52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #10

Fantômas – The Director’s Cut

(A&M, 2001)

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The Director’s Cut is an act of genius.  Like many iconic films that bring us a new perspective on familiar material with the release of director’s cuts, such as Blade Runner and Apocalypse Now, Fantômas take recognisable film themes and score and nefariously twist and abuse them.  The result is a mesmerising concoction of batshit crazy tunes that briefly touches down in every genre imaginable, all the while managing to harness the essence of the original music it is distorting.  Every song is injected with joy and enthusiasm for the source material that cannot be faked, and even though those sources are disparate the album holds together in part due to the utter excitement each track builds.  Fantômas is the brainchild of Mike Patton (Faith No More), Buzz Osborne (Melvins), Dave Lombardo (Slayer), and Trevor Dunn (Mr. Bungle), and is named after a French supervillain created in the early twentieth century, and perhaps most recognised from the film Fantômas (1964).  The band pursues this not-quite-esoteric tone with a track listing that tows the line of being interesting and important while never completely obscure.  If you love the films from which they draw inspiration this is a fun way to experience having your ears drummed off the side of your head by Dave Lombardo, but if you don’t there is still texture, melody, inventiveness, and a sinister energy that will bring you back again and again.

Mike Patton always feels like the maestro behind his various side projects (with the exclusion of Nevermen perhaps), and if you’ve had the chance to see Fantômas live you will have seen him conducting the group from behind his desk of a million noises.  Whether or not they are paying any attention to him is another matter, but it’s a joy to behold and to imagine as the album cracks through this classic film music.  Things get underway with one of the most famous pieces of film music, The Godfather theme, TRANSFORMED INTO UTTER BEDLAM.  All seems well and normal until the band tear into an insane thrash reimagining of the music, as if the band asked themselves what The Godfather would feel like if the entire story happened in thirty seconds, and from that point you expect anything.  The fact that Patton decides to retain his “who needs lyrics when you have barks and grunts” vocal approach from the band’s first album is barely surprising, but it is incredibly effective.  Lombardo’s drumming is off the charts, and when combined with Osborne’s wrist-wrecking riffing, creates a dizzying desire to destroy your neck.  For the duration of that song, NOTHING ELSE EXISTS. 

The fact that they slow the whole thing back down again is only testament to the craziness – as if they thought they might get away with it.  Their adaptation of Henry Mancini’s work on the 60s thriller Experiment in Terror sounds like Melvins playing a fictional David Lynch stage with its drone and lounge jazz components, while “Cape Fear” mimics King’s X but fronted by angels struggling in the spiralling fires of hell (an unbelievable interpretation of one of the greatest and most accessible film music composers, Bernard Herrmann).  Their intent is to inspire a fear in the listener akin to that felt by contemporary viewers of most of these films.  Stories with dark hearts, suspense, and often inexplicable evil met by modern music made of the same.  In “Rosemary’s Baby” Mike Patton’s high-pitched lullaby vocal and distorted xylophone perfectly capture the creeping fear of that film, but the vicious explosions of guitar and drum violence don’t allow the audience to deal with it rationally, keeping them perpetually perched on the edge of their seats.  Alfred Hitchcock would be proud.

“Spider Baby” lightens the mood with its Halloween party atmosphere, mental samples, and background horns.  If anything, it’s an easier and dancier track than the original and shows Patton’s more playful side.  “Vendetta” (not the Danny Dyer one) isn’t as light-hearted an interpretation, it carries the full weight of King Buzzo’s guitar for one, but its inclusion of twinkling keys, vocoder effects, and reality-bending theremin sounds provide effervescent relief from crushing heaviness.  And it’s the perpetual guessing game of when these moments of frenetic insanity will burst forth that give the album so much life.  The peak of this art of destructive homage is found in “The Omen (Ave Satani)” and a frankly bizarre and brilliant reimagining of the music from the Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant romantic comedy, Charade.  Buzzo’s guitar scratches at the beginning of this song only give slight warning of the unexpected barrage of belligerent rhythm section and weird staccato vocal barks.  Patton does his best to smooth this out with his insatiably rich voice, but the hardcore attack has the final word and, much like The Omen, brings out the darkness that exists beneath the surface of even seemingly innocent characters.  “The Omen” is an almost indescribable thrash/hardcore outburst with the original Latin prayer lyrics sung in hyperbolic, monk-like fashion with a hardcore edge.  Lombardo’s drumming is sensational, and the speed of the whole thing has you bewildered and seeking respite as the track segues into the dark slough of “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer”.  Fantômas, at this point, have me in the palm of their collective hand.         

And talking of being in the palm of someone’s hand, given David Lynch’s leaching, leaking, and blending of realities in Twin Peaks: The Return, it is a shame that Fantômas weren’t invited to play their great version of the music from Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me on the stage at The Roadhouse.  The mix of breakneck snare, Sci-Fi laser sound effects, overly earnest vocals, and portentous bass would have suited Lynch’s unsettling combination of pure evil, human kindness, and confused/confusing realities.  With all these realities colliding at once I may have avoided the fanboy embolism that this album induces on every listen.  Fantômas made one of my favourite ever albums.  

     

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #14

Tool – Ænima

(Zoo Entertainment, 1996)

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On the CD of Tool’s Ænima is the image of a person performing an act of incredible flexibility, perhaps in pursuit of spiritual enlightenment and physical stimulation of the chakras found in yoga… perhaps attempting to fellate himself.  This is the tone Tool struck on their second full length release.  Even the title - a combination of Carl Jung’s term ‘anima’ representing the feminine archetype in his theories of collective unconscious, and the word ‘enema’ which is the flushing of faeces from the bowels – is equal parts intellectual and scatological.  Throughout the album there are challenging ideas, lyrics, and song structures, but Tool are more than happy to throw them in your face as if it was an elaborate rouse, or a stairway to nothing.  Disdain dominates the tone.  If I imagine the band sitting together while I’m listening to it, Adam Jones, Justin Chancellor, and Danny Carey are looking away as if they don’t care whether I’m listening or not, while Maynard James Keenan is giving me the finger with his twisted-up, little rat face.  This combination of disaffection and anger is Tool’s reaction to the vapid and flaccid cultural surroundings of mid 1990s Western capitalism, but feels even more relevant in the age of the internet where readily digestible content has elevated the meme to our primary form of emotional self-expression.

Ostensibly an alt-metal album with prog leanings, Ænima’s songs are frequently interspersed with odd conjoining tracks of varying tone and content.  These range from the distorted record sounds of “Useful Idiot” to the infamous recipe for hash cookies found in “Die Eier von Satan” which is read in German with the stylings and crowd reaction of a Hitler speech.  It seems to be an attempt to disorient the listener, making them evermore vulnerable to attack or new ideas.  After softening them up Tool hit them with the Altered States-like closer “Third Eye” which, in true Tool fashion, references both a transcendental gateway in human consciousness, perhaps found through psychedelic drug use, and the human male urethra.  It’s a mammoth song with musings on psychedelic drug use “prying open” the third eye, childhood memories, enlightenment, and freedom.  Opening on a pounding heartbeat and Bill Hicks eulogising drug use in artistic creation, the song is birthed by way of searching drum lines, slowly building bass, criss-crossing guitar distortion, and more of Hicks’ challenging comedy.  Keenan’s vocal is gentle and instructive, but as the tension builds his voice and the guitars heavily distort, and the song feels as though it will burst.  This passage seems to represent the trauma of drug use, and the calm and melody that are found on the other side stand for the enlightenment that may be reached in discovering the true meaning of the “third eye”. But ultimately, the album leaves us with the vicious heavy screaming, crashing drums, and sheet metal guitars of the line “prying open my third eye”.  It suggests violence and damage in finding enlightenment, but also conveys that passivity will never discover anything new, that meekly accepting the commodified life of capitalism will never enrich your life.

Tool are more musically accessible than this would suggest.  The intensity and focused malintent of a track like “Hooker with a Penis” is indicative of Tool’s ability to write direct, aggressive, powerchord-driven rock music.  “Forty Six and Two” takes a different tack, drifting in on warbling bass sounds, deliberately picked guitar notes and what sounds like bongos, before Maynard’s delicate vocal carries us patiently to the instant hooks of the track’s huge chorus.  And in “Jimmy” and “Ænema” Tool carefully build and nurture a desire for melodic catharsis that they are unafraid to fulfil.  The peaks of “Jimmy” are awe-inspiringly, spine-tinglingly intense with the dense riffs and melodic wails creating an atmosphere that is simultaneously claustrophobic and epic.  “Ænema” is more upfront with its riffs and melodies but matches this with an aggressive chorus that builds with each reprisal and Maynard’s soliloquy on “this stupid shit”.  The band’s suggestion that we all “learn to swim” is made more convincing by the sheer weight of sound that swamps your brain in the furious build towards this album’s climax.  Maynard gives us the rest we need with his beautiful delivery of the line, “I’m praying for rain”, but it’s a momentary distraction as landslide guitars crash in to this beauty, driving it out of our minds with thoughts of Armageddon.  Tool will make you feel like the world is ending, but that worse things could happen.

If you need to convince a friend that they need this album, the opening three tacks of Ænima will do that work for you.  “Stinkfist” is an immense opening track.  I can still feel the surprise I felt on first hearing that pulsing bass, Maynard’s equal parts fragile and angry voice, and the lilting, scratching, searching sounds of Jones’ guitar.  That sense of awakening is sustained through “Eulogy” and “H.”, and it’s in these two songs that we become familiar with Tool’s progressive sensibilities and soaring choruses.  “Eulogy” wanders, but is always mere seconds from exploding with melodic force, taking advantage of the tight, almost sinister, chugging of the verse riffs to provide a sense of elevation.  As the song closes one of the album’s defining moments leaves a lasting impression: Maynard screams “goodbye”, holding that final vowel sound for 12 seconds.  It’s an awe-inspiring, breathless moment that never fails to grab my heart and pull me closer.  This connection is further cemented with the more abrasive passion of “H.” with its similarly powerful chorus of brilliantly gauged drumming and truncated syllables and instant vocal hooks.  And this is Tool’s true strength.  Concepts, themes, enlightenment, deconstruction of western capitalist emotional wastelands, and even the undeniable skill of each musician all fall by the wayside when you are grabbed by these passionate, uplifting, and hook-laden outbursts.  Tool fans talk about interpretations of lyrics, album art, interval tracks, and even Bill Hicks, but what we’re all really in love with is that almost every song on Ænima lifts you up, shakes your bones, and has you singing and screaming along until you slump exhausted on the floor.  Music for self and global annihilation.

52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #19

Mars Volta – Frances The Mute

(Universal, Gold Standard Laboratories, Strummer, 2005)

Buy the album here

Mars Volta exist outside my comfort zone.  Watching me trying to discuss this band must be horrible viewing.  I desperately want to know what I’m talking about, and I feel like I have so many things to say, but in the end I just stumble around saying “prog” and “jazz influences” a lot, hoping nobody notices the bead of sweat on my forehead or the nervous twitch in my eye.  A work colleague, after I had recommended them the band, once asked me, “what’s with all the long stretches of just weird noises?”.  My response began confidently, “Mars Volta are trying to…”, before the idea withered in the air between us, fell to the floor, and died an ignoble death.  I had nothing.  In all honesty, I don’t think I have much more now, but Frances The Mute is a joyous, mind-bending, challenging, fun, and insanely catchy record.  So I’ll try not to think too hard. 

The ease with which the music transports me from setting to setting without my awareness is the most powerful attraction.  One moment I’m in a Humphrey Bogart film set in a bar in Argentina, the next I’m in Outer Space watching the birth of a star, without a hint of turbulence on the journey between the two.  In among all the weird effects, extended ambient passages, and “wankery” are incredible musicians capable of the most delightful melodies, stirring guitar rock, and captivating string arrangements.  Omar Rodríguez-López is one of the most talented songwriters of his generation; Cedric Bixler-Zavala’s vocals are unique, bewildering, and seemingly limitless; and there are incredible guest contributions from David Campbell, Flea, and John Frusciante.  The latter’s solos on “L’Via L’Viaquez” are charged explosions of pure energy that galvanise the entire song and help to prepare the listener for Bixler-Zavala’s wild, soaring Spanish vocals.  The cultured trumpet work on “Miranda That Ghost Just Isn’t Holy Anymore” comes from Back To The Future II’s very own Flea, and is backed up by the excellent string arrangements and performances of David Campbell.  Some may argue that having to wade through seemingly endless minutes of “noise” at the start of that track is more trouble than it’s worth.

But I disagree.  For me, I’m still running the previous melody in my head while these ambient stretches transport me to the next.  Being given the time to enjoy the textures, to play with them, change them, reform them as my own is a rewarding listening experience.  The beauty of the sounds with which Mars Volta emerge from these various soundscapes, squeaks, and effects is gauged to perfection.  The delicacy of the trumpet that re-awakes us about four minutes in to “Miranda…” is sublime, and the ongoing peaks and troughs of “Cassandra Geminni”, originally intended to be a single track, are expertly managed.  The suite, comprising the final eight tracks of the original CD release, is the album’s most emotive and is built on the most up-front drumming on the record, frantic guitar solo and vocal sparring, epic riffs, bat-shit crazy bass playing, and all the weird synthesizer squeaks Omar Rodríguez-López can think of.  It might seem like songwriting by splatter gun to some, but all I know is that for the final 30 minutes or so of this record I am in complete thrall to all of Mars Volta’s sounds.  Even when it sounds like Ron Burgundy is playing jazz flute in the background.  If all of that seems like too much hard work, simply turn to “The Widow” with its high drama, passion, and melodic immediacy.  Mars Volta are more than capable of hitting you with vocal hook after vocal hook, or insidiously catchy riffs, or even strings so memorable they’ll be running through your mind for days, but they give these moments the space to transform in your mind to something far more meaningful.  

Mars Volta divide opinion.  There were those that preferred At The Drive-In and found Mars Volta to be an obstruction to their return.  There are those that point to their self-indulgence and pretentiousness, especially live, as reason enough to discard them.  At the same time, Mars Volta have captured the imagination of many fans who perhaps the miss the grand ambitions of older prog and psych bands.  In fact, Q, Mojo, and Classic Rock have all included this album on various “best of” lists, while other publications have derided its, and the musicians’, absurdity.  Perhaps it’s that absurdity that helped open my mind to the transformative potential of music outside my normal sphere of operation.  It was, at least, a new beginning for me.  There’s something here, it’s just not everyone sees it.  They’re probably thinking too hard.