We are subterranean now, deep into the discography of death metal's most accomplished troopers. The fact that I've made it to Cannibal Corpse's eleventh studio creation is impressive, but not for immodest, self-congratulatory reasons. Speaking of which, how about a hand for trudging this far? Please, please...sit down. I'm blushing. No, it's impressive because 2009's Evisceration Plague is the first speedbump that I've encountered. That means what you think it means. I've never been a fan of this record, although a certain writing project (the one you're reading) forced me to glance at the music from a different angle.
Following ardent arbitration, I have come to the conclusion that Plague isn't so bad. It will never find its way into heavy rotation at my pad, though. Supervening Kill and The Wretched Spawn was no easy task. I vividly recollect receiving my copy in the mail and rushing to stive it into my ears. In the album's defense, my expectations were fucking stupid. Anything less than Corpsegrinder oozing out of the speakers and ripping off my limbs would have disappointed me. At the outset, I was happy. This putrefactive banshee starts with "Priests of Sodom," which is easily the best cut. To me. Don't make me go through the whole opinion spiel.
Paul underpins the riffs with stuttering rhythms during the verses, and it has to be the heaviest piece of music that ensures you can't comfortably headbang to it. Naturally, George sounds demonic. Everyone performs well, but before you know it, the track is over. There are further radiant flashes of brilliance ahead. I'll cover them, but if you're listening to Plague front-to-back, you have to deal with "Scalding Hail." It's like a mini-boss. Thankfully, it's short (less than two minutes), but why doesn't it kick ass? I don't hear any standout riffs. The vocal delivery is remarkably fast, but none of the patterns are memorable. The patterns, man. The patterns!
Up until this long player, each record has brought its own vibe to the table. It's hard to describe, but Plague has no such vibe. I'm reminded of the episode of Seinfeld where Newman and Kramer posit that specific days have "feels." Y'know, Thursday has a feel, but Tuesday? No feel. Fuck Tuesday. Using the same metrics of minutiae, Plague has no feel. The problem lies, in part, in the production. Erik Rutan manned the boards a second consecutive time, though I hesitate to point the finger at any one person. The guitar tone, the skins, the way the instruments are interbred...Plague sounds exactly like Kill.
It's such a bizarre sentence, but I must type it. This Cannibal Corpse album is mundane. Eek, was that even English? There are capsheaves hidden in dispersion through the grain. "To Decompose" slams itself into your nasal cavity. The breakdown in the middle is tubular. Yeah, I'm bringing "tubular" back. "A Cauldron of Hate" is the only other tune that passes my litmus test. It rules, basically. I suppose that "Skewered From Ear to Eye" has a sweet chorus. But see, I'm already grasping at straws, trying in vain to find highlights where none exist. It hurts to give a CC oeuvre an unflattering review. I'll just close by reiterating that "Priests of Sodom" is gnarlier than thou.
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