words by Michael Giotis
photos by Jon Bauer
The Warfield was hot, packed, and ready to rock for alt-metal twins Tomahawk and the Melvins. The Mike Patton-fronted Tomahawk came through town for their first tour since 2013.
In 1991, I first saw the Melvins play at Great American Music Hall to an enthusiastic group of about 100 people and have been obsessed ever since. Looking around the Warfield as the band opened the show — twin sets of legendary drummer Dale Crover and his doppelganger Coady Willis (High on Fire, Big Business) pounding the atmosphere of the space — the crowd had the look of a contemporary Bay Area PTA meeting, decades old piercings with kids in tow. Within the first weighty riffs of guitarist Buzz Osborne and bassist / crowd charmer Steven McDonald (Redd Kross), any SF hipster remove was dashed by a genuine collective glee.
The ongoing 90s revival means that there were a ton of teenagers at the show, including my son, now 18, whose first show was the solo act of the Melvins’ King Buzzo right back at the GAMH when he was in kindergarten. Now he was one of so many teens styled with the coolest t-shirts, knowing the songs, hanging out with their folks out for a good mosh.
A few years back, local metalhead opinion of the ever-stultifying Melvins was rehabilitated after they opened for Mr Bungle, another Patton-led band, in a volcanic show at the Fox. On this sweaty Friday night the grunge-inventing power group delivered again. Buzz, in his trademark mystical muumuu, orchestrated the leviathan sludge that launched the 90s sound that resonates still, evidenced by the frothy kids up front watched over by vigilant dads.
I spoke to Tomahawk and Mr Bungle bassist Trevor Dunn back before that Fox show and he told me about a similar passing of the torch between generations.
“My dad took me to see KISS when I was 11 at the Cow Palace,” Dunn told me. “I still don’t know if I’ve ever seen a show that affected me as much as that did.” Hail to the dads. “When I was 12, I was really into X and my dad took me to see them at a small venue in Arcada.” Dunn and Patton formed Bungle just a few years later.
A great band can rock and mesmerize without doing the obvious. Mike Patton-fronted bands excel at this. The best show I’ve ever seen at the Warfield was Kyuss and Babes in Toyland opening for the eternal Faith No More, Patton’s most famous band. It was a balls out power-fest with an overstuffed pit that never let up.
This Tomahawk show was more reminiscent of a twisted Melvins incarnation called the 2×4 Tour, a two-set series of shows when the band first expanded from 3 players to 4 by adding a second drummer. The first set was filled with stupid jokes, start and stop playing, and anecdotes that led nowhere. The crowd was so frustrated (intentionally I believe) that they exploded when Buzz and the boys ripped through the second set without a word, flinging a string of thrasher classics onto the foaming mob. Plenty of this Warfield crowd was likely at the Fox show and eagerly awaiting that pseudo-violent catharsis. I think we all forgot how arty Tomahawk is. Moshing was minimal but in the end, nobody minded. Any pent up energy turned to admiration. They are just a fucking good band.
Maybe Tomahawk’s un-moshability is intentional.
“I don’t get near the pit, that’s not for me,” said Dunn. “I learned that in the 80s at some punk rock show up in Arcada. Within the first three seconds, I got an elbow to the nose and I’m like, you know what? This isn’t fun.”
This Warfield show was fun though. Kicking off with “Flashback,” the first tune from the Tomahawk’s first release, Patton conducted the audience as much as the band from behind his signature mysterious vocal effects board. Yes, no more than a dozen people really moshed at a time, but the Warfield overflowed and headbangers from the balcony looked like they might go over the railing at times. As it should be. The band settled into its alt-metal psychobilly art-rock and even the meat heads in the crowd were drawn in. The combination of Dunn and singular guitarist Duane Denison paired perfectly in a steady steamtrain outlaw groove, as John Stanier angrily beat his kit as any heavy drummer should.
“Oh, hello,” said Patton, looking up after a while, thanking us for coming out after a 13 year live hiatus for the band. “San Fran-fucking-psycho! I’m surprised you aren’t all Waymos out there.”
Sometimes it felt like we were a bit Waymo-ish, as algorithmically trained sub-humans held their devices up along the front row and screens covered the view of the stage. A YouTube search the morning after revealed one vid errantly, perfectly, titled: “Suck a Great Show.” Maybe we are Waymos afterall.
“Where is a good place to take a shit around here?” asked Patton, who responded to achieving fame at an early age with what he has called “Shit-Terrorism.” “You used to be able to do it anywhere here. San Francisco has really changed.” Always one for an eclectic cover, he then led the band through “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” altering the lyrics toward defecation imagery. It’s part of his enduring charm.
It was late in the set by then but the metal mindmeld gelled and mosh or no mosh, video nerd or no, whatever age, gender, post-metal sub-genre leaning, everyone was on board for one of the most unique 21st century hard rock bands giving a masterful performance without compromise.
Tomahawk Set list:
Flashback
White Hats / Black Hats
SHHH!
Captain Midnight
Howlie
Predators and Scavengers
Business Casual
Doomsday Fatigue
South Paw
I.O.U.
Fatback
Birdsong
Rape This Day
Laredo
Stalkin’ (Duane Eddy cover)
God Hates A Coward
Sidewinder
Totem
Tomahawk:
Melvins:
