Review Summary: Peering into a post-collapse.
Fit For An Autopsy have found themselves at a surprisingly pleasant crossroad that allows them to hold firmly the threads of breakdown-addled immensely CHUNKY deathcore that other bands would easily fray while still implementing slightly progressive sensibilities. This burgeoning was abso-***ing-lutely present by the time
The Great Collapse reared its (several) heads, (“Hydra” reference hm??? Aren’t I so god
damn witty?) however it took a bit of time for the band to decide to stretch these ominous atmospheric bits and structural Gojira-isms just a little farther. In no moment have they ever reeled back on devastating gutturals or riffs low enough in tuning to function as a proper whale mating call, and in fact it seems they’ve only managed to polish the quality of these factors more heavily even whilst implementing tasteful amounts of time signature changes and occasional pockets of ambiance. Moreso off of
The Nothing That Is than ever, the band mends seamlessly all of their progressive influences into the most biting deathcore dirge they’ve crafted yet.
“Hostage” is impressively urgent even by FFAA standards, locking us into an absolute mammoth of groove and heaviness that channels the energy of black holes enveloping entire galaxy clusters. Of those black holes being enveloped by larger black holes. A heaviness that equates to the weightiness of dread of needing a car battery replacement and the new landlord imposing a sudden 250 dollars yearly garbage fee
just after your rent, electric, and water bills have been paid off. Decidedly, this is less morose, but the pain of being bodied by a pile of bricks is, at least here, a feeling one yearns for. “Spoils of the Horde” is perhaps the most straightforward driver of this perhaps -slightly- meat-headed motif, with an open note gallop so bare-bones it should be rendered as “fun but forgettable”, but the bands ability to subtly incorporate bursts of chaotic shreds and one-liners that hook harder than a harpoon to the chest make this rather straightforward head-bludgeoning more layered than they otherwise would be.
With this kind of introduction to the record it would almost seem as if spaciousness and any once detectable sense of tranquility has been entirely reeled back, and on the whole this record for sure does dial down the melody present on the likes of
Oh What the Future Holds substantially. This, however, only serves to allow the textures and colors of these rare ethereal bits to pop out so much more vividly, such as the crimson haze that swells in the beginning of “Red Horizons”, giving way to some gnarly bends and primal caveman gutturals that are, even with Will Putney’s clean production style, nearly dismal and dingy. It also features, alongside the track “Lurch”, the most impressively pronounced vocal performance we’ve heard from Joe Badolato. His growls only seem to swell with ferocity in time, and the signature snap of his snarls grow more frothing as well. Joe is a man whose vocals in of themselves act as an element of groove in an almost percussive form, for as animalistic and beast-like as they are and this record sure as hell is a wicked example of it. The incorporation of clean singing, while sparse, does act as a nice break from the album's ridiculous sonic density (i.e, the final track “The Silver Sun” having an impressively light and airy introduction into an otherwise cataclysmic song). They are for sure somewhat -mechanical- but the power and emotion they impose in spite of this is the best we’ve seen from FFAA yet. In fact, this may very well be the mission statement this record presents. A great declaration of power, of rage, of inevitable collapse. It is the apex of the ruinous dreg that society has become and the unveiling of a curtain, to peer with sullen eyes the nothing that is.
