Mike Patton's Mondo Cane

Mike Patton is a god. He arrives on stage with his usual gel-slicked black hair, dark shirt, immaculate white suit, a discreet triangle of (black) handkerchief peeking out of the (white) breast pocket of his jacket. But let's talk about the shoes. Black, elegant, patent leather. No man has ever had shinier shoes than his. Hypnotized by the shoes, I spend long minutes staring at them, dazzled, while around the singer a musical outfit the likes of which is rarely seen prepares to play.

At the center of the stage sits the string orchestra, arranged in a fan shape in front of the conductor, while just behind is the quadrilateral of electro-vintage-chic keyboard work, presided over by Enri, also impeccable in a purple tie. Hands on the Hammond C3 (complete with Leslie), to his left an Farfisa organ, to his right a Clavinet topped by a MiniMoog, and behind him a grand piano. The left wing of the stage lines up two multi-purpose guitars in the front row (which will in turn become surf-music Fenders, rough stornello guitars, dreamlike-mood zithers…), then the double bass/Hofner bass, drums and percussion.

Further back, deep in the stage, you can see the electronics station (theremin, gorgeous, and laptop, rather less so). On the right, starting from the rear, the case of tubular bells stands out, and nearby the choir, flutes and trombones are arranged. Finally, back in the front row, at the right corner, mirroring Patton, in a black suit and gelled hair, we have Roy Paci, with trumpet and flugelhorn.

Did I already say Patton is a god? His voice stands out powerful and confident from the very start of "Cielo in una stanza", with its unmistakable timbre nonetheless happily embedded in the musical context of the project. "Mondo Cane" is a celebration of Italian songs from the golden age of the 1950s and '60s, and Patton measures himself, more or less directly, against voices like those of Domenico Modugno, Edoardo Vianello, Mal, Adriano Celentano, Gino Paoli, Luigi Tenco. He synthesizes them, compressing them into a single complex, enigmatic figure. His Italian accent is commendable (the lyrics are easy to understand), though still tinged with a few Anglophone traces. But nothing could better subtly embody the post-World War II Americanism that was a classic feature of 1950s Italy, a sign of the desire to leave the conflict behind, to start over, gazing admiringly at the frivolities from across the ocean — jukeboxes, chewing gum and the like. But watch out, Patton plays his cards shrewdly, and when it's time for the Mal track ("Yeeeh!") he rightly unleashes his most comical, blatantly foreign-loving accent, while when he settles down for an interlude with just classical guitar, there he is, leaning languidly into the microphone to whimper "Scalinatella", convincingly in Neapolitan.

Patton is over the top, sure, but he also shows unmistakable enjoyment, as well as sincere admiration for the originals (proof of this being the diligent cover of "24mila baci" with which he used to liven up Mr. Bungle concerts years ago). Next, in "Con le pinne il fucile e gli occhiali" he works Edoardo Vianello's mechanical puppet, pronouncing "occchiali" with three "c"s, while in "Sole Malato" he malevolently spells out the anxieties of "Mimmo" Modugno. Yes, because in his personal synthesis of the '50s-'60s voice, Patton also brings out that unsettling side, that dramatic awareness skillfully mixed into somewhat hypocritical little songs, hidden in the soul of the most smiling of frontmen. And, to complete the range, in "Urlo negro" he shrieks with unheard-of viciousness, eyes wide, tone nothing short of demonic. In short, well, you get the idea, tonight Patton is on Olympus.

The other star of the evening is Roy Paci. Obviously he's a bit more in the background compared to the singer, but when he's featured, Paci is immensely powerful, absolutely riveting. He works with trumpet and flugelhorn on solos and atmospheric intros, weaves in a few call-and-response exchanges with the voice, and, like Patton, his work is admirable, because he doesn't try to overturn anything, he simply interprets the models flawlessly, adding that dose of energy and imbalance that "back in the day one didn't do." Speaking of "back in the day one didn't do," the presence of Gegé Munari is in a sense exemplary. A veteran drummer of Italian jazz and 1960s film music, he embodies a school from another era, now extinct. His stage presence instantly wins affection (little glasses perched on the tip of his nose to read the score, the posture of a seasoned railwayman), but his rhythm, by today's standards, is frankly stiff, "behind," one might say. But it's a deliberate stylistic choice, and in the end it might turn out that much of the project's atmosphere is owed precisely to him.

In fact, almost every musician on stage constitutes a rather notable individuality in their own right (and there isn't room here to comment on all of them), even though the fact of reading orchestrated parts certainly forces everyone, even the most flamboyant, to work within the ranks. The guitars are fairly reined in, Enri indeed does excellent work, but without overdoing it, the orchestra performs diligently. The delicate groove of the golden age is pursued, sometimes achieved, sometimes it weakens and falls apart. Was "Con le pinne" perhaps meant to be danceable? It's not easy to recreate that light touch, a mix of conservatory training and faint "Black" influence. And probably for this reason the arrangements aren't as adventurous as promised, since the real adventure lies entirely in rediscovering the golden period — the most creative one for Italian-style show orchestration, in which classical academic conventions coexisted with a naïve fascination for new sounds arriving from America (electric guitars, keyboards). Not for nothing are there so many admirers of that fusion — starting with Brian Wilson (who, by different means, achieved these very same results on "Pet Sounds"). Not for nothing do Sean O'Hagan (High Llamas) and his fellow retro-lovers (Stereolab, Irma Records) still draw heavily from that repertoire to this day.

In this sense, the golden sound so admirably recreated here is truly "contemporary." Sure, one might say, between top-class soloists and a bit of Italian naivety (for instance, the "modern" electronic component, which here remains tied to a few illustrative samples), we've arrived at the very same timbres that High Llamas and company have been using for ten years already. But within the overall elegance and Patton's stratospheric performance, the result conceals an unexpected complexity. The "mondo cane" that emerges from it is truly fascinating: nostalgic, silly, enigmatic, at times brutal, always elegant. Inter-generational and tremendously layered: let's not forget that "Mondo Cane" was the title of a shocking documentary bordering on snuff-movie territory!

There's nothing to be done, Patton moans "Dio, quanto t'ho amato" with the face (and sensibility!) of a serial killer. What a character.

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