Mr. Bungle - Disco Volante

Caustic layer upon layer. Saxaphone meets blastbeat. Noisecore meets lounge. Rumba, oompah, slide, shake, swing, mosh, grind, kill. Disco Volante; secret songs, leftfield, experimental, techno, disco, rock, electronica. Sophomore, confusion, exclamation, subtlety, song within a song within a groove within a phrase within a suite. 

Mr. Bungle's second record is by far their most difficult to get into. It offers a level of inaccessibility that is surprising even for a band whose sole purpose seemed to be to experiment and push boundaries. The tracklist reveals that there are somewhere in the region of eleven or twelve songs on this record, but to me the entire thing just sounds like one trip, where, for the most part, "songs" are indistinguishable from each other as they either blur into one or are broken down into so many parts it's hard to keep track of what is what. A perfect example would be "Carry Stress In The Jaw", a loungy jazz number that collapses head-on into speeding thrash and irritating noise rock, before closing out completely for the geriatric-sounding waltzing of the innate "Secret Song" (which is also part of the same song). Yeah.

"Desert Search For Techno Allah" and "Violenza Domestica" seem to be a ten minute suite of weird noises rather than coherent songs. In the latter, Patton yells random Italian phrases over a classico Italiano composizione (and I just racially stereotyped far worse than this track itself) before the rest of the record blurs together into a mush of spazzy outbursts and meandering background noise. Just as any hope of getting into a particular groove or nuance arises, the entire thing uproots and shakes off the previous approach, delving into something new before your tiny mind can comprehend it. 

Endless, morose, insane, distant. Close. In your face. Loud, quiet, fast, slow. Intense, soft, lush, abrasive. It's like bugs crawling around inside your head it's like bugs crawling around inside your head it's like bugs crawling around inside your head it's like bugs craw}}..'[[=]////////////___

Fantômas - Fantômas

Fantômas are a band that bridge the insanity of Mr. Bungle with the sludgy drones of Melvins. Now, I probably don't have to tell you how much of a good fucking idea this collaboration was (and continues to be) but I'm going to anyway. This is Disco Volante era Mr. Bungle pushed into the bog of sludge and stoner metal, resulting in a slippery yet clinically executed free-fire romp through a world of music tomfoolery. There are no songs as such, but 30 "pages", with each one being as crazy and unpredictable as the last.

I have also come to the conclusion that Mike Patton is absolutely off his fucking head. I'm not sure what it is (lol) but I've just gotten that vibe, y'know? Haha! Anyways, you've probably already heard of this if you are here reading this but if not, deffo give it a go if you're into the crazier side of the Melvins, or mourn the loss of Mr. Bungle on a daily basis like I do (is that a nerdy thing to do? Probably).

Mr. Bungle - California

What a trip! What a dream! I was busting to write about this a few months ago - on my first listen I absolutely fell in love with this smorgasbord of musical tomfoolery, but after every subsequent listen I've not been able to replicate my interest for it. That was until I realised that you have to give this album your complete attention; it works as background music but to truly appreciate what it is that's going on here you really must give it everything. Take an hour out of your day (medicinal cigarette optional) and really wrap your head around this.

Some people say that Mr. Bungle got softer with every passing album, and whilst this is true - sonically the recording is nowhere near as aurally terrifying as the self-titled or earlier demos - California possesses as much as or if not more creativity than the band did during their jazzy circus-vibe funk metal days. I feel as though I am slowly losing my mind in Vegas as "Sweet Charity" opens up this boggling musical journey. My favourite track though is "Pink Cigarette", which aches (perhaps ironically) of love lost over a strained and lounged-out big band bombast. 

Give it time. All it asks in return is your sanity.