Faith No More
– Sol Invictus
After an 18-year gap, Sol Invictus could have easily been a messy nostalgia cash-in or a wheezing attempt to reclaim some lost crown. Instead, it’s a lean, mean reminder that Faith No More never played by the rules—and still don’t. It’s not loud for the sake of volume or weird just to be clever. It’s jagged, unpredictable, and completely uninterested in making you comfortable.
Best of…
Mike Patton sounds possessed, like he’s channeling a whole cast of characters—crooner, preacher, madman, lounge singer with a knife behind his back. His voice has aged like leather: rough in all the right places, but still elastic enough to pull off acrobatics no one else would dare. Meanwhile, the band doesn’t blast out of the gates—they creep, then stab. They don’t need speed to hit hard. They use space, tension, and sheer nerve.
Sol Invictus feels like a record made by a band that’s survived everything—trends, breakups, ego implosions—and come out snarling. It’s compact, a little mean, and very aware of its own power. It doesn’t try to outdo Angel Dust or The Real Thing. It does something more impressive—it exists entirely on its own terms.
Choice Tracks
Superhero
If you’re looking for that shot of adrenaline, here it is. The bassline slithers in, then all hell breaks loose. Patton howls like a villain giving a monologue mid-rampage. It’s catchy, chaotic, and built for punching the sky—or the wall.
Sunny Side Up
Here’s where the band gets weird in the way only they can. Bouncy, almost whimsical in parts, but with that eerie tension bubbling under the surface. It’s unsettling in the best way—like a morning smile that hides the hangover of the soul.
Separation Anxiety
This one feels like it escaped from a padded room. It starts claustrophobic and builds to a twitchy, relentless groove. There’s something dirty about how tight the band sounds—precise but unhinged. It’s like being strangled with silk.
Matador
The most grandiose track on the record. Think spaghetti western gone industrial. Patton’s vocals swell into something almost operatic, and the whole thing creaks with menace. It’s the slowest burn here, and also the most rewarding.
Sol Invictus doesn’t beg for your attention. It demands it—and then smirks while you try to figure out what just hit you. It’s the sound of Faith No More aging without softening, twisting their old chaos into something sharper, darker, and strangely elegant. Call it a comeback if you want. Just don’t expect them to care.