There is no clichéd adjective that does not apply to Surgical Steel. If you told me that Carcass worked in subliminal messages that make you get to your feet and start air guitaring like an idiot, I’d believe it. It’s hard to concentrate when album just compels the listener to rock. But I can’t really do any of that when listening to Surgical Steel shit, dude, I can barely put together a coherent thought. Normally, I’d put the album in context, both relative to metal and to Carcass’ own oeuvre, and I’d wonder what it says about death metal that a reunion album from a band that had broken up almost twenty years prior trounced offerings by younger contenders at the polls, and I’d ponder some of the more curious turns of phrase, and blah blah blah blah. This is what makes examining Carcass’ Surgical Steel through a semi-academic lens so difficult. Y’know, like that scene in A Nightmare on Elm Street 3, except instead of leading you to the edge of a roof, it makes you headbang and air guitar and mosh. Then they made an album that, true to its name, slices open your flesh, pulls out your tendons, and controls you like a marionette. And Bill Steer kept being like, “We should really show these kids how it’s don’t,” and finally Jeff Walker grumbled “Ugh, fine.” Alas, the Carcass clones just kept on coming regardless.
Time went by and their sound kept evolving, but then they called it a day. There weren’t any styles of music Carcass wanted to play, so they had to invent their own.
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