The Mars Volta - Frances The Mute (2LP) - Red Vinyl

Frances the Mute is the point where The Mars Volta took the success of De-Loused and decided to sail straight into the storm. Released in March 2005 through Universal, it landed shockingly high on the US charts and made it clear this band wasn’t going to ease up for anyone. If De-Loused felt like a frantic sprint, this one is a fever dream stretched to album length, full of secret doors, coded messages and passages that seem to rearrange your room if you listen loud enough.

The lore behind it still fascinates me. Cedric Bixler-Zavala has talked about how the album’s story was sparked by a diary found by their late bandmate Jeremy Ward, written by an adopted man tracing his past. Each piece is named for someone from that diary, which gives the record a haunted intimacy even at its loudest. That personal pull matters because the music is wild. Omar Rodríguez-López produced and, as usual, stitched movements together like a film editor, so the record feels less like a set of songs and more like one giant, ever-morphing suite.

The opening of Cygnus....Vismund Cygnus politely knocks for a minute, then the door gets blown off. Jon Theodore’s drums tumble like an avalanche, Juan Alderete’s bass grinds underneath, and Ikey Owens’ keys flicker like faulty streetlights. It’s the kind of playing that made a generation of guitar bands suddenly feel small. Then L’Via L’Viaquez flips the script again, bouncing between Spanish-sung verses and scorching rock choruses. The montuno piano is a thrill, and John Frusciante drops in with guitar that slides between slinky and searing. The way the arrangement tilts from salsa-rooted rhythm to prog squall and back is still one of their finest tricks, and Rich Costey’s mix keeps the chaos readable.

The Widow is the gateway drug, and it did its job in a big way, giving them a rare burst of radio play and their biggest single. Cedric wails like a torch singer at the edge of a cliff, and that mournful trumpet that creeps in is a perfect ghost light. The radio edit trims the long noise coda, but on the album, the comedown matters as much as the hook. Then there’s Miranda That Ghost Just Isn’t Holy Anymore, which opens with field recordings of coquí frogs at night before drifting into a slow, brass-soaked lament. Adrián Terrazas-González’s reeds and horns colour the record throughout, and on Miranda they feel like fog rolling in off the sea.

Cassandra Gemini is the crucible. Thirty-odd minutes that never crack into simple verse-chorus comfort, just one idea detonating into another while still landing melodies you can hum on the tram home. On vinyl, it becomes a ritual of sides and seams, which suits the album’s cinema feel. If you’re the type who loves poring over runout grooves, the Frances the Mute vinyl has another delight. Unlike the standard CD, the title track appears on certain editions of the LP and digital releases, turning the whole world of the record a click darker. It’s a neat detail that’s made The Mars Volta vinyl collectors compare pressings like wine notes.

Part of the thrill here is how human it sounds for such a meticulous construction. You can hear sticks scrape cymbals and amps breathe. The band is audacious, yes, but they also leave space for quiet. Those moments amplify the grief threaded through the story, which ties back to Ward and to the album’s search for identity. It’s a heavy record, emotionally and sonically, but it avoids bloat because the performances are so alive.

At the time, critics were split. Some loved the ambition, others bristled at the sprawl. Two decades on, it’s settled into the canon as a modern prog landmark and a fan favourite, the one that best captures their mix of punk impulse, Latin rhythm and psychedelic tone. If you’re crate-digging in a Melbourne record store and spot a clean copy, don’t hesitate. The Mars Volta albums on vinyl reward repeat plays, but this one begs for it. The low-end thump of Juan’s bass and the swirl of horns and tape FX feel more dimensional on wax, and Cassandra Gemini makes more spatial sense when you’re flipping sides.

For collectors, Frances the Mute vinyl sits high on the wishlist, and it’s worth hunting a pressing that includes the title track. If you prefer convenience, it’s easy enough to buy The Mars Volta records online, though half the fun is finding them in the wild. Either way, it’s a must if you care about adventurous rock and if you’re building a shelf that says you listen to your vinyl. In the growing ecosystem of vinyl records Australia has embraced, this sits right next to the classics for a reason. Put it on, dim the lights, and let the frogs in.