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  • Writer's pictureFaith No More Followers

NME | February 17th 1990




FAITH NO More's entrance turns into the kind of tangled, mangled disaster that Birdland probably lie awake at night plotting to obscured by a posse of security guards pulling crushed punters from the mosh pit and inadvertently allowing less endangered glory the opportunity to clan their moment of stage-romping The band continue pumping invisibly through the chaos until - with staggering irony - the set grinds to a halt after 'Falling To

Pieces'. It seems that the 'safety" barrier has collapsed, so while roadies and biz-types sandwich flight cases twixt stage and audience, the latter vent their frustration by directing a rousing chant of "You fat bastards!" towards the intrusive burly

beerheads. Anarchy eh?

"I just wanna see a riot!!!" screeches a fine. upstanding pillock of society. Mercifully, despite one's mild sense of satisfaction at witnessing such an exposure of The Astoria's abhorrent facilities, his wishes remain unfulfilled. Back on bounce the Faith boys, rifling through "The Real Thing' and striving to live up to Guns N' Roses' assessment that Faith No More are top of the rock stakes, whatever that means.

For sure, FNM take a trip through Eclectic City, searching to master a bucking blend of generic characteristics. Rock and rap have always been perfectly-suited bed partners, going on cock counts and ego wank stains alone, and the San Franciscans grind together the disparate sounds with belligerent ease.

"Epic' is the pick of a bluster-like bunch, a collision of anaris, falling guitar from Jim Martin (looking uncannily similar to Roy Wood on hunger strike) and punishing aggression, 'Surprise!

You're Dead! toys with the grim corpse of grindcore, all speed and no room for weeds. "Woodpecker From Mars' is a bizarre ragbag of Instrumental ideas, the grandiose keyboard patterns suggesting that Yes and Metallica can work together, against all wads.

So they've got a handful of brilliant titles. A barn load of whacked-out inspiration. A truckload of ruck-along tunes. Yet for all their spectacular attacks, Faith No More frequently fail to satisfy. Frontman Michael Patton may strut and swagger, but he raps like Falco and his larynx often fails to match his movements.

Ultimately, confused by their fusions, one has to appreciate their ricocheting adrenalin levels and blinding colours, but sod the hybrids. This is hyped-up, hypermarket rock'n' roll, a salivating, ambitious beast encaged by small relevancies like predominantly white metal audiences and a victory for volume over barrier-breaking ingenuity.

They kick hard, but all too often kick themselves in the shin. The future of rock? Faith No More will - deservedly - be giants. Pomp up the jam.

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