Tomahawk
Tomahawk
[Ipecac; 2001]
Rating: 7.0
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?
-Luke Buckman, November 15th, 2001