En Avant-garde, AKA Take on Disco volante

 An exercise in organized chaos -- and a blow to the common manʼs pride.

Regarding music discussion, whether it be in public or forums, individuals will come across the “grower” and “shrinker” concept. ...No, Iʼm not referring to johnsons. Take your mind out of the gutter. In the world we inhabit, there exist songs that wonʼt readily jump at whoever hears. The reasons as to why this is an occurrence are manifold: the structure is too basic or too incoherent; lyricismʼs either superficial or obtuse to a fault; the production choices are artificial or too demo quality; heck, hype backlash can transpire if itʼs a piece thatʼs invariably beloved. Certain full-length albums and EPs will find it difficult to shake off the grower/shrinker notion. One such recording is an LP not for the faint of heart, nor is it a work that ought to be played in the background. Do you enjoy genre busting? Roulette? Attempting to fathom quagmires? Then let Disco volante answer those questions.

My mom is better than your mom and your dad, too

Known for their innumerable category shifts and onstage incognitos, exalted experimental entourage Mr. Bungleʼs second effort was a game changer that didnʼt require three-four listens so much as it did about THIRTEEN. Italian for “airborne saucer” (and a reference to the James Bond film Thunderball), Disco volante was a batshit experience on the surface, yet the troupe from beginning to end had a method to their madness. Generally speaking, the fact Mr. Bungle were signed to Warner Bros. was astonishing -- doubly so considering THIS was in the actʼs discography. Already atypical in direction, Mike Patton and his multi-instrumentalist comrades who made S/T possible would take their approach to compositions and arrangements further. 

Mr. Bungle offered a fair quantity of hooks and chorus sections, despite some... idiosyncrasies. Yes, the sound cycled through disparate styles, but it still stuck to something resembling lucid, funk-driven ska with a thrash undercurrent. Those who predicted a spiritual sequel were... SHOCKED upon traversing the contents Disco volante housed. The surprise hit as early as the opener “Everyone I Went to High School With Is Dead”, a noise-tinged sludge metal track meant to give people the wrong first impression. Featuring themes of detachment and closeting, it segued into the comparatively bouncier (albeit mocking) “Chemical Marriage”, a lounge cut that married elements of doo wop; jazz; and pop given a spacier twist. The piece evoked images of a ʼ60s animated series -- although if it WERE an actual cartoon OP/ED, itʼd be a jingle that wouldnʼt wear out its welcome. The album past this one-two punch became what I dubbed the “Serial Escalation Saga”.

Over the course of Disco volanteʼs 68-minute runtime, a greater range of instruments was demonstrated compared to what S/T included. Woodwinds and keys returned from the preceding affair, and Mr. Bungle started tinkering with more unorthodox tools that not only enhanced variety, these apparatuses heightened the membersʼ maturing songcraft. To set examples, additional percussionist William Winant got to utilize (among others) a Jewʼs harp on the musique concrète terror that was “Violenza domestica”. He provided bongos on the brutal, rhythmic thrash-meets-prog number “Carry Stress in the Jaw” --  Part II of bassist Trevor Dunnʼs Sleep Trilogy, also comprised of “Phlegmatics” within the same tracklist and “Slowly Growing Deaf” off this groupʼs freshman studio album; Mike blew into an ocarina during the former! The reviewer would be remiss if “Desert Search for Techno Allah” went unmentioned, which (befitting its name) bore an Arabic techno character punctuated by heavy bass; exotic instrumentation like sistrums and kanjira; and vocals delivering lyrics that shifted between English and being presented in an alien language. 

Beyond its abundance of songwriting ideas and dizzying performances, the CD boasted a RAW mix as opposed to the LPs it got sandwiched between. Virtuoso John Zorn, a producer on Mr. Bungle, was convinced the band could man the boards -- they heeded his advice. Unfiltered; palatial; and on the whole quiet. This was a great move on everybodyʼs end, in hindsight, because turning up the volume unveiled minuscule details that could be lost had the master wound up louder and claustrophobic. It helped that every device supplied was audible without the need for headphones/earbuds! 

So Disco volante wasnʼt the most accessible record to jive with, in case these last few paragraphs didnʼt already make the claim transparent. Mr. Bungle and 1999ʼs California were altogether easier starting points when it came down to digesting the Mr. Bungle modus operandi (?) -- especially the latter. Be that as it may, the Eureka madmen conjured a wondrous assemblage of ditties ranging from the nonsensical (“Ma Meeshka Mow Skwoz”) to cacophonous suites (“The Bends”). Of the bohemian bandʼs material, Disco volante has been my favorite project again and again partially due to how hard it was to grasp -- and it remains a darling collection twenty-five years later.