My friend Danielle insists that Mike Patton is a "greasy-ass son-of-a-bitch." I've never really given much thought to his sleaziness, but my impression of Patton has always been of this convulsive, hyperactive kid who never stands still, always screaming and jumping around. This has been especially true in his recent musical output, as Patton has schemed with an ever-increasing number of co-conspirators, including Merzbow, John Zorn, Kid606, Dan the Automator, Melt-Banana, Bob Ostertag, and Sepultura-- not to mention his record label, Ipecac, or his spastic vocal work with Faith No More, Mr. Bungle and Fantômas. So, Mike Patton's post-Faith No More days have been quite demanding. And now, as if he didn't have enough on his plate, he's put together the semi-supergroup Tomahawk.
Tomahawk finds Patton joining forces with three lesser-known guys from three well-known bands-- Jesus Lizard guitarist Duane Denison, Melvins bassist Kevin Rutmanis, and Helmet drummer John Stanier-- for a project that attempts to continue his recent genre-defying leanings. Mr. Bungle is often typified by the band's ability to leap musical borders in a single bound, seamlessly blending genres like heavy metal, polka and surf guitar. Tomahawk, while much less prone to these rapid, schizophrenic musical shifts, is still dipping its fingers into a number of different territories, with a tremendous bent towards Patton's style of heavy metal and a twisted, barely recognizable brand of country. I suppose the fact that Tomahawk convened in Nashville to record the album may have something to do with their oblique take on country music.
It doesn't much matter who Patton's playing with here because, like almost any project in which he's involved, the showcase in Tomahawk is on Patton's vocals and lyrics. At times, he'll whisper in a low-key croon; other times, he'll turn into the monster under your bed, howling out these outlandish visions at the top of his lungs. Lyrically, he's still penning the same ghoulish, b-horror-movie tales about murderous hitchhikers, gruesome deaths, and coming-of-age sexual deviance, but the carnival dementia emblematic of much of the Bungle work is laid aside here in favor of a warped rural landscape. A country noir, perhaps?
No matter what Patton is singing, I just can't shake the feeling that all these scenes are taking place in the dead of night-- on deserted highways or in abandoned mobile homes out in the middle of the woods-- with sinister-looking shadows creeping all around. And this is one of the things that makes Mike Patton one of the greatest male vocalists around today. He's got a voice with the uncanny ability to drop you right into the song, whether it's defying gravity on one of his nightmare carnival rides, or sitting across the seat from a demented hitchhiker, gun to your temple.
There's a handful of incredible tracks here, like "Flashback," in which Patton weaves a yarn about dysfunctional childhood memories recalled through hypnosis: "Did they make you wear a dress/ Did they?/ Did they laugh and make you watch/ Did they?" or "Bend over and we'll hush the squealing/ Put on the mask and dance for Daddy." Of course, this is pretty disturbing territory for most lyricists, but it's everyday stomping ground for the guy who wrote "Love Is a Fist." Elsewhere, we've got the ode to car-jacking, "101 North," that finds Patton growling in a deep, gruff voice, and "POP 1," in which he repeatedly screams the refrain, "This beat could win me a Grammy," over a spattering of Stanier's drum fills. A rage-filled scream festival, "Sir Yes Sir" is spastic hardcore that finds Tomahawk blaring full-speed a la John Zorn's Naked City over layered screaming of the title phrase.
The band's perverse style of country music is especially noticeable on tracks like "Cul de Sac" and "Laredo." The former is a brief lo-fi number-- mainly acoustic guitar and Patton's voice buried under hissing, scratchy production. The result is an exquisite track that stands out from everything else here. With lines like, "Sunbathing on the shores of a nightmare/ I wish you were here," this is as close as Patton gets to a straight-up love song.
Unfortunately, Patton's trademark voice and nefarious lyrics are the best things Tomahawk has going. With the exception of Denison's guitar work and some fine electronics manipulation, the rest of the band is just backup for Patton's madman ravings and crazed vocalizing. The problem is that, given his recent musical output, it's easy to raise the bar for anything with Patton's name associated with it. You might make the mistake of venturing into Tomahawk expecting some new genre-hopping adventure similar to Mr. Bungle's California. But, for maybe the first time, what Patton and his new cronies have released here is really just more of the same.
Part Jesus Lizard, part Helmet and Melvins, part California-era Bungle, and part Angel Dust-era Faith No More, Tomahawk is about as straightforward as Mike Patton has played it in recent memory. Not a rehash by any means, but definitely breaking no new ground. Maybe that crazed hyperactive kid got tired on the musical playground and decided to take a rest. In Patton's case, I guess that means some more evil, bone-crushing rock 'n' roll, which ain't such a bad thing now, is it?
