Cryptopsy: Cryptopsy

Tech-metal maniacs offer a brutal mea culpa

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It takes 40 seconds for Cryptopsy to banish the aberration of their previous album, The Unspoken King. The Canadians’ brief, stylistic veer that was rejected almost as dramatically as Morbid Angel’s Illud Divinum Insanus is well and truly over.

Now they only want to tear the flesh from your face, rip it to shreds and stamp it into the ground for added spite. That said, they’re still happy to bowl the odd googly at you. Two-Pound Torch might ignite in the hugely technical barbarism that’s Cryptopsy’s trademark, but it’s quite happy to call upon the Gothenburg melodeath sound in between assaults, and Red-Skinned Scapegoat suddenly turns into pure lounge jazz before ripping back to brutality.

But at heart, the modus operandi is pure, horrific violence; Cryptopsy fucking hurts. There’s just enough pace variation to ensure you don’t become accustomed or comfortable, and the furious pace of Damned Draft Dodgers and Amputated Enigma, or the swirling maelstrom that is Cleansing The Hosts will have even Origin fans desperately clenching their buttocks.

Their 1996 album None So Vile may have set the benchmark, but Cryptopsy don’t appear to have found their brutal or technical limits yet.