It occurred to me the other day that this is the third summer since this site’s inception where I haven’t featured some sort of “summer” mix here, which, given my predilection for crafting mixes of the utmost triviality, seems a little odd. So when a friend recently asked me to compile a disc of “summer songs,” I thought I would take the opportunity to present it to the internets as my requisite hot-weather mix of the year.

Summer, for me, isn’t about dreamy indie pop, ‘90s G-funk, or breezy tropicália. It’s about Soul, specifically the kind recorded between the years1970 and 1979. I’d say about 75% of the Soul and R&B I listen to happens during the summer – there’s just something about the overall vibe of the music, whether it’s a pseudo-disco floor-stomper or a heart-crushing ballad, that’s complemented by the longer days and higher temperatures. My father also played a lot of Motown and Stax platters around the house when I was growing up, and I have vague recollections of hearing The Temptations and Otis Redding on summer evenings, echoing through the house and out the windows while I was running around outside. There isn’t anything particularly groundbreaking about this mix, and it isn’t packed full of obscurities and dusty funk rarities. Hell, even the title is a little uncreative and a weak attempt at alliteration. These sixteen songs are incredibly personal to me, however, and are the essence of summertime to these ears. I spent a lot of time on the sequencing and the tracks are blended together, so those looking to download in order to isolate one of them may be disappointed. Enjoy.

Seventies Summer Soulstice 68:52 (.zip – 93.85 MB at 192 kbps)

1. “Joy” – Isaac Hayes 6:06
from Joy (Stax 1973)

The slinky riff that provides the basis for “Joy” is one of the most addictive things I’ve ever heard. Hayes’ attempt to replicate the grandeur of “Walk on By” wasn’t anywhere near as successful, but the arrangements here – the forceful horns, the string charts, and especially Willie Hall’s drumming – are astonishing. I began fading near the six-minute mark; showcasing the full sixteen minutes of the track wasn’t something I was comfortable with.

2. “Day Dreaming” – Aretha Franklin 3:32
from Young, Gifted and Black (Atlantic 1972)

Aretha’s “Day Dreaming” perfectly captures the thick, almost surreal haze that descends upon my neighborhood on sticky summer evenings. The way her words tease and dance around the beat in the verses gets me every time.

3. “Thank You for Your Love” – The Dramatics 4:19
from Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get (Stax 1972)

A more obvious choice would have probably been “Hot Pants in the Summertime” from the Dramatics’ self-titled debut, but the lazy pace of “Thank You for Your Love” was much more suitable here. Sonically, it just doesn’t get any better than this: the hard panning of the drums in the left channel, the strings on the right, that oversaturated buzz of a guitar in the middle, and of course, the sweet harmonies of the quintet. “If you didn’t hear me the first time, I’m gonna say it again!” Phenomenal.

4. “You’re Welcome, Stop on By” – Bobby Womack 3:35
from Lookin’ for a Love Again (United Artists 1974)

This was always my favorite of Womack’s run of singles in the ‘70s, with a strong vocal performance and a nice blend of the guitars and keyboards in the mix. The way he could time his spoken-word intros to lead into singing on the downbeats was one of Womack’s many strengths, to say nothing of his fluid guitar comping.

5. “Move Me No Mountain” – Love Unlimited 3:46
from In Heat (20th Century 1974)

If I could find a flaw with the overlooked and criminally out-of-print catalogue of Barry White’s Love Unlimited ladies, it would be that there are far too many ballads dominating the material. Not that the trio couldn’t handle them, but they were at their best on mid-tempo grooves like “Move Me No Mountain,” which opens In Heat (1974). The flute that makes an appearance here is irresistibly sexy, and Nathan East once again proves why he was one of the most underrated session bassists of his time.

6. “The Day the Robin Sang to Me” – The Manhattans 3:40
from There’s No Me Without You (Columbia 1973)

This song slays me, plain and simple. I can’t think of a better tune to play on a warm morning in June. The backing vocals sound like they’re emanating from a break in the heavens. And don’t even get me started on that perfect touch of reverb that’s applied to the flute.

7. “Dreaming’s Out of Season” – The Montclairs 3:11
from Dreaming’s Out of Season (Paula 1972)

Phil Perry of The Montclairs was like the Mark Eitzel of ‘70s Soul – I wouldn’t call him a miserable bastard, but the dude excelled at penning ballads that weren’t far from genuinely depressing. Which is why I adore the group, naturally. “Dreaming’s Out of Season” was their most popular hit, meaning that only a few hundred could recognize the song these days. Admittedly, this may be my only ‘obscure gem’ concession to the mix.

8. “I Want to Be Free” – Ohio Players 6:43
from Fire (Mercury 1975)

It’s difficult to hear “I Want to Be Free” without picturing Mark Wahlberg diving into a swimming pool as the opening drum solo (what the hell is that all about anyway?) crashes on the downbeat. No summertime barbeque is complete without this song – it’s an absolute mess of tempos and disconnected sections, but that’s what makes it so charming.

9. “Blind Alley” – The Emotions 2:55
from Untouched (Stax 1971)

I included “Blind Alley” not only to keep the mix from slumping into an endless string of ballads, but because it’s one of the highlights of The Emotions’ earlier, more adventurous years. I could write a hundred-page analysis on the bassline alone – it’s truly a wonder to behold.

10. “Never Gonna Leave You” – Eddie Kendricks 4:07
from He’s a Friend (Motown 1975)

Kendricks was entering the autopilot phase of his career by the time of He’s a Friend (1975), but he stepped it up for this midnight ballad, an ode to his woman’s, erm, domesticity. The arrangements are a bit formulaic for 1975, but the rhythmic shift to a slight swing around the halfway mark is a nice touch.

11. “Take Me Just As I Am” – Lyn Collins 3:29
from Check Me Out if You Don’t Know Me by Now (Polydor 1975)

She’s Lyn Collins. Aka The Female Preacher. Aka Mama Feelgood. Aka one of the most sampled ladies in Soul. Aka the woman who can make your liver quiver. I dare you to hear this and sit still for its duration.

12. “Can’t Hide Love” – Earth, Wind & Fire 4:06
from Gratitude (Columbia 1975)

With so many warm-weather classics to choose from it’s hard to settle on one pick from Earth, Wind & Fire, but the sensual groove of “Can’t Hide Love” is especially fitting for a summer mix. Three listens in and I guarantee you’ll be attempting to reach the heights of Philip Bailey’s “bet-CHA!”s. The way the vocal lines hover over the chromatically descending progression during the coda is one of the most ingenious things the group ever did.

13. “People Make the World Go Round” – The Stylistics 5:59
from The Stylistics (Avco 1971)

“People Make the World Go Round” is the mix’s centerpiece, if you will, from what I feel is the quintessential Soul record of the 1970s: The Stylistics’ debut album. There isn’t another song that comes remotely close to its uniqueness: the revolutionary use of marimba, the 9/4 signature, the socio-political lyrics that still resonate nearly 40 years after it was recorded. Its timelessness is undeniable.

14. “Searching” – Roy Ayers 4:03
from Vibrations (Polydor 1976)

I got to flex my limited mixing skills with the transition into Roy Ayers’ “Searching,” which was entirely unintentional, I swear. This track is an effective hint at closure to the mix as it winds down, and sounds best accompanying a long sunset.

15. “Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)” – Marvin Gaye 4:26
from What’s Going On (Motown 1971)

I used to blare this song from my fourth-floor apartment on summer evenings when I was living in Virginia years ago. It would be easy to say that I included “Inner City Blues” here because of its chilling relevancy, but truthfully, it’s just one of my favorite Marvin Gaye songs.

16. “Neither One of Us” – Gladys Knight & The Pips 4:20
from Neither One of Us (Motown 1973)

Oh my God. Gladys’ “Neither One of Us” has got to be one of my top ten favorite songs of all time. I am rendered absolutely useless when this comes on; attempts at conversation or any kind of interaction with me are hopelessly futile. I can think of few Soul songs as wholly perfect as this (The Supremes’ “You Keep Me Hanging On” comes close) but none can hold a candle Gladys’ heart-wrenching performance here. How anyone even attempted to write or perform a ballad after hearing this is beyond my comprehension and a testament to the human will. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go melt somewhere.

This “list seven songs you’re into right now” idea has been circulating around the blogosphere for the past month now, and I couldn’t resist after an invitation from Invisible Oranges‘ Cosmo Lee. Besides, unimaginative as the concept may be, a list is still a list, right?

From the desk of my hipper-than-thou alter-ego (I jest): I’ve been revisiting the Tropicália: ou Panis et Circenses (1968) album for the past week or so, and while it always floors me that there isn’t a dull moment on the disc – on a collaborative album of a cross-section of artists, no less – Gal Costa’s “Baby” has been resonating with me lately; I listened to this track four times in a row on the drive home from work the other evening. Sure, I’ve heard it plenty of times before, but there is a certain bashful charm to this song absent from the other selections on Panis et Circenses – perhaps it’s Costa’s casual toggling between English and Portuguese for the vocal, or Caetano’s lazy entrance to duet with her as the track fades. It sounds like Rogerio Duprat’s floating string arrangements are held together by a spider’s silk, just on the cusp of bursting into dissonance as they fall to the ground. The flavors here are simple and sublime. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the analog fidelity is absolutely pristine.

“Baby” – Gal Costa and Caetano Veloso 3:31 (Tropicália: ou Panis et Circenses, Polygram 1968)

There’s something about mid to late July that has me breaking out 3rd Eye Vision (1998) every summer for a week or two – maybe it’s the angle of the sun or something. Oakland’s Hieroglyphics may have crafted their quintessential “crew” track with “You’ll Never Know,” but “Oakland Blackouts” remains the group’s finest moment to these ears. (Alright, truthfully, I’m not even that familiar with the rest of their catalogue, but it’s the best cut on the album, hands down.) Both Opio and Del’s flows tease the pulse of the track marvelously, slinking in between the beats, conjuring abstract rhyme schemes that only each one comprehends. Heads are always quick to clown that whole late-‘90s, “scientifical” style that dudes like Kool Keith, Afu-Ra, and post-6 Feet Deep (1994) Gravediggaz were on, but I’m such a sucker for that shit, and the less sense it makes, the better. Opio and Del don’t take it quite that far, but don’t think I didn’t catch those references to floppy disks and the laws of gravity.

“Oakland Blackouts” – Hieroglyphics 4:31 (3rd Eye Vision, Hieroglyphics Imperium 1998)

9th Wonder’s beats have been annoying me since I revisited The Minstrel Show (2005) this past spring and realized that there’s no getting around the “hollow-ness” of his productions – let’s not mince words: they’re basically just re-pitched soul samples with the low end chopped off, substituted by a thick bass patch on the keyboard, and some simple drum programming to flesh it out. Occasionally dude is capable of some slick slicing and dicing that makes my head spin, but ultimately he suffers from the same production aesthetic that plagues Kanye: his joints sound amazing on the first or second listen, but the replay value tapers off drastically after that due to a lack of depth, craft, taste, or any combination of the three. So it’s kind of a shock that Jean Grae’s Jeanius (2008) is as good as it is with 9th backing her up behind the boards, but then again I can’t really envision her spitting over some gritty mid-‘90s Buckwild shit. She sounds focused and confident, hungry yet relaxed, and gushing with candor, while 9th turns out some of his more enduring beats of the past few years that complement her flows nicely. The Phonte guest spot “The Time Is Now” sounds awkward in the middle of the record – it should have been the closer, or second-to-last cut – but it’s my favorite song on an album that’s creeping its way up the year-end best-of list. That’s right, haters – keep snickering.

“The Time Is Now” – Jean Grae feat. Phonte 3:43 (Jeanius, Blacksmith 2008)

Nachtmystium’s Assassins: Black Meddle, Part 1 (2008) has been causing quite a stir in the metal community recently, with the black metal naysayers lambasting the record’s lack of “tr00” authenticity while some of the more passive listeners are patting the band on the back for doing something different. I’m still not sure how I feel about the album, and the asinine title, tired Pink Floyd flourishes, and yes, that sickeningly awful saxophone that appears in the second movement of “Seasick” don’t help matters in the least. Still, the guitars have a nice crunch to them and there’s a nice balance of energy and melody that’s tough to ignore. I particularly love the way “Your True Enemy” bursts out of the speakers in the first ten seconds. Yet I’d be lying if I said Assassins didn’t make me want to listen to that Averse Sefira record that dropped earlier this year, whose harsh, shadowy textures I found almost impenetrable after a dozen listens. In the meantime, Nachtmystium suffices as some of the more easily digestible American black metal in recent memory. It’s not bad, but ultimately it may be a tad bland for my taste.

“Your True Enemy” – Nachmystium 4:15 (Assassins: Black Meddle, Part 1, Century Media 2008)

Years ago I was mindlessly flipping through the used bins at my local record store when I happened upon a batch of Napalm Death discs, all for $5 each, likely the fruits of some absent-minded hardcore kid who realized he didn’t have the stones to stomach one of the most brutal bands of the past twenty years. I walked out with six CDs under my arm, from Harmony Corruption (1990) to Words from the Exit Wound (1998). I gave each one a few spins before moving on to God knows what else, but I remember I made a mental note to avoid Diatribes (1996), the quintet’s half-hearted stab at some sort of mainstream acknowledgement. When I submerged into my Napalm obsession a few weeks ago I discovered, much to my delight, that it’s not a bad record at all – in fact, it’s really quite good, though I’m sure I’d have my head taken off by the neurotic Scum (1987) collective for such blasphemy. Third cut “Ripe for the Breaking” has been on repeat in the ol’ Hyundai hi-fi, terrorizing my neighbors with its stuttering 7/8 signature riff, choking blastbeat, and mosh-frenzy groove during the midsection. Napalm Death is one of the few metal bands that I’ll occasionally listen to solely for the vocals – Barney’s roaring furnace of a voice could raze entire acres of rain forest. Which reminds me: I need to get a “Top Metal Vocalists of the ‘90s” list together.

“Ripe for the Breaking” – Napalm Death 4:01 (Diatribes, Earache 1996)

This was kind of a random pick. As stunning as Orbital’s Orbital 2 (1993) (or “The Brown Album”) is, I always felt like the record’s pacing slacked a bit during its second half for the tracks “Walk Now…” and “Monday” before the final sugar rush of ecstasy that is “Halcyon + On + On.” Listening to it the other evening (again, soundtracking my commute home) it occurred to me that “Monday” is the clearest, most obvious blueprint for studying Orbital’s sound back then. As dated as some of the keyboards are here, the entire track is built on their oft-imitated “sound stacking” technique, the compositional process where layers of simple, interrelated motifs are added or subtracted to create a sense of flow – I don’t think any other song in their catalogue that demonstrates this technique as linearly. I can’t believe I used to skip over this track – its heavenly climax is an aural prism of sorts, raindrops of shimmering notes and sounds falling into micro-patterns on the eardrums. The Hartnoll brothers were unstoppable at this stage in their career; it’s telling that their seven minutes of album filler trumped 95% of the rest of the electronic music released in ’93.

“Monday” – Orbital 7:07 (Orbital 2, FFRR 1993)

Until I became familiar with the inner workings of the now-commonplace, garden-variety Pro Tools rig, I used to stand stupefied at the skittering digital tweakings of guys like Squarepusher and Bogdan Raczynski. Not that I’m anywhere near capable of such meticulous aural sculpting myself, but about 75% of their music’s appeal was trying to figure out how the magic trick was pulled off; when I discovered the joys of simple plug-ins on my own workstation, suddenly the mystery was gone, and thus my enthusiasm withered away. Not so with Amon Tobin, who seems incapable of crafting digital soundscapes that are anything less than spine-tingling. I’m not sure why his past two releases – his soundtrack to the game Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory (2005) and last year’s Foley Room (2007) – received such mild receptions, though admittedly both are incomparable to his seminal Supermodified (2000) from a few years back. The former, especially, has been receiving some play as of late, especially “El Cargo,” which is featured on the second, um, “level” of the game – I actually purchased Splinter Cell after hearing Tobin’s soundtrack, which is the first time I’ve ever done anything like that. What keeps “El Cargo” destined to return visits is the fact that every time I hear it, my ears identify the downbeat on one of two legitimate places in the beat, which drives me batshit crazy. There are so many elements that have no place coalescing as well as they do here: the disembodied voices, that chunky guitar, the body-throttling drums, an ominous piano motif. Best enjoyed at maximum volume in pitch blackness.

“El Cargo” – Amon Tobin 4:23 (Chaos Theory, Ninja Tune 2005)

I’ve found that in my few years’ worth of experience in listening, writing, and reading about music, there are always going to be a handful of bands or artists that possess a curiously elusive quality in regards to the unwavering devotion of their fanbases. Bands that during the course of a conversation will provoke a raised-eyebrow statement of, “Oh, sure, Band X, they’re okay, but… they’re your All Time Favorite group?” I can understand, say, someone’s fervor towards a juggernaut like U2: they have dozens of successful singles, sold millions of records around the world, and have stuck with the same anthemic, fist-in-the-air, hook-filled formula for three decades now. Not really my cup of tea, but I could easily envision someone building a shrine to the group in a corner of their living room. I’m talking about bands like Echo and The Bunnymen. New Order. Hell, Radiohead, for that matter. (I’ll save The Sex Pistols for another time.) All groups who have had their moments, to be sure, but when the landscape of their discographies is viewed from a distance, those not blinded by their own rabid fandom would see maybe a peak or two, but far too many valleys – and in some cases, miles of barren wasteland. For me, Faith No More fall into this category.

Few collectives since the birth of rock ‘n roll have inspired such a cultish throng of hyper-obsessive acolytes (or Pattolytes, if you will) like Faith No More. Hopefully they’ll have reached this part of the post to read my disclaimer instead of immediately scrolling down to the comments section to expound a litany of obscenities and threats directed solely at my personal well-being: I like Faith No More. Shit, I used to love the band. I still get goosebumps from Mike Bordin’s drumming (see here). Bass players don’t get much more solid than Billy Gould. Roddy Bottum still holds one of the best monikers in rock music (say it out loud, and insert a “fuckin’” in there for maximum effect). But as I get older, the more I question the soundness of my rampant enthusiasm for the group during my musical coming-of-age back in the ‘90s. A cursory examination of Faith No More’s six full-length studio records over the course of their roughly a decade-and-a-half existence reveals the following: a phenomenal “classic” record, a decent but lesser “breakthrough” album, two barely passable and seriously flawed attempts in genre-hopping, and two rank, steaming piles of drivel that are essentially unlistenable to these ears. Not exactly an All Star-worthy batting average. Does this sound like a group who deserve the massive truckloads of reverence and acclaim that’s still heaped upon them to this day, ten years after their disbandment?

The core of Faith No More – bassist Billy Gould, drummer Mike “Puffy” Bordin, keyboardist Roddy Bottum, and guitarist Jim Martin – was formed in San Francisco in the mid-‘80s. After a revolving door of singers (most infamously Courtney Love) the band inexplicably settled on Chuck Mosely, a walking trainwreck of a vocalist who was one part surfer burnout, one part pseudo-rapper, and about ten parts drug-binge hangover. During these formative years the group’s sound was basically a heavier kind of party-hardy funk, anchored by Bordin’s thunderous drums and Gould’s popping bass, and punctuated by Martin’s thin, buzzing guitar and Bottum’s simple string-pad flourishes. It wasn’t exactly an original or complex formula, but it was about the only thing that worked with Mosely’s semi-retarded barks acting as vocals. Other than the title track, debut We Care a Lot (1985) is entirely forgettable, an insipid, throwaway mess of lightweight, one-note-riffing funk-metal. Follow-up Introduce Yourself (1987) benefited from slightly stronger songwriting and a fuller production, but Mosely’s obnoxious, ham-fisted presence is unavoidable; there’s just no getting around the guy. The band got more mileage out of “We Care a Lot,” reprising it for a single the following year, an anthem that would have forever rendered Faith No More to “one-hit novelty” had the members decided to fold and return to their day jobs. Fortunately, Mosely’s days with the group were numbered, and the frontman was sacked shortly after the record release party for the album due to his erratic behavior and excessive drug and alcohol use.

“Anne’s Song” – Faith No More 4:34 (Introduce Yourself, Slash 1987)

So two weeks prior to recording The Real Thing (1989), the band recruited a young Mike Patton to handle vocal duties, recommended by Martin after heard a demo of Patton’s other band, Mr. Bungle. Light years ahead of Mosely, Patton was unquestionably, almost shockingly talented, a vocal chameleon of sorts whose contorted whines, tough-guy roars, and clipped rapping was a perfect match for Faith No More’s new direction, with hooks and intensity in equal measure, livened by a beefed-up production from Matt Wallace to boot. This was the age where an edgy video could propel a band into the stratosphere, and it worked for Faith No More in spades – love it or hate it, everyone remembers the video for “Epic.” Lesser album cuts like the title track and “Zombie Eaters” revealed a depth and focus to the songwriting that had been previously absent from the band’s material, while second single “Falling to Pieces” and “Underwater Love” retained some of the playfulness that characterized their earlier work. To help rein the modern kneejerk criticisms of The Real Thing as “dated,” it’s important to remember that prior to its release, not many bands were combining funk, metal, and hip hop as effectively, for better or worse (accusations of the regrettable birth of the nu-metal that plagued the ’90s aren’t entirely unfounded). Granted, I could happily go the rest of my life without hearing “Edge of the World” or “Woodpecker from Mars” again, but as far as breakthrough albums go, The Real Thing delivers for the most part.

“Zombie Eaters” – Faith No More 5:58 (The Real Thing, Slash 1989)

With The Real Thing’s worldwide sales just shy of four million units, the pressure was on the group to produce a worthy follow-up. Yet no one knew what the hell to make of Angel Dust (1992) when it was released in the summer of ’92. Any buoyant whimsy left over from the previous album was gone, replaced by a darker, warped, almost oppressive atmosphere that confounded critics and alienated fans wanting another “Epic.” The band’s desire to experiment and avoid the carbon-copy follow-up resulted in one of the finest records of the decade, accented by the fact that Faith No More had finally discovered a unique sound that was entirely, sublimely their own. Patton, especially, went from a spandex-clad kid with a funny haircut to a vocal revelation seemingly overnight, jump-cutting from a piercing shriek to a baritone croon in the blink of an eye with breathless dexterity. Angel Dust managed the feat of each track sounding completely unlike the others without the album losing any sense of coherency as a whole: the full-throttle assault of “Caffeine,” the nightmarish sludge metal of “Jizzlobber,” the country-fried trailer-park drama of “RV,” the pulsating funk of “Everything’s Ruined.” Then there are the cuts that defy description, like “A Small Victory” and “Malpractice”; even the inferior tracks like “Crack Hitler” trumped anything the group had recorded to date. Within a few months of its release, it slowly became apparent that Faith No More had unleashed a masterpiece upon the public. The band toured the hell out of the album, working the European summer festival circuit and appearing at outdoor arenas with the likes of Metallica, Soundgarden, and Guns N’ Roses.

“Kindergarten” – Faith No More 4:31 (Angel Dust, Slash 1992)

(As an aside and bonus, here’s the movement from Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 8 (1960) that was sampled in “Malpractice” [though the band actually used The Kronos Quartet’s version].)

“String Quartet No. 8 – II. Allegro molto” – Dmitri Shostakovich 2:44 (Manhattan String Quartet: String Quartets 3 and 8, Centaur 1986)

Then the problems started. After releasing a Commodores cover as a single (“Easy”), Martin, who for many was the “look” of Faith No More and had publicly expressed his displeasure at the outcome of Angel Dust (he had very little input in the compositional process), was fired under less-than-amicable circumstances. The search for a new guitarist began, with the group welcoming (somewhat reluctantly) Trey Spruance of Mr. Bungle into the fold. King for a Day… Fool for a Lifetime (1995) was written mostly by Gould, Bordin, and Patton – Bottum’s signature keyboards are curiously absent from most of the material (he was reportedly battling drug addiction at the time of the recording). Spruance, one of the most brilliant and mind-warpingly original guitarists of his generation, is sadly relegated to little more than distorted power chords here; it’s genuinely difficult to believe that it’s his playing on the album. Whether he was just out for a paycheck or had a total lack of enthusiasm for the songs is anyone’s guess, but the sound ultimately suffers for it, and one can’t help but long for the color of Bottum’s keys. Lead single “Digging the Grave” was nothing spectacular, suffering from a stripped-down blandness that characterized much of the record. “What a Day,” “Ugly in the Morning,” and “Cuckoo for Caca” are Faith No More-by-numbers, and even some of the riskier songs, like the midnight lounge-soul of “Evidence” and the country twang of “Take This Bottle,” don’t survive more than a few listens. The tracks that work best are the ones that are the least self-conscious, like “Just a Man”’s dub-meets-Gospel-ballad, the collision of showtune funk with a lively brass section on “Star A.D.,” and the atmospheric prog of album centerpiece “King for a Day.” Spruance departed before touring was scheduled to begin to finish work on Mr. Bungle’s magnum opus Disco Volante (1995), and Faith No More was yet again without a guitarist. The band promoted roadie Dean Menta to the guitar slot for the tour and parted ways with him shortly afterward.

“King for a Day” – Faith No More 6:35 (King for a Day… Fool for a Lifetime, Slash 1995)

There are a few items of note at this juncture in the band’s career. For one, their popularity on either side of the Atlantic had see-sawed, with a new legion European listeners following the group’s every move while their prominence in the States had waned. Side projects also began to dominate the lives of each member, with Bordin finding lucrative side work manning the skins for Ozzy, Bottum concentrating on his Imperial Teen, and Patton venturing further into the esoteric abyss with Bungle and solo work for John Zorn’s Tzadik label. Under these circumstances, it’s a miracle that Album of the Year (1997) turned out as well as it did, although the response from the public was generally lackluster. Jon Hudson of Systems Collapse filled in for the role of guitarist for a dozen selections that more or less followed in the anything-goes mold of King for a Day, ranging from some of the group’s finest work (the stunning “Stripsearch”) to miserable, uninspired dirges (“Paths of Glory”). A funereal air of finality – but not quite closure – hangs over the record like a fog, and anyone who had been following the group’s trajectory since the beginning of the decade couldn’t deny their own suspicions that the half-hearted attempt of Album of the Year was a clear signal for an impending breakup. Sure enough, Gould announced the split in the spring of the following year, but by that point, only the diehards were lamenting Faith No More’s disbandment.

“Stripsearch” – Faith No More 4:29 (Album of the Year, Slash 1997)

I’ll admit that much of Faith No More’s material has aged well with time, albeit somewhat peculiarly – Album of the Year becomes exponentially less of the disaster I made it out to be upon its release with each passing year, and there was a point in the late ‘90s when I couldn’t even sit through one song from The Real Thing. With an oeuvre this uneven – let’s not forget those earlier Mosely-fronted outings, much as we’d all like to – and given the patchy, hit-or-miss nature of the group’s later work, I posit my original case: is Faith No More really worthy of Hall of Fame status? I’m certainly up for hearing arguments in their defense.