Toto “Mindfields”
Toto was a lab accident. Obviously, not a tragedy, like Chernobyl. More like Bruce Banner getting exposed to Gamma Rays and becoming The Hulk. With time, their odd greatness and great oddness have become much clearer. But back in 1982, they sounded both hulkingly awesome and completely normal. They won the Grammys for best song (“Rosanna”) and album (“IV”) of the year. They sold over ten million records. They were proof that Rock music could be sonically pristine and exceedingly popular; that musicians could look just like regular guys -- or worse -- and still be stars; and that Pop music could be “all encompassing” (“in toto”).
Yes, once upon a time, these notions all seemed valid. Disco was dead. Punk was underground. New Wave was embryonic. The charts were filled with Olivia Newton John, Air Supply, Juice Newton and Dan Fogleberg. But, in less than a year, everything would change. Toto would get swallowed up by a tsunami, broadcasted on MTV, and surfed by The Police, The Boss, Prince and Michael Jackson. In 1982, they sounded as vast and true as Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity. But, just ten years later, Toto seemed as invalid as the Michelson Morley Experiment, an examination conducted by a lesser known physicist, also named Albert. In the late 1800’s, Albert Michelson and Edward Morley asserted that light traveled through the universe through an invisible medium known as “aether.” They were convinced in their beliefs. To their peers, the hypothesis had the ring of great truth. Within the physics community, this was monumental research. But, over several years and failed attempts, Michelson and Morley were unable to prove out their theory. Eventually, they went back to their labs and moved on to newer, truer investigations. One hundred years later, as their star faded, Toto had begun to resemble the Michelson Morley Experiment.
Toto was like many great experiments in that, over time, the evidence proved less conclusive. But, within the realm of Rock music, there has never really been a group like them. When David Paich and Jeff Porcaro resolved to start a band in 1977, they were in their early twenties, but already seasoned veterans of studio sessions. They had mastered the precise touch required to form a backbone for Steely Dan, Boz Scaggs and a number of lighter Rock stars of the time. Both men were the children of session musicians. When they invited the two Steves (Porcaro and Lukather) to join, however, they were functionally adding two preternaturally talented teenagers. Eventually, Joseph Williams, the son of legendary film composer John Williams, would join the band as a lead singer. Considered together, Toto was an insular and nepotistic group of young men, who could play with rare competence, but who looked completely unlike Rock stars. The idea of the session guys -- the backing band -- daring to step forward was not unprecedented. But it was rare. And, in 1977, an era when Arena Rock, Disco and Punk were grabbing all the headlines, Toto’s lightness and tightness sounded almost illogical.
In their boundless exploration, Toto quickly discovered “Hold the Line,” a single that was big, bold and concise enough to pass for Foreigner. It sounded unlike the rest of their debut, but it was an unmistakable hit and the calling card of a multi-platinum record. Unfortunately, the next two Toto albums could not repeat that success. There were minor hits and world tours. But, by 1981, it seemed very plausible that the band would recede into the nameless, faceless abyss below the skyscrapers of the more successful Arena rockers of their day. In spite of their slight regression, Toto’s members continued to play on sessions and remained steadfast in their beliefs. Paich, The Porcaros, Lukather and singer Bobby Kimball were convinced that there was a light through their eclecticism and virtuosity. Amazingly, as 1981 became 1982, America agreed.
The late 1970s were mostly a bummer in the United States. Disco was, in part, a coked up way to self-medicate. Punk was a rebellion against the repression and the depression. And Arena Rock was a denial of it all. But, when Ronald Reagan replaced Jimmy Carter, the malaise of the previous decade collided with the theatrical confidence and grandeur of the new one. Hippies were becoming Yuppies. Music listeners were buying hi-fi stereos and becoming audiophiles. Listeners still wanted their music to be big and bold, but maybe a little neater and less furious. The Pop charts from 1981 begin to bear this out (Hall & Oates, REO Speedwagon), but 1982 is really the zenith for Yacht Rock as hegemony. Conditions were absolutely ideal for a band like Toto and an album like “IV” -- music that sounds amazing but feels almost like nothing.
Toto’s fourth album is the most eclectic album to have ever sold ten million copies. It does whatever it wants to do, and it does those things flawlessly. It’s not that every song was a hit or lands the way “Rosanna” or “Africa” did. But every song is performed spotlessly, and no song really sounds like any other. By this point, every player in the band was among the best in the world at their position. Moreover, as session musicians, they were elite collaborators. For Toto, in 1982, anything was possible. No player got in the way of the other. There is not a single heavy hand on the album. Even singer Bobby Kimball, who is something of a belter, knew how to pull back and harmonize in ways that, say, Dennis DeYoung, Steve Perry or Freddie Mercury did not. The result was an album that sounds like every instrument is the lead without any one coming on too strong. It’s a strange, but highly listenable balance that they achieved. And that odd equilibrium was never greater than it was on “Africa,” which, took the number one spot on the charts away from Men at Work before eventually and semi-permanently ceding it to Michael Jackson.
The music of 1983 opened up with Toto and Hall & Oates but closed with The King of Pop, The Police and The Eurythmics. New Wave arrived. MTV exploded. And Toto’s brief reign atop the monoculture quickly faded. Seemingly aware of the fleeting nature of fame, the guys continued to take important supporting roles. Steve Lukather and Jeff Porcaro both played on “Thriller.” And that duo, plus David Paich, played on Chicago’s album, “XIV.” In 1983, most of the band composed and performed the music for the film “Dune.” Amid all of this, Bobby Kimball was arrested for cocaine possession. By the middle part of the 1980s, Toto was a band without a lead singer, and freefalling out of fashion.
In truth, the band was able to persevere -- and even succeed -- through much of the decade. They burned through lead singers before landing on Joseph Williams. They shored up their massive audiences in Japan and the Nordic countries. And, back in the lab, they tried out a bunch of new things -- louder things, quieter things, more Progressive things, more romantic things. Their wild swings of style was only outdone by the precision of their playing. And, as with all big swings, they did occasionally connect. They continued to sell albums, though never again as they did with “IV.” And they continued to have top forty hits, though “Pamela,” from 1987 would be the last time they appeared anywhere on the Pop charts.
The 1990s ushered in three decades of restless, dry, and even tragic years for Toto. Outside of Japan, the band was not much of a going concern. In 1990, Bobby Kimball began booking shows using the name “Toto.” That same year, singer Joseph Williams, who succeeded Kimball, was himself arrested on cocaine charges. And then, in 1992, Jeff Porcaro died from a heart attack, brought on from years of cocaine abuse. Steve Lukather took the reins and resolved to carry on, though not without understandable doubt. Lukather’s version of Toto would soldier on for decades, occasionally adjoruning and reconstituting. Ironically, Bobby Kimball would rejoin the band in the 1990s. And, similarly, Toto would become ironically cool in the twenty first century, when Yacht Rockers began to mingle with nostalgic Indie Rockers and when Weezer covered “Africa” note for note.
As unusual as their sound and unexpected as their fame was, there also may never have been a band to have suffered such violent backlash as Toto. Theirs was not an instant revulsion, as was the case with The Bee Gees and Disco. The Gibb Brothers were both more popular and more quickly embraced back into popular culture. And the Toto backlash was not like what happened to Alannis Morisette, who was reluctantly oversaturated. It’s not comparable to the many one hit wonders who owned the airwaves for a month only to completely disappear and then reappear on “Totally 80s” nostalgia tours. Toto never imploded. There were no irreconcilable differences. No, they just fell out of favor, gradually and completely. All in, Toto spent two very fallow decades, searching for hits and for answers, salvaged only by their rabid Asian fans and a smattering of audiophiles.
In between their early, accidental coolness and their final resting spot in ironic coolness, Toto nerdily tried to prove out their original hypothesis. During this awkward middle age, they appeared either unaware of or allergic to trends. They got heavier when Pop got lighter and turned down the volume just as Metal picked up steam. With the exception of 1982, they were perpetually -- almost genetically -- out of step. However, in the later 90s, after Hair Metal had faded and Grunge was assimilated, Alternative Rock was as light as a Matchbox 20. The Modern Rock charts that year included Third Eye Blind, The Wallflowers, Natalie Imbruglia and Chumbawamba. Looking back, I wondered if it could have accommodated past prime Toto.
To answer that question, I had to check out “Mindfields,” the band’s tenth studio record. Released in 1999, it was their first album of new material since “Tambu” in 1995, and their last before 2006s “Falling in Between.” It also marked the return of singer Bobby Kimball, who, according to the band, had fully recovered vocally, emotionally, legally and pharmacologically. There was a Porcaro in the band (Mike, on bass). And Steve Lukather was back at the helm. On paper, at least, it looked like Toto was mostly intact. And, for the first time in over a decade, radio sounded curious and kind of easy going. Nobody was clamoring for new music from Toto. They were a long way from the top. But, if they could just loosen their grips a bit and swing a little less wildly, maybe they could connect.
It turned out that Toto could do nothing of the sort. The old dog still had plenty of tricks, but none of them were new. On “Mindfields,” they sound alternately like Richard Marx fronting Aerosmith or Kenny Loggins singing for The Allman Brothers Band or Donald Fagen writing and producing for Foreigner. At least half of the songs are bluesy howlers, where Kimball angrily, if tunefully, shouts on top of his dexterous band. And most of the tracks run past five minutes, extending breakdowns, solos and refrains well past anything reasonable. In total, the album runs for nearly eighty minutes long and was apparently resequenced several times for various international releases. It’s evident that “Mindfields” was obsessed over. But it’s equally apparent that it was done so without much empathy for the commercial market or for average listeners. It’s all just...a lot.
That being said, the album does sound kind of great. Not a missed note. The weird time signatures and exotic instruments all flow into fiery guitar solos and big harmonies. All of the players hit their marks and stay perfectly in their lanes. This album is expertly performed. But, as with most Toto albums, the dominance of the sound and the playing comes at the expense of the songs and the feeling. Had they released “Mindfields” a decade earlier, at the height of Richard Marx-ism, it may well have charted. Ten years later, though, it bore almost no relevance to modernity. It sounded like a bunch of ace, session players, performing for themselves and their acolytes. And, in a sense, that’s almost exactly what it was.
“Mindfields” is not terrible. It’s just not enjoyable. The singing can sound like barking. And the girth feels like middle-aged belly fat. But there are plenty of “wow” moments -- guitar solos that would make Eddie Van Halen applaud, drumming that sounds effortless but would trip up Elvin Jones, and daring changes that sound effortless. But those moments never amount to a great song. There was no need for a radio edit on these songs, but I’m not sure it would have been feasible if they’d tried. The music is somehow showy but wholly lacking in character, story and motivation. In 1999, Toto was like the Michael Bay of Rock songs, but without the commercial appeal.
While there are passages on “Mindfields” that resemble popular music, there are really only a couple of songs that could hypothetically stand as singles. “Mad About You,” (presumably not named after the Paul Reiser sitcom of the same name and from the same era) has a chiming guitar lead ready to take flight and a garish chorus that mostly pays off. It’s probably the only track on the record wherein Kimball shows vocal restraint. In 1989, it would have been miles cooler than Richard Marx. It would fit in perfectly as the soundtrack for a love scene in a lesser Tom Cruise movie. But, in 1999, it was simply too gaudy for radio.
“Melanie,” one of many Toto songs tagged with a lady’s first name, is five minutes, but feels more digestible than most of the record. Lukather takes lead vocals on this one and he is both a capable singer and far less bold than Kimball. The drums sound synthetic, but I suspect they are not. They’re also pert and easy, dressed in 80s fashion. There’s an Adult Alternative vibe about it. It’s no “Rosanna.” Or even “Pamela.” But I probably would have taken it over The Goo Goo Dolls in 1999.
On an album that is both bloated and also, oddly impressive, it’s surprising how forgettable most of the songs are. “Mindfields” opus, “High Price of Hate,” is the possible exception. Unfortunately, it’s memorable not for dynamism or an epic jam but for how unendingly grating it is. Featuring a riff nicked from Alannah Myles’ “Black Velvet” (and from a dozen Allman Brothers Band songs), Lukather’s guitar desperately tries to breathe life into a tireless, angry plodder. Kimball basically shouts his way through the song for ten minutes. You want it to get jazzy, like The Allmans or Steely Dan. But it never does. It’s just a really good band with a really loud singer, sharing his grievances, with no resolution in sight.
Though not beloved by critics or fans, I’d suggest that “Mindfields” is more assured musically than its immediate predecessors, “Tambu” and “Kingdom of Desire.” But, confidence was never the issue with Toto. And neither was talent. Aside from Kimball, who could still hit most of the notes, you don’t sense that any of the musicians have lost their faculties. Lukather and Paich could still bump into an ELO-ish number like they do on “Selfish,” but they overcomplicate an idea that, for Jeff Lynne, would have been as simple as a big beat, fuzzy guitar and strings. And, on “No Love,” when they indulge in heavy sentiment and lighter melody, they sound like late Foreigner, with twice the instruments and half the heart. As Toto albums go, “Mindfields” was only exceptional in that it sold poorly and didn’t have a single hit. But, it suffers from the same uncanny gift that most Toto albums do -- the ability to inspire awe without delivering a sense of pleasure or pain. No matter how hard you try to picture the men in the band and to remember their names and faces, there is something inorganic about their product.
In 2000, Toto returned to the lab to review the findings from their twenty plus year experiment. Then, in 2002, they released a covers album, which included songs from artists you would expect (Steely Dan, Herbie Hancock, The Beatles) and a couple you would not (Elvis Costello, Bob Marley). It was their first album without an original and it would be their last album for another four years. During this period, co-founder David Paich half-retired from the band. Without Paich or a single Porcaro in the band, Steve Lukather briefly turned the lights out in 2008. However, the band returned a couple of years later to raise money for Mike Porcaro, who was suffering mightily from ALS. In the last ten years, Toto officially disbanded at least twice and released two studio albums. Functionally, they are now a part time band -- a nostalgia act in the States and superstars in several far away places. But, every now and then, when Steve Lukather gets exposed to those Gamma Rays, he reunites some version of the mutant supergroup.
For many years, Arena Rock bands were maligned for being nameless, faceless and kind of soulless. Toto has been accused of all of those things, and worse. Oddly, today they are less remembered than more cliched, and less successful, peers. But they were also the most musically ambitious -- and capable -- of their cohort. They lacked the dominance of Boston’s guitar tone and the accessibility of Foreigner’s hooks. They weren’t as desperate as Journey or as cheesy as REO Speedwagon. At times, they were all of those things. But, contrary to their name, no band -- not even The Beatles -- can be all encompassing. Toto was perhaps the only band to have ever really tried. Their hypothesis ultimately proved invalid or, at least, inconclusive. But, in 1982, after the Iran Hostage Crisis but before “Thriller,” they sounded like a miracle of science.