant.

Enter past masters of wet, sloppy and decidedly fecund aural entertainment, Autopsy. Probably the most successful band in terms of portraying utterly repugnant sounds on record, this American troupe were always the best in producing a not so much organic atmosphere in their songs, as being massively biological. That they should have finally produced a full album – their first since the delightful Shit Fun in 1995, is worthy of celebration. Of course, the big worry with any big name that has been away for a while is that they will no longer be capable of cutting the mustard. I am happy to report that Macabre Eternal sees Autopsy at the top of their game.

See, death metal has really been corralled into a few camps, with many clones in each. You have the ultra technical brigade, the more brutal than brutal boys, the Swedish sound sons (complete with requisite black and white promo picture featuring at least one Nihilist T on display) and the saccharine melody mob. Nobody does what Autopsy does – that is to say producing the most deranged, unhinged and chaotic noise in metal. While Reifert does his thing on the drums – an almost Bill Ward-ian assault of smashing the drums as hard as inhumanly possible, he also provides that vocal delivery. The true sound of a maniac released thrashing and flailing into the world, adding a delightful frisson of madness to his lyrical sickness.

Elsewhere, the Celtic Frost on cheap spirits doom elements of Autopsy are brought to the fore, with brilliant atonal guitar soloing adding the sophistication into the mix. When the tempo slows – as in the adroitly titled “Seeded of the Doom,” the gap in between the thunderous bass and twisted guitar riffs is reverberant with madness and sickness. The atmosphere conjured is one of depravity and violence without any kind of motivation – in short, just the kind of nastiness for its own sake that death metal used to be famous for. Add to all this the clear as a bell production that somehow manages to cling onto the trademark grubbiness and sleaziness of the Autopsy tone, and you've somehow managed to get a comeback album that not only lives up to their back catalog, but also their best since the seminal Severed Survival.

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