It was on a cloudy Friday night in June 2009 when five men in varying states of middle age walked out onto the stage in front of 80,000 people, to solidify the reunion that people thought would never happen. In the face of massive anticipation, – the San Francisco band who had revolutionized rock and metal in the early 90s, before imploding under the weight of frustration with the music industry and with each other – had gone for a supper-club vibe for what was only their second show in 11 years. Against a backdrop of giant red curtains, four-fifths of the band ambled onstage sporting matching black suits and proceeded to ease into a faithful cover of Peaches & Herb’s disco-era cheesy listening classic, .
A minute later, singer appeared, clad head-to-toe in red and leaning heavily on a cane, as if the interim decade had aged him beyond his years. “ he crooned to audience and bandmates alike. It was the perfect opening: unexpected, contrary, antagonistic and funny.
But then unexpected, contrary, antagonistic and funny was precisely what Faith No More were always about. The cover version was a gag, of course, albeit one that contained some truth. As the singer swapped his cane for a microphone – and later, a megaphone – it became clear that Faith No More, as the world knew and loved them, were very much back.
No one was more surprised at this fact than bassist Billy Gould, the man who had co-founded the band almost 30 years before, and spent the best part of two dec.
