TEEN YOUR ENTHUSIASM (9)

By: Heather Quinlan
April 26, 2023

One in a series of 25 enthusiastic posts, contributed by 25 HILOBROW friends and regulars, on the topic of heartthrobs from our adolescences). Series edited by Heather Quinlan.

MIKE PATTON

I had crushes all the time. My first was John Travolta/Danny Zuko in Grease. I made my dad take me to see it twice. When Olivia Newton-John’s Sandy storms off after Danny tries to make out with her I thought, “Kiss him! Kiss him, you fool!” Or words to that effect. I was five. A year later it was Mandy Patinkin as Che Guevara, taking a cork out of a bottle with his teeth in an ad for Evita. Stand back, Buenos Aires! I had a type.

As I got older, some of my friends gravitated toward boy bands like Menudo, then New Kids on the Block. My best friend Kerri still loves them. I loved tormenting her with Leper Messiah or Shine on You Crazy Diamond Parts I-IX. Musically, I had a type.

Enter, Mike Patton, stage left. I probably first laid eyes on him in a Metal Edge or RIP article about his band, Faith No More. (“Why don’t they call themselves ‘No More Faith?’” Kerri asked.) I was 16, he, 21. I was chubby and frizzy. He, equal parts angelic and demonic, with long, chestnut hair and abs that young men magically acquire without sit-ups. His voice spanned octaves, he sang in multiple characters, and seemed to live in multiple dimensions.

How to describe Mike Patton aside from “hot guy in a band?” I’m still not sure without tumbling over my words. You might know him from “Epic,” which, as is typical in the music biz — it’s not one of FNM’s best songs, but was their biggest hit.

One of my favorites from that album was Edge of the World, where he whispers like a man who’s praying, croons like Sinatra, then sings the chorus like a snotty youngster making fun of Sinatra. I envisioned the video. Fade In: I’m sitting at a small, round table with a white tablecloth, water in a wine glass (again, I’m a kid), and the room is dimly lit except for a spotlight on me. Mike’s wearing, of all things, a peach tuxedo, and wooing me with his endearments (“Come here my love/I’ll tell you a secret/Come closer now/I want you to believe it”); and his campiness — when he sings “Lay your head on my shoulder/It’s not the point/That I’m 40 years older,” I saw me lifting my head at the big reveal of him in a Frankenstein mask—generally how I saw people 40 years older. Then he would yank it off and show me that angelic face again. Fade out.

I usually direct documentary films, not narratives. Perhaps this is an example why. Needless to say, my fantasy never really took place. Except for one bit. Years later I was telling my friend Ian that my dad had agreed to let me see Faith No More with Voivod and Soundgarden at The Ritz, then reneged at the last minute. (I was 16, a girl, and this wasn’t Grease.) Ian, who’s my age, told me his mom let him go. But being a mensch, he got us VIP tickets to see Faith No More play at Brooklyn’s Williamsburg Waterfront. It was a beautiful July 5th evening, no humidity, gorgeous sunset. Suddenly, the band started playing Peaches & Herb’s “Reunited.” Then Mike Patton strolled onstage, wearing the peach tuxedo of my dreams.

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TEEN YOUR ENTHUSIASM (9)

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