Cleanliness is overrated, and Fetid rejoice in that truth, actively dredging the gutters of all taste to loosely clump together their debut full-length after bubbling up from the underground for years. Bloated, foul and yet very alive, as a title, Steeping Corporeal Mess perfectly encapsulates its contents.
Fetid take death metal to a level of putridity that few others manage, the low end of the bass, drums, and vocals stirring into one, threatening to drown out all distinction at times, without ever going too far. The result is a continuous spasming of instrumentation rising from beneath a pool of excrement.
The band form an identity in their mode of play, which is built on a bizarre technicality that simultaneously feels infinitely barbaric. Every track is in a constant state of change, but never sacrifices that delicious brutality. Old-school death metal, with inklings of doom, is digested in Fetid's sonic slime, which emotes a potently disgusting aura that actually makes the listener feel dirty at times. Sporadic and strange drum fills burst like ripe pustules, and riffs seem played on strings coated with shit.
But much like a decomposing mass, Fetid's tracks tend to result in a level of uniformity, not only in style, but quality, too. And given every song's alien structure and relentless pace, this uniformity is not to Fetid's detriment.
(20 Buck Spin)Fetid take death metal to a level of putridity that few others manage, the low end of the bass, drums, and vocals stirring into one, threatening to drown out all distinction at times, without ever going too far. The result is a continuous spasming of instrumentation rising from beneath a pool of excrement.
The band form an identity in their mode of play, which is built on a bizarre technicality that simultaneously feels infinitely barbaric. Every track is in a constant state of change, but never sacrifices that delicious brutality. Old-school death metal, with inklings of doom, is digested in Fetid's sonic slime, which emotes a potently disgusting aura that actually makes the listener feel dirty at times. Sporadic and strange drum fills burst like ripe pustules, and riffs seem played on strings coated with shit.
But much like a decomposing mass, Fetid's tracks tend to result in a level of uniformity, not only in style, but quality, too. And given every song's alien structure and relentless pace, this uniformity is not to Fetid's detriment.
