"There’s a lot of stupid things that happen in the world that you can’t control,” Faith No More bassist Billy Gould told Pitchfork. "It’s funny, but it’s not funny. It’s there. But it’s great to have enough of a connection with that mentality where you can interact with it and poke your finger in it a little." That joker’s soul, that urge to poke, can be traced through all of Faith No More's biggest moments, from their stunning hit "Epic" to their genre-defying, commercially unsuccessful (and critically acclaimed) 1992 opus Angel Dust. From the early 1980s through 1997, Faith No More were the reputable carneys, sporting an array of influences and oddities: everything from Madame Butterfly and Nirvana, to Nietzsche and Miles Davis, and even a not-yet-dead fish. And then they went away.
For the past 18 years, fans have waited patiently for Faith No More to wrap up a disappearing act that was the inevitable result of exhaustion, creative differences, and branching paths. Since that time, frontman Mike Patton started his Ipecac label and pursued numerous solo projects, from the poppy Peeping Tom to the experimental supergroup Fantômas to the style-swapping Tomahawk. Keyboardist Roddy Bottum, the group's musical brain, started the bubblegum band Imperial Teen, scored films, and penned an opera about Bigfoot; meanwhile, bassist Billy Gould started Koolarrow Records, and drummer Mike Bordin manned the kit for Ozzy Osbourne. In 2009, the group stirred from its slumber and began performing again. And now, at long last, we’ve arrived at the confrontational Sol Invictus, the follow-up to 1997’s Album of the Year.
Distance and time do not make the heart grow fonder, and two decades haven't softened Patton’s coal-black heart. He’s pissed off and proud of it, picking fights with just about anyone and anything. "Superhero" sees him spewing taunts at beloved authority figures, each syllable hitting with the percussive force of a slug to the jaw. "Leader of man, get back in your cage," he sneers from atop Bottum’s majestic piano strata, a fool cracking his whip at a lowered God. The humiliations continue with "Cone of Shame", which imagines a wrongful lover in a state of depersonalization and animality, while "Black Friday" mocks anyone who’s set foot in a Target at 4 a.m. This commentary is far from subtle, but the ridiculousness is part of the experience, and you can’t help but smile at the return of one of rock’s great contrarians.
The success of Faith No More’s theatrical approach depends on their ability to organize motifs, riffs, shouts, and whimpers into cathartic musical structures. Most of the album’s songs follow a similar dramatic pattern, with the band bookending their frantic (and typically brief) climaxes with unsettlingly calm passages and plodding tempos. The unassumingly simple melodies in "Sunny Side Up" and "Rise of the Fall" are set-ups for the carefully-orchestrated rage that lay in wait, and when it hits right the contrast makes for a fascinating listen, especially on the venomous "Cone of Shame". But over the course of the album, especially during later songs like "Black Friday", "Motherfucker", and "Matador", the recycled dynamics begin to lose their force.
Set aside the negligible opening and closing tracks, and Sol Invictus has just eight tracks spanning 34 minutes, an underwhelming running time considering how long Faith No More have been away. Such brevity could be overlooked if Sol Invictus was accompanied by a significant shift in the band’s sound, but many of these songs feel like retreads. "Superhero" and "Separation Anxiety", while enjoyable, bear the signatures of "Epic" and "Midlife Crisis", with their loping piano lines and bloodthirsty rap incantations. Meanwhile, "Black Friday" and "Sunny Side Up" conjure up déjà vu of Patton’s side projects; "Motherfucker" could be a pumped up version of Tomahawk’s "I.O.U".
There’s nothing necessarily wrong with a band repeating itself. But because Faith No More have such a long history, and their members are responsible for music in a staggering array of styles, it's hard not to expect more, to wish that they might in some way top themselves, or at least change direction. Towards the end of "Cone of Shame", Patton admits, "I’m only happy when I’m pissing you off." Considering Faith No More’s history of confounding and confronting the listening public and the systems of order which influence it, such a statement could serve as the band’s motto. In that sense, maybe holding something back was the plan all along, and a future Faith No More record (one is said to be on the way) will have something more.
