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Writer's pictureFaith No More Followers

Melody Maker | June 1992


Neil Perry 


"A LOT of people who bought our last record did so on the strength at 'Epic'," said Faith No More bassist and head manipulator Bill Gould recently. "A lot of little kids, ha ha ha! And i don't think they're going to like this new shit, ha ha!" They laugh a lot, do Faith No More. What at? Well, just look at  the inherent cynicism in the name; there isn't much you can do but laugh nowadays, and Faith No More aren't the crying types. It's easy to forget that they've have been doing this for the  best part of a decade, which is enough time to encounter a lot of anger and bitterness and suspicion, to work yourself into a real mind-set, and then to really get your shit together.  


Theory. Sick to the hind teeth of worldwide Blockbuster "The Real Thing", FNM go away to write some proper music, get a little ugly, fuck with each other's minds and make a record that they won't be embarrassed to play to their drug dealers. They want to call it "Crack Hitler" but, after some more fights, settle for 'Angel dust' (a drug, by the way, for people who really want a one-way ticket) because that's bound to still annoy someone. And the practice? All that and so much more.  


Billed tonight as 'Haircuts That Kill',  an excuse to kick out some Jams and wind themselves up before the real funny business with Guns N'Roses starts next month, FNM played  lots of old shit, some stunning molten-steel-coated-in-sugar-'n'-honey new stuff, and showed how they undoubtedly have their shit together. The new songs are bigger, better, nastier and shinier. They open with a righteous, impulsive rigid-middle-finger called "Caffeine", and it's at this point that the main transformation within the Faith camp shines out, that of singer Mike Patton. Joining such a band, and at such a formative stage of his life, has clearly twisted him all up , as if there's any it wouldn't  have. The snotty, confused lamb of two years ago is cooler, darker, stronger, with a fresh hard glint in his eyes that he uses to laser the front rows while the cerebral carpet bombing of "The Real Thing" throbs all around him. Mike Patton has grown into one hell of a front man, which in a band of frontmen is no mean feat. Midway, after the red lightning flashes of "Introduce Yourself" and "Surprise! You're Dead!", another new song called "Land Of Sunshine" rises from the ashes, and it is shockingly beautiful. Still  inimitably  weighty and groovy, of course, but with a deftness of delivery and power of soul that makes much of the back catalogue sound like kids' stuff. Which doesn't prepare you at all for the soon-to-be-infamous pairing of the gay anthem "I Swallow", about sucking cock-oh yes, really-and the seedy brilliance of "Crack Hitler", which comes over like a wannabe "Miami Vice" theme tune performed by a bunch of Death Row convicts. Faith No More are a telepathically tight live act-old chestnut "We Care A Lot" still sounds incredible after the 6,000th listen-and whatever games they play off stage are forgotten when drummer Mike Bordin starts hitting things like LAPD's finest, when freak bro guitarist Jim Martin starts laying down the law, when keyboard guru Roddy Bottum begins throwing psycho-shapes like a mad dictator. The joy of Faith No More is that they belong nowhere, to no movement, scene, label or geographical youth club. They owe nothing to no one. "We're playing Wembley in June," Bill informs the crowd. "Don't come". "Yeah," nods Patton in agreement, "stay at home and phone in some bomb threats". They encore with "Epic", laughing, and "From Out Of Nowhere", snarling, and then with a drawled "Now piss off" from Jim they're gone.  


Imagine it, five million MTV kiddies running around like little piggies, mainlining on aural PCP and whistling songs about sucking dick on their way to school. It's going to be a great summer. Faith No More are untouchable. 



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