For some time now, Chris Barnes, alongside Jack Owen (since 2017) have been dragging the lifeless corpse that is their legacy into recording studios and onto stages around the world, milking it for all it’s worth. Release after release of stagnant, uninspiring drivel, and now the mountain has been conquered. This is no longer embarrassing and funny, this is just sad.
So much has been said about the quality of Barnes’ vocals now that it’s almost too easy, too obvious to critique, but he insists on croaking and wheezing at listeners. Listeners unfortunate enough to have been subjected to 2016’s Graveyard Classics IV, and in particular the sound of Barnes fighting with every breath to keep in tune with their cover of Maiden’s classic ‘The Evil That Men Do’, have that sound permanently seared into their brains. Much of this has the same feel to it. Lines don’t just sound like a struggle to deliver; they sound like they shouldn’t have made it onto the record at all. Weak, collapsing, and completely devoid of anything resembling authority.
This isn’t the worst example of his vocals by any stretch, but it is confirmation of a talent long lost to time and ill management that will never be able to return to its glory days. Some small mercy here is that the band do mostly try to give a pace which Barnes can keep up with, a decision that has been made by the man himself to instil more groove into their sound does make much of it more forgiving than some of their other material of the last decade, but when they really try and kick it up a gear, when any scream or growl extends beyond the initial moment, it’s like a machine being forced to run long after it’s stopped working, grinding, choking, and barely holding itself together as it limps from one moment to the next.
If this sounds like a Barnes bashing, then be under no illusion, he is not the only problem here. Equally to blame and perhaps more so are the rest of the band and the absolute masterclass in mediocrity they put forward. Apart from a couple of solos and perhaps the opening riff from ‘Skin Coffins’, there is nothing here remotely memorable. Variations on a theme and recycling of riffs is the name of the game here.
‘Unmistakable Smell of Death’ is just a Cannibal Corpse song (because of course it is), but worse, the title track is an Obituary song. But worse again, there is nothing of themselves, no sense of Six Feet Under’s identity to speak of; it’s completely soulless. What’s more is that they don’t have the decency to be heavy; it is clear they’ve attempted to steer clear of the modern death metal sterile production to give something a bit dirtier, but they’ve taken all the weight out of everything. Where guitars could slash you open with razor sharp riffing you instead get something dull, limp, directionless, and gone from your memory the second it passes. Where the rhythm section could crush you like the hammer wielding final boss in a video game you get a tired, lifeless thud that sounds like it’s just going through the motions out of obligation rather than any real intent. There’s no impact, no weight, no reason for any of it to exist. Some of these tracks would be greatly improved just by ramping everything up a bit, but it feels like the fire has just burnt out.
And then…the worst crime, the lead single, where lazy, heartless songwriting converges with piss poor performances, the lead single…’Mister Blood and Guts’. The title alone tells you everything you need to know: a teenage rage fantasy, posturing as something dangerous. It’s a lyrical mess. If you asked AI to write Chris Barnes lyrics, stripped away even the slightest hint of creativity, this is what you’d be left with. It’s a hollow imitation of something that was already wearing thin years ago. It’s the kind of track that feels assembled rather than written, like a checklist of clichés thrown together with no thought beyond filling time. There’s no bite, no menace, no sense that any of this is coming from a place of genuine anger or darkness, just empty words strung together in the hope that the name alone carries some weight, a pastiche of what once was.
All of this points to a wider problem with death metal as a genre. This will sell, there will be people who say this is a good record, Six Feet Under will pack out venues around the world on tour, because of who they are. So long as fans keep on accepting this, giving bands a pass because of their legacy whilst ignoring the underground trying something new, this is what they will get.
There’s a point where nostalgia stops being a strength and starts becoming a crutch, and this crossed that line a long time ago. There is no shortage of bands out there pushing death metal into new and exciting territory, bands that still understand the importance of weight, aggression and identity. Yet releases like this continue to dominate attention purely through name recognition. Legacy should mean something, but it shouldn’t be a shield against criticism, nor should it be an excuse for phoning it in. At this stage, it doesn’t feel like Six Feet Under are adding anything to their legacy, a legacy that belongs to one member with another band for the most part, only dragging it further into the ground and stamping on whatever was left of it for good measure. With any luck Next To Die will turn out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.