Tomahawk
Oddfellows

Welcome to the lodge of the Oddfellows. If you are here because you joined in 2001 and perhaps have been following the grandmaster Mike Patton for ages, then, in this case, welcome back, you already know the truth. If, however, you are initiates, it is right to properly introduce you to what you are about to listen to within these yellow walls. 

Tomahawk is what many would call a supergroup because of the distinguished figures from notable bands within a certain scene present in its lineup. But in this case, we will use super with the meaning of excellence due to the presence of: Mike Patton (do you want me to write all the bands he's been part of in brackets, or will you prove that you are worthy of being part of the large group of people who already know that this guy has been everywhere alternative music was from 1989 onwards?), Duane Denison (the gentleman on the six strings in the seminal band dedicated to skewed violence called The Jesus Lizard), John Stainer (many of you will remember his fierce hits on those gentle figures that were the Helmet, others instead on the surgical rhythms of the electro-disruptive combo that are the Battles, did you say nothing) and Trevor Dunn (again, the list is quite long, but this jester found himself at the scene of the crime with Mr. Patton with the Mr. Bungle and the Fantômas in addition to elegant and pop excursions with his Mad Love, and here he takes the place of the outgoing, for quite some time now, Kevin Rutmanis, an excellent former bassist of another little band called Melvins (strange story, Mr. Dunn is now also part of the lite version of the trio, sometimes life...)). Now that the proper introductions have been made, let's talk about music. The band is here with their fourth studio work preceded by a first self-titled album, definitely strong and powerful, a second "Mit Gas" that captures the group at its expressive peak, a third daring experiment named "Anonymous" that presents songs drawn, and reinterpreted in our own way, from the tradition of Native Americans, perhaps to stay true to the aesthetics of the band's name or who knows for what other reason, which, in my opinion, had only the title as anonymous, in short, they could have done better. At this point I didn't know what to expect from this "Oddfellows", given the unpredictability of the master builder Michele, the only thing was to give it a try. By association with the artwork, a purely mental association of mine, I said to myself "ok this comic-like graphics might bring me back to the beauty of that "Suspended Animation" which was of the Fantômas creature", where there it was assigned to the Japanese Yoshitomo Nara, here the task of giving an image to the music is entirely of the Italian or at least, born in Italy but of American nationality, Ivan Brunetti, who reinterprets the lodge's images as cartoons putting funny animals with downturned mouths instead of the serious faces of the components. My expectations were certainly not betrayed. 

I had to listen multiple times to both sides of the vinyl to get a certain idea of this work. When, initially, I found myself thinking this could be a "return to the past" placeable between the first work and the second, upon more careful listening I can say it sits just fine where it stands. A new chapter, a new approach to things, that maintains the band's sound but elevates it to a higher and much more rock plane. The dance opens with the swamp thing that is the title track, a stompy, sludgy piece that grabs compatriots, led by King Buzzo, by the ears, with two rounds of chords that hurt, a pain that opens wings in the chorus and closes in the final "solo" by Denison, a maddening and sharp interwoven at crazy math-rock speeds. Sharp like the riff that snakes underneath the following "Stone Letter" which is the worthy (indeed, very worthy) first single of the work: a verse that shoots you straight with the chill of the rhythm and in the chorus gets you drunk with a catchy melody that you hadn't heard since the last Faith No More, epicness of mutagenic pop that directly accompanies a punk all about nerves, and rises to your head sticking indelibly. Impossible to say that the subsequent "I.O.U." belongs to the same album as the previous ones, it is a gem of trip-hop rhythm (could it have been the collaboration with Massive Attack?), on which a creeping piano moves, western-cathedralesque choirs and the Icarian flight of Patton's voice crown everything. In proof that the vocal melodies are the best in years, there's "A Thousand Eyes" supported by melodic synth drones, choirs and a guitar that doesn't just break bones and rhythm, but accompanies the melodic crescendo up to a chorus that describing it as huge is an understatement, not for its volume as much as for its emotional perfection. And the spirit of Morricone manifests on the jazz rhythm of the bass in "Rise Up Dirty Waters" where the voice remains epic, calling to mind the Bungle's first work, totally surprising me, an unexpected memory of the crazy vocal interweavings of that amazing work and accompanies us to one of the best moments of the work which is the punkorientedtispaccoilculo "South Paw", nerve-wracking and potential live moment where people knock out teeth with elbows. And don't be surprised if "Baby Let's Play ____" reminds you of a hallucinatory flirt with the more seedious Bad Seeds, because it is more than a mere illusion, if Nick Cave had been in the desert dressed as Il Monco by Leone, he would have written and sung a piece like this.

And now that you are in front of the truth of the lodge, think if you can still leave it. Surely, we are not forcing you to stay. Perhaps.

"But tonight, thought about it, you don't know me, know me anymore"