Riff mark: 2:55
No David Vincent, he’s tied down to his wife in Genitorturers (nyuk nyuk). Seriously though, the formative nucleus of Morbid Angel has always been the gravity-fluctuating juxtapositions of Trey and Pete; the circulations of all bassists/vocalists/rhythm guitarists are mere afterthoughts. New guy Steve Tucker just so happens to have the esophagus for the proper growl, he holds a bass rather nicely and hits the right strings, so no Vincent, no problem, but of course letter F had to be idiotically overlooked because YOU-KNOW-WHO’S not on it. Shame, because Trey and Pete are pouring every creative, inventive ounce of heaving earth into the heaviest and fastest album to date. Formulas Fatal to the Flesh blisters in its opening seconds, Pete assassinating his toms and snare with lightning attack, a veteran of the business whose endurance is a terrorizer. Trey, per usual, invents new squeals and embouchure for his six-string conjuring, a new, breathing creature from land or sea or stars in every riff. And the riffs kill, producing the melting Nothing is Not, my new favorite in the MA catalog. Only whimper: the album ends in a strange, Abbey Road-like medley of instrumentals, some beautiful (Hymn to a Gas Giant) some confusing (Trooper). Mere smoke trails post-expulsion; Formulas is the sound of something large opening while we slept peacefully in lit villages. Fortunately, letter G got the respect it rightfully commanded three years later.