Swansong, the final LP of Carcass' initial run, wasn't much of one. That 1995 album-- on which the pioneering Liverpool band broke definitively with their grindcore roots, opting for a groovier, more hard-rock-oriented sound-- had its moments, but in retrospect, it plays like a period curiosity rather than a worthy cap to one of extreme metal's most impressive evolutions. The band members seem to agree. As guitarist Bill Steer told Decibel recently, "To me, it's really evident when you listen to Swansong that it's a band on the decline."
Carcass haven't explicitly framed Surgical Steel, their new comeback LP, as a gesture of atonement, but all signs suggest that they're engaging in some savvy revisionist history. Instead of picking up where Swansong left off, this record rewinds the tape further. Surgical Steel reconciles choice elements from the band's early classics-- records like 1989's Symphonies of Sickness and 1991's Necroticism: Descanting the Insalubrious, which married grindcore's primitive blurt to gross-out lyrical tongue-twisters and a refreshingly progressive compositional sense-- with their mid-period masterpiece, Heartwork, perhaps the greatest example to date of an extreme-metal band nodding to the polish and swagger of above-ground rock while retaining their core ferocity.
Surgical Steel is a nostalgic statement, seemingly designed to trigger a Pavlovian response in fans. Not only does the album mark the return of the machine-gun tempos that were absent from Swansong and the animalistic back-up growls, jettisoned on Heartwork, of Steer and original drummer Ken Owen (who suffered a brain hemorrhage in 1999 and doesn't appear behind the kit here); it also features a pulse-quickening instrumental intro, "1985," on which Steer expands a fragment from a vintage rehearsal tape into a triumphant multitracked overture. Surgical Steel's immaculate production values are familiar too; the band worked here with Colin Richardson, who helmed every Carcass record from Symphonies through Swansong. Even the album art is a blatant riff on an old image: the cover of the band's 1992 EP, Tools of the Trade. So it's a testament to the strength of the material-- a set of fast, fun and, thanks to vocalist-bassist Jeff Walker, witheringly witty songs-- that Surgical Steel is as enjoyable as it is. The record might be calculated, but it doesn't feel forced; like A Different Kind of Truth, Van Halen's 2012 reunion with David Lee Roth, it's a document of middle-aged lifers trading ponderous maturity for the visceral thrills they relished in their prime.
The strongest songs here sum up how Carcass bridge two proud British traditions: filthy grindcore and flashy rock'n'roll. "Cadaver Pouch Conveyor System" finds Walker unleashing his patented sneering rasp over a blastbeat-accented thrash gallop. His longtime foil, Steer-- also an early member of Napalm Death, and an avowed blues-rock junkie who founded his own bellbottom-friendly retro act, Firebird, in 1999-- seasons the track with a Thin Lizzy–worthy melodic lead, lending Walker's gory polemic ("Total arousal/ A frigid wanton wargasm engaged/ Bloodlustmord") an air of throwback pomp. The William Blake-referencing "The Granulating Dark Satanic Mills", Surgical Steel's catchiest track, employs an Iron Maiden-esque midtempo feel that harks back unmistakably to Heartwork. The more relaxed pace allows the band to flaunt the unlikely skill they honed in their heyday: seamlessly integrating extreme-metal moves into the context of old-fashioned anthemic songcraft. Despite Walker's typically arcane lyrical turn-- a grim evocation of the Industrial Revolution-- it's not hard to imagine a rabid crowd fist-pumping along.
Surgical Steel features tons of outstanding playing from Steer, as well as some of the tightest drumming in the band's discography, courtesy of new recruit Daniel Wilding. But the star of the record is undoubtedly Jeff Walker. The frontman returns to some of his pet themes here-- the horrors of the meat industry, the senselessness of war-- but he sounds improbably inspired. Though he established himself in the early 90s as one of the wittiest lyricists in metal, a connoisseur of perverse puns and obscure terms mined from a medical dictionary, Walker has lacked a proper literary outlet since Carcass imploded. (Other than a short-lived continuation of the Swansong lineup-- sans Steer-- under the name Blackstar, Walker's most high-profile project during Carcass' lengthy break was a 2006 record of offbeat country covers, Welcome to Carcass Cuntry, credited to Jeff Walker und die Fluffers.) On Surgical Steel, he's overflowing with ideas, as though he'd been saving up an album's worth of zingers in case his main band ever returned to active duty.
The record's linguistic barrage features playful tributes to John Lennon and the Stones-- "A working class hero is something to bleed," "Exiled on maim street"-- a venemous namecheck of humane-slaughterhouse advocate Temple Grandin and, on the masterfully sardonic dis track "Noncompliance to ASTM F 899-12 Standard", the coining of a new term ("dearth metal") to call out tediously derivative extreme-metal practitioners. While Walker seems most at home with barbed, often darkly comedic social critique, his tone turns introspective on "316L Grade Surgical Steel", a disturbing portrait of a blackened heart. "Always love the ones you hurt/ Passion killer with no time to mourn/ Cold comfort that your heart is torn/ I wish you hell-- sealed with a kiss," Walker spits, reminding the listener that his fixation on bodily incision extends to emotional wounds as well.
Most of the record lives up to the high standard set by Walker's pen. Whereas Swansong yielded only one live staple ("Keep on Rotting in the Free World"), it's clear that the band designed Surgical Steel with the stage in mind; despite these songs' off-the-charts shred quotient and countless baroque flourishes, many of them are as immediate and unshakeable as great punk. Tracks like "The Master Butcher's Apron" and "Unfit for Human Consumption" epitomize the fiendish hookiness that established Carcass as one of the most trusted brands in extreme metal. Occasionally-- as on the almost comically nimble speed-picked bridge of "Captive Bolt Pistol"-- the band can sound like they're straining, as though they were overly concerned with convincing fans that the old maximal Carcass is back. And though 8-minute album closer "Mount of Execution" is a potent effort in its own right, the song's acoustic-guitar intro and proggy multichapter structure feel out of place on this otherwise admirably compact LP.
As a whole, though, Surgical Steel succeeds brilliantly in its return-to-form mission. The record plays like a big, bloody kiss planted on the cheek of longtime fans; at the same time, it's clearly a selfish statement, the overdue fulfillment of Walker and Steer's desire to rewrite their pet project's final chapter. The end of Carcass' first phase was a disappointing peter-out, but this vigorous do-over effectively reframes Swansong as an archival footnote. So long, dearth metal; hello, Surgical Steel.
