Ultimate Guitar (Music News @ Ultimate-Guitar.com, 12/06/14) has reported on Vintage Vinyl News’ update of the recent greatest singers of all time list. The original list was confined to Rolling Stone’s 100 Greatest Singers of All Time, and, as expected, named Axl Rose number one. VVN’s list has now been expanded to include the Range Place findings and Billboard awards. Based on their collective research, it’s not Rose. It’s Mike Patton with a staggering…wait for it…6 octaves and a 1/2 note vocal range. Until now Patton has been seriously underrated. A further 5 singers, including the Gunners front man, have more than 5, but alt-metal band Faith No More’s Patton is forever unique in this accomplishment in rock music (the world record holder, Christian singer Tim Storms, has spanned 10 octaves and according to Wikipedia also holds the record for the lowest sound produced by a human G(−7), or 0.189 Hz, eight octaves below the lowest G on the piano, or just over seven octaves below the piano – LOL, freaky!). Here’s the Range Place’s assessment of Mike Patton:
Baritone (Eb1 to E7) – 6 octaves, 1/2 note
This clip, “Midlife Crisis”, traverses 3 octaves. I’ve added a live concert clip from the ’97 Phoenix Festival to the studio version; both are extraordinary. The low notes are especially masterful; these are the most difficult to realize in a rock music context. Soundgarden’s multi-octave front man Chris Cornell does them very well too, but Patton’s vocal is effortless and powerful. He hits those notes assuredly and he’s barely out of his comfort zone, spanning from a significant low note B1 to high note B4. His technical prowess is impressive, crazy smooth register transitions, and his voice has a fine timbre. He infuses his soul into everything he sings, and is one of the most versatile singers on the planet. Wikipedia notes Patton is across: “crooning, falsetto, screaming, opera, death growls, rapping, mouth music, beat-boxing, and scatting” among others. All round, a darn cool front man, and a vocal genius.
I’ll be posting some more about Patton and FNM at some stage; there’s gold there.
Midlife Crisis – studio version with concert footage:
I haven’t always been a writer. My creative voice, that is, went gravely silent. For decades. Recognised as the best fiction writer in my Intermediate school (the two year interval between Primary and Secondary education), at the age of twelve the onset of depression, undiagnosed for a further twenty five years, and by my late teens addictions, both the substance and process forms, stifled it utterly. My outward, and to a large extent inner, life transformed when I got into recovery from addiction in my twenties. Eventually the black dog was also diagnosed and treated. Along the way, I completed a university degree with Honours, majoring in English and Philosophy, became a skilled academic writer, and then trained as a teacher. Teaching furnished me with public speaking skills, helping to overcome debilitating shyness. I completed a creative writing course and endured more than twenty five years of therapy. Still that elusive gift of imaginative expression did not return. Requiem. I mourned.
Mostly alone, I was wholly responsible for my life in the big wide world and poorly equipped from the get-go. Hence the imperative to work hard and make something of my life, to secure my future, was strong. I don’t blame my parents for the dissonance of my childhood. They did the best they knew how, but their respective upbringings had made neither competent parents. In their songbook, you fed and clothed kids, taught them to respect their elders, to never be a burden, corrected their mistakes, and that was about it. No ornaments of emotional sustenance, nor encouragement of potential were attempted. The reverse was true; they were hyper-critical, and forced me, the eldest, into a life-limiting role as carer of others. This was necessary for my mother, working full-time while rearing three children with little assistance from my father, who was domineering and demanding. Few other living skills were imparted. And for me, chained to mother indoors as domestic servant, forbidden to go out and to play, key social skills went unlearned as well. My siblings, though neither substance abusers, fared as poorly in the world as I.
Ironically, my particular misfortune, addiction, was also my greatest gift. Faced with its awful progression, it was clear I must seek recovery or else die; worse, I might go permanently and completely insane. The willingness to change thus instilled in me, I took up with gusto the opportunities presented to me to heal, and slowly learned those things previously a mystery to me. This integrated me more comfortably into the world. I acquired a room of my own, and eventually a little money – Virginia Wolf’s minimum prerequisites for a woman to write fiction. There were ups and downs; my recovery, though substantial at times, was disrupted by periods of relapse. And the rhythmic beat of an artistic expression remained absent.
An outwardly small, not even especially uplifting, decision changed everything. It arose during an interlude where I had become very isolated following a bereavement. Simon was my dearest friend, whom I willingly cared for as illness overtook him. I was obligated for sure; Simon had loyally and doggedly looked out for me while I endured my own skirmishes with illness. But it was more than this; the certainty that we were soon to be parted forever activated a wish to be by his side in the time that remained. He died leaving me sole proprietorship of our joint business, along with some money. He had been a huge part of my life for a decade and a half. My grief was considerable, and our life and death battle had been all-consuming. I had not sought assistance for my own needs and now was besieged with those confounded demons again. It was a painful place to be – so painful I vowed that, if I survived, never again would I abandon my own care so completely. I began once more to seek recovery, and this time it was harder than ever.
Desperate, I turned to a dedicated online forum, initially for assistance in obtaining pharmaceuticals to self-administer (the role of personal physician was too often my default in times of extreme trouble). On joining the group, I soon found a section called Sky Lounge, where members intermingled for other, livelier, pursuits. Attracted by the classic rock music thread, I began contributing to it. Rock music was a passion of mine but I had not followed it closely for many years. My vinyl collection had long ago been lost in the haze of the worst of my active addiction. All that remained was an uninspiring set of bargain basement CDs, and a cheap stereo set. My knowledge of rock music post-1979 was patchy to say the least. Yet as I keenly set about filling those gaps, an avid thirst for knowledge of the purest kind awakened. An inability to feel comfortable in the pursuit of pleasure for its own sake had curiously co-existed with addiction for me, even more so once my endgame became recovery. (Though not always able to maintain abstinence, the longing for its realization always resonated at the core of my being.) So it was miraculous to find myself profoundly absorbed in an activity purely for fulfilment – music and writing being my greatest loves.
On that thread, across time zones, I met TJ. We swiftly struck up a friendship, easy rapport being TJs character. Our musical predilections were closely aligned. TJ is an accomplished musician and songwriter – the maestro – younger than I. His knowledge of the most contemporary music far exceeds mine, though he has also been inspired by and still loves many of the rock immortals from the 60s and 70s. My writing ability seemed to impress him; he was reassuring about my talent and evolving skill. I was captivated by his musical expertise, and his selection of music; thus between us a chemistry developed. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that we become steadfast friends – ball and biscuit. Our interactions on the forum threads were lively and entertaining. My engagement with writing was thereby, in charming manner, embedded and refined. It was not fiction, but this mattered not at all. Fascinated by the background stories to the tunes, I explored and wrote about the creative process. TJ’s responses were priceless – a remark here, a tale there, when introducing me to a great many songs, my detective instinct would stir into action. A nocturne of rich pickings – through TJ’s gentle input and support, inspiration flourished, unconstrained. To my intense wonder, the trickle of ideas became a stream – with a bridge. Writing harmonised, and found expression, with music, within my soul. The collected notes and stories assembled into a symphony – a body of work. My lifestream.
This in turn became ultimate redemption. Motivated like never before, I returned to my spiritual centre for recovery, with a new determination. The entire tone of my being reformed. I have found beautiful freedom.
Wikipedia notes Patton is across: “crooning, falsetto, screaming, opera, death growls, rapping, mouth music, beat-boxing, and scatting” among others. All round, a darn cool front man, and a vocal genius.
Notes on Being 