So much for needing to shake off any rust. Thursday at an uncomfortably packed Concord Music Hall, Faith No More picked up where it left off 18 years ago, the last time the avant-metal band toured North America and released an album.
Exploring extremes of loud and quiet, manic and mellow, sinister and auspicious as if venturing into such divisive territories constituted the norm, the quintet proved anything but conventional. Its diverse 80-minute set served as a constant reminder that the group’s success in the 90s — a run that included a major-label deal, hit albums and renowned videos — remains as bizarre as its most innovative songs. Historically, the sort of artistic experimentalism practiced by Faith No More gets confined to the fringes.
Having never fit into the mainstream, the San Francisco-based band shows no signs of conforming now. After reuniting in 2009, it kept a low profile and focused on international markets. Similarly independent (and out May 18), “Sol Invictus,” Faith No More’s first record since 1997, makes no attempt to court the attention of radio programmers. With any concerns for accessibility aside, performances of several new songs (“Matador,” “Mother——“) sounded as vibrant and offbeat as beloved older material.
“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!” chanted singer Mike Patton on “Superhero,” a hyperactive sprint that hyperventilated as it pursued an unidentified target it couldn’t catch. Armed with an unlimited supply of different voices, a multi-octave range and uncanny sense of humor, he might lay claim to the most fun job in rock. And sticking his tongue out like vintage Michael Jordan and flashing mischievous smirks, Patton acted as if he knew it.
He hissed, wailed, screamed, rapped, squealed, taunted and cackled. Embracing satire, indignation and complacency, he played fast-talking auctioneer, high-pressure pitchman, bullhorn-wielding preacher and jargon-spewing carnie. Patton contorted syllables and distorted tones without the aid of filters, animating characters seemingly afflicted by bouts of schizophrenia, sadness and shock. It’s a wonder he didn’t blow out his throat.
Dressed in matching white outfits, and anchored by keyboardist Roddy Bottum, Patton’s able mates provided dynamic backdrops that mixed thrash, funk, and film and cartoon music. Arrangements shifted between harsh and soothing, occasionally within the span of a verse, setting up moody contrasts (“King for a Day”) and scorching bursts of intensity (“Caffeine”).
For all its heaviness, Faith No More also displayed a sincere, soft side that further confirmed its eccentricity — and Patton’s inimitable versatility. Crooning the Bee Gees’ “I Started a Joke” with full gusto, all he lacked was a tuxedo and opera hall.
Gendron is a freelance critic.
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