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AUTOPSY
Morbidity Triumphant

Peaceville (2022)
Rating: 9/10

Armed with their goofiest cover art yet, American horror asylum escapees Autopsy delivers its latest record that, as expected, comes coated in a visceral slime which oozes through its pours, leaks from every orifice and eventually swallows its audience like a shifting rank blob of gore.

In a sense Autopsy can never do any wrong, they exist as the corpse that continues to return to the light in spite of being happy to return to its stinking grave every couple of years. Just like a teenage lunatic who couldn’t get enough of crusty video nasties, I once again devour this rabid record; nibbling on the dog-eared corners, licking the cover art, salivating over the ugly bass tones, slurping in time to the manic vocal blurts and frenziedly and spasmodically jerking along to each guttural guitar wrench.

Morbidity Triumphant quite simply lives up to its title, and from the off the creepy, crusty combo rattles through prime cuts of solid, rambling and hasty horror metal. From the steaming clogged quagmires of ‘The Voracious One’, with its Black Sabbath-esque rolls of sickness and doom, to the punky frenzy of the foaming ‘Tapestry Of Scars’, it’s all here – the flailing maniacal leads of parasitical nature that burrow into your brain, the trundling bass that chokes you into screams of strangled delight, and the damp, sodden thuds of the mournful percussion.

‘Final Frost’ reeks of Hellhammer in its archaic gloom, the vocals acting as mere cyst-covered desserts in their deep, chesty growls, while opener ‘Stab The Brain’ and ‘Flesh Strewn Temple’ harbour further horrors within their infected flaps, the latter again plunging into Sabbath territory riff-wise.

Autopsy either lumbers like a blind madman through his chamber of horrors or rattles like a fitting corpse hung out to dry. Sick, pus, gloop, blubber and excrement drip from this new outing in utterly despondent and doom-laden glee, the band members leering like deranged killers humming along to the soundtrack of swarming, buzzing flies which lace their twisted victim.

‘Skin By Skin’ writhes like a quivering intestine detached from the rest of the bowel but eager to snake away, while ‘Maggots In The Mirror’ is one of those brief outbursts the captured killer attempts just before he’s condemned to the pits of jail.

I guess it’s always easy to say that this is classic Autopsy, but it is because the band always knows how to deliver such rank and at times rudimentary noise. Sure, at times it’s dumb, just like all those splatter movies you used to revel in, but it’s a cacophony which also gives you immense, perverse joy, more so if you were there the first time these guys erupted like gore-filled volcanoes. If you’re new to Autopsy then dive into its bowels and become one with its guts and gore.

Neil Arnold

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