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**Faith No More - Sol Invictus**
★★★★☆

After an 18-year hiatus that felt like a geological epoch in rock terms, Faith No More's return with Sol Invictus arrives with all the fanfare of a band who never really went away – at least not in spirit. The San Francisco misfits who spent the late '80s and '90s gleefully demolishing genre boundaries have crafted their most cohesive statement since Angel Dust, proving that sometimes the longest sabbaticals yield the most rewarding comebacks.

The road back to Sol Invictus began in 2009 when the classic lineup – Mike Patton, Jim Martin, Mike Bordin, Billy Gould, and Roddy Bottum – reunited for what were initially billed as one-off festival appearances. Those tentative steps back into the spotlight gradually evolved into a full-blown resurrection, with the band spending years in rehearsal rooms and studios, methodically crafting material that would justify breaking their self-imposed exile. The result is an album that sounds both unmistakably like Faith No More and refreshingly contemporary, a trick that's eluded many of their alt-rock contemporaries.

Sol Invictus finds the band operating in familiar territory while pushing into unexplored sonic landscapes. The trademark Faith No More blueprint – Patton's mercurial vocals careening between crooning balladry and unhinged screaming, Martin's crushing guitar work, and rhythm section interplay that's equal parts groove and controlled chaos – remains intact. Yet there's a newfound maturity here, a sense that these songs have been lived with rather than simply written. The production, handled by the band themselves, strips away any unnecessary flourishes, presenting these ten tracks with a clarity that serves both their heaviest moments and most delicate passages.

"Motherfucker" opens proceedings with characteristic perversity – a title that suggests confrontational aggression but delivers instead a surprisingly tender meditation on mortality and legacy, wrapped in one of Patton's most affecting vocal performances. It's a statement of intent that immediately signals this isn't going to be a nostalgia trip. The album's centrepiece, "Sunny Side Up," showcases the band's continuing ability to marry the beautiful with the bizarre, building from Bottum's delicate piano work into a maelstrom of competing melodies that somehow coalesce into perfect sense.

"Separation Anxiety" emerges as perhaps the album's finest achievement, a seven-minute epic that encompasses everything Faith No More does best. Martin's guitar work here is particularly inspired, weaving between crushing riffs and atmospheric textures while Patton delivers some of his most nuanced vocal work, shifting between vulnerable confession and theatrical bombast. The song's extended instrumental passages recall the band's most adventurous moments without feeling like pastiche.

Elsewhere, "Cone of Shame" provides the album's most direct connection to their '90s heyday, driven by a groove that could have slotted seamlessly onto King for a Day. "Rise of the Fall" explores more experimental territory, with Bottum's keyboards taking centre stage in a way that recalls the band's most prog-influenced moments. The closing "From the Dead" serves as both epitaph and resurrection hymn, Patton's vocals floating over a soundscape that's equal parts funeral dirge and celebration.

What's most striking about Sol Invictus is how it avoids the pitfalls that typically befall reunion albums. Rather than attempting to recapture past glories or chase contemporary trends, Faith No More have created something that feels genuinely necessary. The songs address themes of aging, mortality, and legacy without descending into maudlin self-reflection, while the musical arrangements display the kind of confidence that can only come from a band completely comfortable with their own identity.

The album's legacy continues to unfold nearly a decade after its release. While it didn't spawn any massive radio hits – Faith No More have always been too idiosyncratic for that kind of success – it succeeded in something more valuable: proving that artistic integrity and creative restlessness don't have expiration dates. Sol Invictus stands as a testament to the enduring power of Faith No More's singular vision, a reminder that some bands are simply too vital to stay buried. In an era of endless reunions and cash-grab comebacks, it's that rarest of things: a return that actually enhances rather than diminishes a legacy.