The only reason I still own this album is because Fantômas is an otherwise fantastic band. Not having it amidst their other worthwhile efforts is simply illogical. That said, it still sucks. Let me explain. I love Mr. Bungle, Faith No More, Tomahawk, etc. I love Mike Patton. MIKE PATTON IS GOD. Just kidding. But he can still sing, scat, screech, or rap with the rest of them; hell, when he does that rapturous polyphonic overlay of banshee-like widows with just a mic on Adult Themes For Voice, the man regularly averts the impossible and tells it to go fuck itself. Everything he touches turns to wackadoo. Lovely tottering brain-spewing wackadoo. This album, though, is either so beyond my mental faculties of apprehension and appreciation or it's just a terrible amalgamation of sound made manifest in pure concocted drivel and noise. The only positive thing I can say of this mess is that it's carefully concocted drivel and noise -- like an artist who chooses to paint his magnum opus on loose-leaf with crayons. The timbre of a dreary piano, muffled chanting, occasional aimless riffage and the most anti-climactic final eighteen minutes of nothing but old-school record crackling and silence. This is straight out of Brian Eno's head during a nightmare. Landscapes of wackadoo à la Patton. Oh, and Dave Lombardo generally rules, but he's entirely underused here. A meaningless A for effort; F for everything else.
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