Album Review: Cryptopsy - An Insatiable Violence
Reviewed by Eric Clifford
*Apologies in advance. You're in for a long read*
To the right sits the fanboy. Unrepentant zealot for the cause, ironclad in faith by his own estimation, blind to reason to the eye of another. ‘Tis a path he has walked as long as memory serves him. The truth of the matter was that “None so Vile” had never set him to it; as with pain, it had lain in wait, inevitable as sunrise - alike to it by more measures than the one, for so too had “None so Vile” illuminated. How best to phrase it...it was felt to be a culmination. A locus at which all that is supreme about death metal was honed, refined, perfected such that at terminus what stood was a paragon. A masterpiece unparalleled, peerless, all else eclipsed and huddled ‘neath the long shadow of it’s magnificence. The obsession, kindled from ember aglow to miles-tall stabbing spires of a vast inferno, has cleaved to him, as cleaved the bone to his marrow, his flesh to the bone, and the skin within which the whole bundle resides. Further benedictions, the coarse flaying of “Blasphemy Made Flesh” and the atavistic ravages of “Whisper Supremacy”, adjacent siblings to None so Vile, anointed the acolyte with holy fervour only further, the filth, the worms brought out in all of us. “And Then You'll Beg”, less threat than promise, fell upon entranced ears as he had lain prostrate in devotion. Yet more rewards for the ever-faithful; Once Was Not, and a Masterful self-titled effort. Of late, Gomorrah burns, halos of charring insects spiralling up to light the heavens with fires of consuming rapture.
To the left the critic. Cold. Calculated. Discerning, to hear him tell it. Cynical? Aye, perhaps. The canker must linger somewhere and once spied defines the work entire. Naught clean. Naught good. Naught pure. The man held fast with a zeal of his own to one axiom above all else: “Nothing is perfect”. He had noted the inauguration of Matt McGachy into the ranks, he of metalcore heritage, he of Three Mile Scream, he whose first works with Cryptopsy saw gods stumble. The Unspoken King had been it’s name, and would that it had remained unspoken. Ever after was the bloodline tainted beyond repair, whatever the future held the offense would loom unbidden over it. Former suzerains of their demesne devolved, now pretenders to their own throne, the right of the claim forever abraded by sins past. And who was to blame him? The metal community, ever fickle, had loved it not, and glowers sullen and vexed at it over hunched shoulder, sat as it is alongside Illud Divinum Insanus and St. Anger.
“thine adoration has thee blind
‘tis plain for all to see”
“Now that” retorts the acolyte
“Seems heresy to me”
Betwixt two manifestations sit I; from aloft the blessing descends – “An Insatiable Violence” they call it, dire auguries of agonies yet to be suffered. And lo! From the cursed dirt stirs the true believer, all cold hate, warm blood. Across, the cynic at last treads bare earth from the foot of his ivory tower. Here each meets his Antithesis once more, when last Gomorrah Burned here they stood, eye to eye across a divide as much of personal enmity as philosophy. One would embrace unquestioning with blinkered devotion, the other repel with reflexive, instinctive disfavour. I sit. I watch. And I listen.
The Nimis Adoration.
“You love this not, brother. You love a legacy years gone, and hold all that has come since in higher regard for it” began the critic. “Hear this now; it’s rage performative, a facsimile of former glories yet pared of the soul within it. You cannot draw joy from such workmanlike imitation”. There it was, the first blow struck. Was it so? The critic raised a delicate hand, as though to ward clear searing emanations from the zealot. “I’ll grant you, the passing shadow of fury hovers at the borders; surely though this is not so remarkable as to impress you?”. Astir behind the flare of choler within, the fanboy measured his return fire.
“How little you must know me to think so. No perfunctory construct could boast so irascible a temperament. Hark upon it – the interlocking parts, each elaborate, yet incensed. Sumptuous tremolo clambers agile into legato lead work framed by percussion that, with an auteur’s grace, supports every phrase of the solo. The contorting bow of the riff at 2:38, and the shift in its drumwork foundation to transition from a contumelious spree of Blastbeats into a sickening groove at 2:50. The murderous frenzy of the introduction. How am I to construe your disbelief in the face of such evident merit?”. At this, the critic scoffed, unimpressed.
“Melodicism is no indication of innovation. “Phobophile” boasts obvious melodious affectations, “Adeste Infidelis” also, among a hundred others. What do Cryptopsy here present you with that steps beyond mere iteration?”
“Their sound has long been singular; no other can truly be said to have mastered the fundamentals of it. Besides which – you lie brother, by intent or ignorance it matters not. The work of Donaldson, while taking obvious influence from Levasseur, is distinct in itself. Indeed, his penchant for rapid, shifting powerchords bears strong resemblance, so too the queasy bursts of hammer-on and pull offs morphing around the fretboard. That said, Donaldson, to my ear, is attuned to the realms of melodic death metal in a way Levasseur was not, while in contrast less overtly inclined to jazz.”
“Tawdry excuse upon tawdry excuse; your apologia knows neither limit nor shame. I remain unconvinced. Yet hold; fresh hells are upon us…”
Until There’s Nothing Left
“Pah” spat the critic “Nothing left of their credibility perhaps”. An insult of such grievous nature nigh tantamount to a physical challenge set the fanboy to reeling; his head whirled, visions of intense violence and leprechauns dancing before him. Mastery of his fury was a feat partway in excess of his faculties, and he resorted to kneading the dry earth below him in the striving to supress it. “We can go no further. It must be addressed. He must be addressed. I defy you, brother” continued the Critic. “Is there mortal man among us who could ever speak to the defence of this hooting Canadian twatwaffle they have for a vocalist? Insipid, semi-sentient, banal, metalcore infused...”
“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT I SHALL SEE HIS HONOUR DEFENDED!! For too long have I tolerated the witless denigrations of your ilk – “oh, he ruined Cryptopsy”, “oh, they’ve never been the same since he joined”, “oh, he’s not Lord fucking Worm”. Ye gods, does anything please you people? Aphrodite herself could fellate you, and you would but complain about there being too many teeth. The man’s performance permits no censure – the depth of his growl at 2.41, the pitch of his scream at 3.22, his enunciation at brisker pace at 0:18...and so you cling to the same mindless rejoinder to which I have been so long subjected. “He’s a metalcore vocalist” – as though this were inherently ruinous! Even then, which version of Killswitch Engage, Trivium, or Bullet for my Valentine have you ever heard that smacked even mildly of his efforts here? None! I know the truth of it; Matt was vocalist on “The Unspoken King”. You do not like “The Unspoken King”, and can no longer assess anything the band does by it’s own standard as opposed to recalling an album for which your heart holds no tenderness, and decry all that has followed it as though each release held within it that same original sin that festered within The Unspoken King itself! But hear me now, brother” – and here the words became a sibilant hiss – “It’s not. Even. That. Bad.”
Silence. Endless. Portentious. Fractured at last by the mordant cackle of a man who found joy only in the dissection of it.
“Well now. And I was told that I was the heretic”.
Dead Eyes Replete
The praise came unwavering, ceaseless tides of aplomb in steadfast, immutable oratory, impassioned and irrefutable. Acclaim piled, it’s summit invisible from the lowly foothills upon which the critic stood. For his part he held his peace, thinking, probing for feebler slivers of the armour, Cracks through which harsh light might slice. To a surety, none lay within the latter half of the song, the domain of that harrowing slam breakdown at 3.01, of such incalculable ferocity as to humble even the strongest of his breed, his knees weak, his spine failing, the lithe switch of his tongue reduced to wet, incomprehensible jabbering in the face of it’s unstoppable imperative for his submission. This had seemed easier last time; “As Gomorrah Burns” had, explained the fanboy, been good; very good, a worthy bearer of the torch. Yet it’s production had granted otherwise mighty material no favours. Pristine, clean, polished, it could not capture the wild abandon those tracks had deserved. “An Insatiable Violence” had as if in repudiation of it’s sibling’s weaknesses taken remedy.
Poisoned shards stood proud dripping black filth, an animalistic threat posture of a production that cannoned riffs and screams and blasts into the huddled masses like mortar fire. Yet the front half of the song held consummate powers also, percussion of absolute skill a launch site for apocalyptic munitions scouring strongholds into smoking rubble. Still the critic pondered, and there...less in sections scrutinised individually than the song in its totality, there it was, the tantalising gap he sought after:
“but brother” he said “what of the solo?”.
At last, faltering in the worship, the deathly catechism fractured for a second. A brief pause before renewal less in defiance of the words of the critic than in the evasion of them, as though to defeat a point by refusal to engage with it.
“Lichmistress has no solo either and that song is never considered a failing of the album it stalks within”.
“Come now” replies the critic, leering spiteful grin splitting his features from one auricular organ to the other. “You know what this song lacks”.
An awkward pause, felt as though time immemorial were caged within its boundaries, the Sardonic smile a barbed bridge across the expanse, it’s edges sunk into that bleeding core of the fanboy, to be dislodged with no more efficacy than the word of even the mightiest of us would hold if the stars were commanded to veil themselves and drop from their hangings in the dark vault above.
“The song is superb as is” came the fanboy’s stiff response on the matter. “we move on”.
Fools Last Acclaim
“I must know” said the Critic “What offence the drumkit gave that Flo is inclined to thrash it so”
“Hmf. A fine point of agreement, were I not so assured that some moribund micron of dissatisfaction lurked behind it. Go forth then; say your piece”.
“Do you not tire of the blastbeat?”
“Never. For so long as I draw breath, never. Gods above man, it is death metal – what sort of critique is that?”
“The critique is this: back then, now, or a hundred years hence, I know what a Cryptopsy song is to sound like. One swarm of technically astute but monotonous blastbeats after another, skank beats interspersed, the odd fill dithered here and there to fool the unwise into the ill founded belief that what they hear is variation. You worship the fruits of a dry technician – fleet but mechanical. I would no more praise him than I would the blank automaton his efforts resemble”
“You speak of such nebulous things. How am I to quantify that elusive quality of “soul”? Mounier’s contributions sprawl over projects innumerable beyond Cryptopsy – surely, this would not be had his passion for metal fled him. There is no configuration of elements that you would not hold to unkind account. Had his work been more conservative you would have rendered accusations of laziness, had it been more esoteric in it’s rhythms perhaps a charge of a dilettante’s adoption of jazz motifs – superficial and thus uninteresting. The man is ultimately regarded as a master of his craft with ample justification. Observe the manner in which his work forms the skeleton upon which clings the masterful transition unto the riff at 0.46; a clear homage to a similarly superlative riff on “Voice of Unreason” bearing a likeminded root-and-octave note structure”.
“Ah yes, the riffs. Mere tribute, little more. You yourself have identified points at which plagiarism is a mere case of how severely you are willing to squint”.
“Say I was to grant this. I do not, and have elucidated a rationale prior, but just suppose I did. Is the imitation not faultless nonetheless? Do you question it, sir, that the riff at 2.56 is monumental?”
“Doppelganger mimicry. Naught else. And there is still no solo”.
“...man, fuck you”.
The Art of Emptiness
At once, leonine, the zealot had leaped, froth pouring from his lips, eyes striped by crimson arachnid limbs, a maddened grimace carved and masked to his face. He gripped the critic by the arms, pinning them to his ribs, so hard that had he the wherewithal to commit such minutiae to memory, he would have known himself to feel the blood flow in heavy undulations through the Critic’s arms.
“I SHALL NOT HAVE IT, VERMIN! I SHALL BROOK YOUR INSOLENCE NO LONGER! THE SONG IS PERFECT! DO YOU HEAR ME, SCUM? PERFECT! IT’S MELODIES, HAUNTING AS PHANTOMS ABOUT THE CHAPEL, FLAME TO THE SURFACE! RIFFS WRITHE LIKE WHITE WORMS, AND OH, IF THEY DO NOT BUT LOATHE YOU WITH SO PURE A SPITE! EVEN DOWN THERE, AT THE DEPTHS YOU’VE FALLEN I KNOW IT REACHES YOU! THAT RIFF AT 1.37 COULD SUNDER THE VAULTS OF HADES ITSELF! AND BEHOLD! HERE IT IS, HERE IS YOUR FUCKING SOLO! ART THOU HAPPY NOW?!? HA! I KNOW YOU ARE NOT! YOUR BITTER MIEN OBSCURES YOU TO THE CARESS OF ANY MODICUM OF HAPPINESS, BUT I! I, WITH FUNCTIONING FUCKING EARS PERCEIVE IT EVEN IF YOU, YOU HOPELESS FUCKING FOOL, DO NOT! THE GRINDCORE IT BECOMES AT THE COMING OF 2.29! THE BASS, CHRIST, THE SHEER POWER OF IT! THE TWIN MELODIES IN HARMONY AT CLOSURE THAT COULD SHRED FEATHERS FROM CIRCLING SERAPHIM THEMSELVES! I HEAR IT, AND I KNOW, DEEP DOWN, THAT SO DO YOU! SAY IT! SAY THE SONG IS PERFECT OR BY WHAT GODS BEAR WITNESS YOU SHALL KEEP THE CADAVER DOGS BUSY!!!” at this, the fanboy’s eyes rolled back and he fainted in a slavering heap. It was some time before cold water, CPR, and the car battery wired to his nipples proved equal to the task of rousing him. The Critic, spared time for quiet reflection, kept mostly to himself within sprinting distance of the fire escape, softly mumbling “I mean, it’s alright” under his breath.
Our Great Deception
“Mea culpa brother, I appear to have been taken by a faint. Did we discuss “The Art of Emptiness” yet?”
“...we shall move on from it”. The Critic’s nerves, long since frayed, teetered at the brink of a perilous descent. Could it be? His Subconscious posed, crawling up from below, that the album is in fact exemplary? The Critic shook his head; surely not. His brother, ever spirited, was clearly in thrall to an Insatiable Violence all his own. But wherein lay the weakness? The Achilles heel, a swipe at which would lay all counterpoints low. The fanboy’s faculties had yet to rejuvenate in full; fresh vectors for attack must be formulated within this calm before the storm, but how? ‘twas not now a simple assertion that certain aspects could be done better that was sought. Victory hinged upon the discovery of a fatal misstep on the band’s part, some misconduct or error that smothered their ambitions in the crib. Lyrically, Matt’s work held less of the baleful poetry practiced by lord Worm, his vocabulary and the wielding thereof less artful. But could it be said that they were bad? Detrimental to the music to the grievous degree required? The Critic thought not. Other angles had been either attempted or pre-empted. If it could be said in contempt that some of the chord progressions present brought the Black Dahlia Murder to mind, the point could be defeated simply by mention of the fact that The Black Dahlia Murder kick ass. If the svelte threat of the darksome jazz introduction were to be identified as moment of vaguely pathetic pretensions towards diversifying the soundscape, well, the point began to flounder once it was opined that Cryptopsy were hardly neophytes at the practice – the flowing jazz lick to open “Soar and Envision Sore Vision”, the flamenco break in “Voice of Unreason”, or even the black metal strains of “The Pestilence that Walketh in Darkness”. Could it be said that, in contrast to the complexities of earlier tracks, this song erred on the simplistic side? Not to a convincing degree. The song was dense with harmonies, and besides – a relative simplicity did not prevent “Blasphemy Made Flesh” from attaining esteemed status within the fandom. Personal insult seemed appealing. Certainly, the fanboy came laden with a vast reservoir from which to fish out shameful faults and disgraces. A Damned Draft Dodger, if rumour be declared truth. But ever has it been that the ad hominem contain a concession of a sort, that in failing to defeat the argument, one must instead defeat the man. The Critic could construct the retorts to all the above nigh verbatim ahead of time. No. Best for the Critic to bide his own time for the minute. Recuperate powers of his own, as it were. Besides. Something would crop up. Nothing is perfect, after all.
Embrace the Nihility
By now a measure of potency lay nestled in the bosom of the fanboy. He found himself of a mind to resume the fight, and put to the Critic the thesis that much of what we enjoy in music comes as a product of contrasts. The breath snatching crush of a groove after unyielding surges of blasting, or to the reverse, acceleration after a time at a hobbling crawl. To whit, was there not a logic to taking this moment to unleash a track of sinuous halves? For “Embrace...” aligns in substantial part along the lines of an alacritous swing, low octave harmonies and grumbling palm-mute slam riffs. The other half of this revanchist coupling sought violent conquest at great speed, leaving only mauled corpses in its red wake. Or so the argument went. The Critic disagreed intuitively, yet found himself frustrated in attempts to elucidate his distaste.
“More of the same”, said he, to which retorted the fanboy like so:
“I accused you earlier of nebulous speech; I reiterate the complaint now. How am I to contend with this? What do you demand of the band? What level of variety would be sufficient to blunt the allegation of repetition, and would you not then substitute a pedantic argument that they had abdicated any coherent identity? Guide me brother, if you will. Deconstruct the work before you. Which components fail to impress? Is not that burgeoning passage at 0.29 in which they transition into a truly heavy sequence of subterranean sliding power chord thuggishness at 0.31 not expert in it’s execution? Does the riff and the rhythmic excellence below it at 3.06 not have the hairs on every inch of your form standing at attention like a flood of electrified meerkats? Just behold the syncopated tom hits that gird it for god’s sake, do they not add such delectable spice to the groove? What specifically draws your ire here?”
“If you cannot perceive it's generic nature then I cannot help you”.
“How can I perceive it when you abandoned advancing specifics long ago!”.
A shroud of tension blankets the two. They glare, the duration spanning mere heartbeats though felt to be a lifetime, the one tired of having to justify their passion, the other unwilling to concede a step while aware they stood with the back foot on quivering ground.
“Nothing is perfect” spat the critic. “I see these patterns repeat over and over, across every genre, within any decade you could mention. Bands whose prime years lie decades gone degenerating into tribute acts bearing the flensed visages of the groups they once were. Not one of these men were members of the band in it’s infancy. Even Flo joined only under the Necrosis years – the result is a cast that writes not as Cryptopsy, but of Cryptopsy. A pretender penning hymns in the style without being the substance itself. You say I judge against perfection, that naught short of it be meritorious. Not so. I judge against the standard the band has themselves set. If they would bear the burden of the Cryptopsy mantle, if they would assume it’s aspect, mimic it’s likeness, adopt it’s gait and strut before the world pretending to be the genuine article like some deranged peacock with a few distortion pedals then they must, as a categorical absolute, be judged against the best the true Cryptopsy were capable of. That this means their various spewings are trialled against the best the style has ever been done is an impossible task that their own hubris has set upon them. I would worship the true God. You would be content with his pale shade”.
Silence now. Even the wind called closure to it’s sussuration against rain-flecked panes. A moment of understanding at last. Here, in the end, was the core of it. A glimmer in the pitch black, the void between them. Something precious that maybe...maybe, could be spoken to. Come to terms with. Understood. It lingered for what may have been minutes, may have been years. Softly, the fanboy split it as a scalpel through silk. Gentle. Conciliatory.
“I understand it now. Your skepticism. For the first time, I see your beliefs for what they are. I am a sinner, owed no mercy beyond what the grace of God sees fit to bestow. Astaghfirullah. But I say this now with a pure heart; this is a Cryptopsy album, and a marvellous one at that, if you would but open your mind to it. I can understand your philosophy of judgement. But even you, with your eagle’s eye, have struggled to find many mistakes of any calibre. Is it really so far beyond forgiveness?”
The critic sighed, the arc of his shoulders tumbling in and down ‘til he looked shy of half his height. Somewhere in the bone-clutched dusk of his skull aches wormed along the inside of his temples to squeeze his eyes from behind. Thoughts came slow and moved slower, aeons to trudge from one to another and connect the dots between.
“There is one more yet, Brother”.
“There is. I hope this shall not be the last time we do this”.
Malicious Needs
“I note it to be another with no solo”. The first move, the advanced pawn.
“Does it need one? The sickly bends at 1.22, Matt attaining the final, most guttural step in his metamorphosis, the blast below that monstrous so-simple-yet-so-meanspirited sequence of open string chugging at 1.58, the unrepentant belligerence unleashed as Flo morphs a hellish riff from a scorched earth hate campaign of speed and aggression to a predatory sway over the course of 2.31 to 2.44, the dread majesty of the closing moments from 3.40 on...this is not music, it is a conjuration, the fuliginous funerary march of morbid celestial entities striding into oblivion. You fixate on the absence of guitar solos on three tracks; I refuse to humour the assertion that this song is not enough as is even without one”. The riposte; a promise of checkmate within moments of initial manoeuvres.
“You speak of it as though no finer example of art exists within death metal. We both know this not to be”.
“I speak of it as a man who no longer cares to deny it’s brilliance for the sake of a man who would speak ill of any and every work in the genre that fell an inch short of the greatest example of it that there ever was”.
“...o.k, but what about the cover art?”
“Fucking stupendous. RIP Martin, the world is poorer for your absence”.
With that, the manifestations fade back into me, one the man who would be happy with anything, the other the man happy with nothing. If you’ve stuck with me to the bitter end, I sincerely thank you. This band means a colossal amount to me, and if the word count ran away with me, it only represents my enthusiasm for this album. It does so, so much right, and is as ready a reaffirmation of why I fell so deeply in love with Cryptopsy in the first place as I could’ve asked for. My biases are obvious - I needed to review this in the same sense that I need to breathe. But even my most uncharitable listens wound up concluding that An Insatiable Violence is a superb record, an emphatic statement from an icon of the genre that they remain elite within the death metal space. It was some time between the release of their self titled album in 2012 and As Gomorrah Burns in 2023 (two very well received Eps in between notwithstanding). I feared I’d have a similar wait for a new album, if one was ever to surface at all. I’ve seldom been so glad to be wrong. I hope the brief turnaround this time speaks of a band as passionate to deliver their music as I am to devour it. If it’s not too much to ask, I urge you to join me, and allow Cryptopsy to Slit Your Guts once again.
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