Somewhere along the way, metal got entirely too concerned with behaving itself. Pick your lane. Learn the uniform. Growl here. Breakdown there. Make sure Spotify knows which goddamn playlist to dump you into. Cyborg Octopus apparently heard all of that and responded by dragging a keyboard, a saxophone, a pile of death-metal riffs, and what sounds like several decades of musical bad decisions into the studio. Bottom Feeder doesn't give a shit about lanes. It wants the whole highway. Maybe the ditch, too. This is progressive death metal with the progressive part restored to its proper meaning: these maniacs might actually go anywhere. And they frequently do.

The keyboards are where I knew I was fucked. Not because keyboards in metal are particularly revolutionary, but because Cyborg Octopus doesn't use them to sprinkle a little spooky atmosphere over the brutality. They're IN this motherfucker. They're weaving through riffs, arguing with guitars, changing the temperature of songs and occasionally making Bottom Feeder sound like an old-school prog band has been locked inside a death-metal record and is desperately trying to escape. “The Righteous Waves” starts making the case almost immediately, “Afterburner” keeps piling shit onto an already overloaded engine, and the wonderfully ridiculous “Cyborg Octopus” turns the entire operation into a carnival ride somebody forgot to have inspected. There are flashes where the keyboards kick up some Children of Bodom energy, but just when you think you've figured out where they're headed, the floor disappears again.

And then there's the fucking saxophone. Because apparently keyboards weren't enough. “Dreamkiller” lets that bastard loose in the middle of all the metallic violence, and instead of sounding like some gimmicky LOOK, WE PUT JAZZ IN METAL! stunt, it works. It belongs there. That's the genuinely impressive part. Patrick Corona isn't wandering into these songs with a sax because Cyborg Octopus needs another bullet point for the press release; he's treating the instrument like another weapon in the band's already overloaded arsenal. It screams, squirms and muscles its way through “Dreamkiller” while guitars are ripping, drums are beating the living shit out of everything, and the song keeps threatening to come apart at the seams. And then there's the wonderfully stupid music video, built around a poor bastard whose saxophone addiction lands him in court, because of course that's what Cyborg Octopus does with a song like this. This is death metal with a saxophone and absolutely no fucking apology for it. More importantly, it doesn't feel weird just for the sake of being weird. It feels like Cyborg Octopus.

None of which matters if the record can't fucking hit and Bottom Feeder hits. Hard. Underneath all the keyboards, saxophone freakouts, progressive detours, and musicianship flexing is a nasty death-metal animal that keeps chewing through the leash. “A Void Disguise” comes barreling out with double-bass punishment, while “Defective Immediately” gets ugly with blast beats, breakdowns, and enough low-end violence to knock shit off the shelves. Ian Forsythe's vocals move from subterranean growls to harsher screams and cleans without making the record feel stitched together from three different bands. More importantly, these guys understand something technically gifted bands occasionally forget while they're busy counting time signatures: a riff still needs to make you move. Cyborg Octopus can show you how fucking talented they are while simultaneously making you want to slam your skull through the drywall. That's balance.

By the time “The Trench” starts pulling everything downward with those keyboards and that mournful saxophone, Bottom Feeder has become less an album than a guided tour through somebody's beautifully malfunctioning brain. Death metal. Prog. Groove. Clean vocals. Blast beats. Keyboards. Saxophone. Breakdowns. Melodies. Probably a kitchen sink somewhere in the mix if you listen closely enough. It shouldn't hold together this well. That's the kick. Cyborg Octopus isn't throwing weird shit into these songs simply to prove they can. There's an actual personality underneath the technical insanity, and that's what separates Bottom Feeder from the endless parade of technically immaculate records I respect for forty minutes and then never think about again. This bastard sticks. It's heavy. It's ridiculous. It's adventurous. It's occasionally fucking bonkers. And every time you think you've finally figured out what Cyborg Octopus is doing, somebody reaches for the saxophone again.

Fuck yes. While their third album might be a couple of years old, it can still be found wherever the deadliest of death metal drops can be found!