There’s a very good reason that this post starts with a photo of Cannibal Corpse (L-R: guitarist Jack Owen, bassist Alex Webster, vocalist George “Corpsegrinder” Fisher, guitarist Pat O’Brien, drummer Paul Mazurkiewicz), and not the cover of the album under discussion, 2004’s The Wretched Spawn. Frankly, if I threw that image at you without warning, I think most of you would leave and never come back. Even describing it almost feels like a risk, but here goes. It depicts a demon and two zombie doctors in some kind of crypt/dungeon, standing back and observing as a woman gives birth to a monster while a second, slightly larger monster bursts out of her abdomen, Alien style, and a third crawls out of her screaming mouth. It’s genuinely horrific. (If you want to see it, click here.)

Their cover art is one of the ways in which Cannibal Corpse maintain their status in the metal world: gods to death metal fans, ignored by everyone else. Which is too bad, because on a purely musical level they’re often amazing, and The Wretched Spawn, which turns 20 this week (original release date: February 24, 2004), is a masterpiece.

The dominant narrative around Cannibal Corpse is that they underwent a creative renaissance starting with 2006’s Kill, when they began working with producer Erik Rutan. He’s been behind the boards for six of their last seven albums, with 2014’s A Skeletal Domain the sole exception, and as of 2023’s Chaos Horrific has actually joined the band. But The Wretched Spawn, which like its predecessor Gore Obsessed was produced by Neil Kernon, belies that assessment.

Some years ago, Hank Shteamer (to whose newsletter, Dark Forces Swing Blind Punches, you should subscribe right now) wrote a series of pieces on “death metal conservatism,” explaining how by sticking to what they did best, bands like Cannibal Corpse, Suffocation, and Obituary were quietly but persistently great. I eventually asked him to combine those pieces into one big essay, which appeared in the seventh and final issue of the Burning Ambulance print zine. Later, in another piece, he wrote:

Cannibal Corpse may have a relatively limited sonic domain. In other words, their progression doesn’t entail obvious face-lifts such as those you might see in the work of, say, Mastodon—the kind of facelifts, I’m slowly realizing, that may elicit a bunch of Oohs and Aaahs off the bat but that don’t really amount to all that much in the end. But on the micro level, since the early ’90s Cannibal Corpse has evolved as impressively as just about any rock band I can think of.

I agree wholeheartedly, and The Wretched Spawn is a major landmark in that evolution.

Cannibal Corpse keep things tight: The Wretched Spawn has 13 tracks and runs just under 45 minutes. Only three of those songs are more than four minutes long, and the opener, “Severed Head Stoning,” blasts by in just 1:45, which is basically a hardcore punk song, but they still make time for a breakdown and a squiggly guitar solo.

The second track, in both title and musical content, could be a manifesto. It’s called “Psychotic Precision,” and its structure is…well, precise. It shifts back and forth between a squealing, dissonant riff and a low, chugging riff, and Owen and O’Brien trade short but vivid solos that remind me of Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman’s work with Slayer.

But if all Cannibal Corpse did was charge forward, occasionally slowing down to let the pit bubble, they wouldn’t be one of the best death metal bands on Earth. What sets them apart is a subtle versatility. There are several tracks on The Wretched Spawn, like “Decency Defied,” the title track, “Rotted Body Landslide,” and “Nothing Left to Mutilate,” that demonstrate a mastery of, no kidding, groove. You’ll find yourself nodding your head instead of banging it, and periodically bassist Alex Webster will rumble up out of the mix and show you that yeah, he’s a fucking virtuoso. And respect is due to drummer Paul Mazurkiewicz as well; he’s a relatively no-frills player, focusing on machine-gun snare rather than complex fills, but he cuts through the storm of riffs and his sense of time is remarkable. I bet he could swing if he wanted to.

I haven’t said anything about vocalist George “Corpsegrinder” Fisher until now, but he’s perfect for them, sitting right in the middle of the sonic storm. He mostly sticks to a hoarse, guttural drill-sergeant bark, but every once in a while he’ll leap into an upper register for a fierce scream. He does it several times on the album’s closing track, “They Deserve to Die” (which also features a killer Webster bass break), and it’s pretty stunning.

Look, Cannibal Corpse are not for everyone. But they’re genuinely great at what they do. And there’s a song on The Wretched Spawn that showcases them at their best. It features the throat-shredding Fisher screams I just mentioned, and some of the most haunting riffs in their catalog, closer to Obituary or even Eyehategod than typical death metal. (There’s a shockingly tasteful guitar solo, as well as some genuinely beautiful layers of intertwining feedback.) Mazurkiewicz propels the band through multiple tempo changes. It’s the closest thing in their catalog to an epic. If I was going to play one Cannibal Corpse song for someone to try and win them over, it would be the literal centerpiece of The Wretched Spawn (track 7 of 13): “Festering in the Crypt.” That’s what I’ll leave you with.