FAITH NO MORE

„the real thing“

(Slash / London, 1989)

It has to be admitted, of course, that naming “The best records” is a highly subjective task. Nothing more than an elaborate list of favourite records, of must-haves, of those albums I’d recommend to everybody for at least listening to, at least once. In no way do I want to establish an academic corpus of essential records (though if I would, these would be my choices – it’s a paradox world, isn’t it). And I won’t check up on you as well.

Now, how do you go about naming a record as a “best” record – among all the records in the world, from all the artists in the world and all the music ever pressed onto a playable device? Nobody knows all the music in the world, nobody has the abilities to compare all the records in the world to one another, and even if, how do you compare Bob Dylan to Iron Maiden to Rites of Spring? There is a trick, of course. Since the whole endeavour is a highly subjective one, make it even more subjective and let your body tell you. Shut out the mind. I mean – if you are listening to an old album and you know every song by heart, you know every lyric and you really like each single song on it, the indications are good, that you are fronting one of your favourite records. Then go name it a “best record”. Now repeat.

“The real thing” has all that to me. I know it by heart, I can sing along with every word and the whole album makes me dance throughout because it still rocks so hard. Okay, I can’t really “sing” along with Mike Patton. What I do is that singalong-kind-of-thing. Moreover, I don’t dance. Not really. What I do is that dance-around-in-your-livingroom-thing that could also be just popping your head and unconsciously joining in with the chorus. You get the picture. You have done it yourself. Another very subjective point is personal history. This is one of the records that mark a transition period in my life, the change from the years in which I always taped the Top 40 from the radio to those years in which I always tried to search out the weirdest, strangest and heaviest music that hopeful nobody else knew. (I gave up when I hit upon Merzbow, but that is another story…) Okay, you say, what does he mean – everybody knows Faith No More? Well, back in the late eighties, it wasn’t that easy. This was before “nevermind”. One of my favourite records of that time was the then new “The Uplift Mofo Party Plan” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which I only stumbled upon by chance and I knew only one other person then, who’d also heard of the Red Hot Chili Peppers back then. Of course, songs like “From out of nowhere” or “Epic” or “Falling to pieces” were played in many rock-clubs or underground-discos or even those lifestyle-fashion-stores that popped up everywhere and which all seemed to carry the same selection of Dr. Martens, cowboy-boots, leather pants and band-t-shirts. Anyway, times were different then, especially for a 16-year-old boy living in a well-kept household on the outskirts of town. I am well aware that nowadays every 14-year-old has his collection of CDs by Marilyn Manson, Cradle of Filth or Nirvana. But back then, me, I didn’t even have a proper stereo.

Long intro, well. Everyone just has to admit, that “the real thing” is a damn good record and that it also opened a floodgate of cross-over-bands, none of whom really get close to the bombastic genius of this formation. Okay, so Limp Bizkit reduce all the ingredients to the most mass-attractive basics and point heavily with the young audience. But they lack the humour, the emotion and the range of expressive styles that FNM had. Whereas bands like Limp Bizkit, Linkin’ Park, Papa Roach or whatever the new megaseller might be at the moment, always seem to get all the puzzle-pieces just right (rapping, heavy riff, scratching, melodic refrain) the overall picture is bland and much too polished. Nice to drink beer to and better than AOR-radio for sure, but no revelation. This is a poor generation that has to find its emotional highs with such bland major-label-products – teenage angst boybands. FNM were no boyband. They were five grown up men with definite characters and already well grown (and satisfied) sexual appetites. Yes, sex. Especially Mike Patton made himself known as a sexual deviant with writing a column in the NMW about coprophilia (that is, eating shit) and stating how he prefers S&M or masturbation over any kind of hetero-sex. Or take lyrics like these: “so hug me and kiss me / then wipe my butt and piss me” (from “Zombie Eaters”). Those wouldn’t go over so well with formatted-radio-managers these days, would they? But as soon as some 25-year-old sings about who much he hates his father, they eat it up. Well, let’s skip the issue.

“The real thing” starts of with three killers. If you ain’t convinced after “From out of nowhere”, “Epic” and “Falling to pieces” that this is a damn good, hard rocking album, there is nothing I can do for you anymore except handing you over to the mortician. These three songs set the tone for what was to come in the next ten years. Heavy bass-lines, pronounciated rapping, rocking guitar-riffs and even orchestral keyboard-sounds as big as the sky. FNM managed to incorporate pieces into songs which fit perfectly but seem very odd if taken for themselves. It is like building a Monster-Truck out of an old Cadillac – makes a cool appearance but who would have thought of it? Next off is the trashy piece of the record named “Surprise! You’re dead!” which spouts the metal-influence of guitarist Jim Martin and I like to imagine how that sounded being played in a big stadium. These are the poles of the record. On the second side FNM spread out their vision even more. The epic title track clocks in at over eight minutes – a true feat for a rock-song that doesn’t leave you bored for one second. And it states what this record, the band or music should be about: “I know the feeling / it is the real thing / … / the perfect moment / the golden moment / I know you feel it too”. FNM reach to take you to an emotional high with this record. There is not a single moment of doziness or uncertainty. Whatever they do is the right thing, all measured up and pointed at one goal: the perfect moment, the real thing. Everyone else just has a pose, “the real thing” is what it is: real.