Of all the members of metal gods Mastodon, Brent Hinds is the guy who looks most like a bloodthirsty Viking, which is saying something given the rest of the band’s appearances. He also seems like an agreeably silly and approachable goofball who just likes to play. (Let us not forget his recent appearance in a burrito commercial.) That not-taking-yourself-too-seriously side is what comes across here. Fiend Without a Face and West End Motel are two of the guitarist/vocalist’s outside projects, one newish and one long-running, packaged here together as a value-priced two-fer. But if you fell in love with Mastodon’s early, raw blood-and-thunder, or got on board with their more recent cosmic-scale prog-metal epics, know that you won’t be getting much of either here.
Though Fiend Without a Face opens with a spazzy blast of guitar and some unhinged shrieking on “Calypso,” it sounds more like early Meat Puppets–meet–QOTSA than your average horn-throwing extreme act. The rest of the album ventures into places even more surprising—sometimes laugh-out-loud funny and sometimes heart-on-sleeve sad—given Hinds’ rep as a glowering shredder. Anyone with a full-time band, especially one as musically demanding as Mastodon, who still has the energy to spearhead two other groups has to be a little musically restless and prone to compulsive songwriting. Hinds indulges here, stretching wildly across parched desert-rock boogie, down-and-out country, even (whisper it) sprightly indie-ish guitar pop. There’s a playfulness to both bands’ material, especially the occasional deranged vocalizing and overall jamming vibe, but things never (or mostly never) stray into sloppiness.
If anything, what unites the music here, at least the Fiend Without a Face material, is Hinds’ manic virtuoso guitar playing. But instead of Priest theatrics or Sabbath crunch, we get a guitar that veers between rockabilly at warp-speed, surf music stripped of kitsch, 1960s chase-scene scores, and amphetamine-grade country jangle. “Tsunami” even reminds me of the bright, jittery sound of the early Feelies. It’s not all grins and crazy rhythms, though. The latter-half, especially the off-brand Tom Waits barroom lament “Under My Skin,” hews closer to country’s crying-on-the-floor side, and “She’s on Fire” is just plain pretty alt-rock. This record is in no way a Crack the Skye–style statement; its off-the-cuff amiability will probably be off-putting to as many Mastodon heads as it is charming. It sounds like a lark, especially if you’re expecting metal’s cathartic roar, but even so, it’s an undeniably fun lark.
