WES BORLAND: At first, I drank beer and hung out, and we did mushrooms on the road and X. One night I tried a couple of heavier drugs, but then I realized, “Whoa, that’s bad. That’s so bad. ’Cause if I keep doing this, it’s so easy to take this and fill up the loneliness hole so fast.” I was like, “Boy, I could just fill up with this every night, and then I’ll find something like coke or heroin that will fill it up even quicker,” and if you do that the hole just gets bigger and it takes more of it to fill. There’s another way to fill that hole more permanently, and that’s by reading books on the road or going sightseeing—being a little tourist for a day. You’ve been given a chance to learn and go to all these different places and take advantage of that instead of nursing a hangover.
Capitalizing on the nu metal fever, Ozzfest assembled a cutting-edge lineup in 1998 that included Limp Bizkit, Sevendust, Coal Chamber, System of a Down, Incubus, Ultraspank, Snot, and Sepultura front man Max Cavalera’s new band, Soulfly. But the year ended in tragedy when Snot front man Lynn Strait was killed on December 11, when his Ford Tempo collided with a truck on an off-ramp on California’s 101 Freeway near Santa Barbara. In tribute, many of Strait’s friends and peers—including Slipknot’s Corey Taylor, Jonathan Davis, Sevendust’s Lajon Witherspoon, Sugar Ray’s Mark McGrath, System of a Down’s Serj Tankian, and Incubus’s Brandon Boyd—contributed vocals to an album of unfinished Snot songs and released it as Strait Up in November 2000.
It didn’t take long for the nu metal community to rebound from Strait’s death. For much of 1999, rock radio blared Korn, Limp Bizkit, and Deftones, and in June nu metal went supernova when Limp Bizkit put out its second album, Significant Other, which featured the sex anthem “Nookie.” The disc debuted at number one on Billboard, selling 834,000 copies its first week. In 2001, the album was certified seven times platinum; it has sold over fourteen million units to date worldwide.
FRED DURST: Everything on Significant Other blows me away. We nailed it. Every song is its own entity. I can’t think of a song that I’m not excited about. I think maybe I wanted to redo one chorus that I didn’t get to do, but I was happy about everything else. We just went in and did it, real natural.
WES BORLAND: It was a hard record to make mentally and emotionally. We were constantly going, “Is this right? Is this the best we can do?” We were constantly second-guessing ourselves. We had a lot to live up to, and we were thinking about what our fans wanted and how to make that without compromising what we wanted.
FRED DURST: I really dug into myself and pulled a lot of stuff out. There are songs about sex and breaking stuff, but a lot of my lyrics come from betrayal and the way I’ve been treated by certain ex-girlfriends, because those scars don’t go away. When I was in relationships, I was so naïve. I’d think everything was okay because we cared about each other. I’d spent all this time to prove I liked her, so I think everything’s okay [and I stop pampering her]. And suddenly she feels rejected, and she thinks I don’t like her or respect her, and she’ll start fucking my friends. That’s the worst thing. Your close friends have the best connections to the lonely girlfriend, so they act all sympathetic just to get her in bed. It became really hard to trust anybody.
When Significant Other blew up, Durst started to believe his own hype. He became a regular on MTV’s TRL and an A&R man at Interscope, signing Staind, Cold, and Puddle of Mudd. He wrote songs with pop princess Britney Spears and boasted about the two allegedly having a sexual relationship. He dated celebrities Carmen Electra and, reportedly, Halle Berry, who shot a romantic scene with him for the video of Limp Bizkit’s cover of The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes,” a song from the appropriately titled 2003 album Results May Vary. Such Hollywood antics undercut his metal cred, and when Durst bad-mouthed Slipknot and even Korn in the press, boasting about how the student had eclipsed the sensei, there was a major backlash. In an online chat, Jonathan Davis said, “It’s time for me to put that little bitch in his place. Never bite the hand that feeds.” Ironically, Durst expressed similar sentiments—albeit more graphically—in a message he left on the answering machine of Stephen Richards, the singer for Taproot. Durst felt betrayed after the band, whom he’d offered a deal at Interscope, signed with Velvet Hammer/Atlantic for their debut album, Gift, in 2000.
FRED DURST (phone machine message): Hey man, you fucked up. You don’t ever bite the hand that feeds in this business, bro, and your fuckin’ manager so-called guy is a fuckin’ idiot . . . a loser motherfucker goin’ nowhere. You have just chosen that path. Took you under my wing, brought you to my house, fuckin’ talked about your ass on radio, on press, and you embarrassed . . . me and the Interscope family. Your association with Limp Bizkit does not exist. Your manager slings that name around, he’s gonna be blackballed and probably be erased . . . and you will, too. He’s a fuckin’ idiot. You’re gonna fuckin’ learn from this time right here. I hope you let your band know that you just fucked yourself. You need to be associated with somebody in this business. You need somethin’ to get you out there, put you out there, and believe in. Now you got enemies and you’re fuckin’ yourself already. Tell your friend that. Don’t fuckin’ show up at my show, ’cause, if you do, you’re gonna get fucked. All right? You and your fuckin’ punk ass, man. You call your fuckin’ manager, David Manifestease-whatever, ask him what he’s done and doin’. You’re a fuckin’ dumb motherfucker. You’re learnin’ right now exactly how to ruin your career before it gets started. All of the luck, brother. Fuck you.
MIKE DeWOLF (Taproot): The deal Durst offered wasn’t too good, and in the long run we were glad we found out what we would’ve been dealing with. That’s putting it mildly.
JONATHAN DAVIS: There was one time when Fred was a really cool guy. Then fame hit and went to his head. I miss the old Fred.
WES BORLAND: Fred really wanted to embrace celebrity and stardom and become that character, just as I was hoping to become the character of the weird Mike Patton-y guy. We’ve always polarized people. There’s not a lot of dismissive gray area when it comes to Limp Bizkit. A lot of people that were polarized to the hatred side were in complete disbelief that anyone would actually like us. That’s one of the reasons I left the band. A lot of the people I had looked up to my entire music career were bashing something I was a part of.
TOM MORELLO: For me, Woodstock ’99 [which included Rage Against the Machine, Limp Bizkit, Korn, and Kid Rock] was the low point of nu metal—the rapes in the pit, the trashing of the sites. It just seemed like it distilled the worst element of metal—the misogynist jock buggery—and the message wasn’t announced as “this is a horrible thing.” It was more like, “This is our new Woodstock generation—[a] bunch of idiots.”
JONATHAN DAVIS: We rocked that place that first night. Everybody had fun. The second night, Limp Bizkit fucked it up for everybody.
WES BORLAND: The conditions at Woodstock were really shitty and overpriced. The organizers were running out of cash and water. People were getting crazy, anyway, but the shit didn’t hit the fan until the day after we played. When we played it was a crazy show but all we could see were endless people going onto the horizon. If there were fires, I didn’t see them when we were onstage. People were surfing on pieces of wood and Fred went out and started surfing on a piece of plywood, but I don’t feel like he encouraged anyone to riot. It felt like our normal set. We weren’t even at the venue when the rioting cranked up.
MATT PINFIELD: I think Fred burned a lot of bridges with friends, with other bands that he was actually associated with and helped out. It was personal. There are obviously people who didn’t like him. They thought it was a dumbing-down of rock. In the industry, there were people who had it out for Fred, and therefore had it out for nu metal.
Some bands were happy to be considered part of the explosively popular nu metal movement. Others were dragged kicking and screaming to the carnival. The four most visible were Los Angeles’s Linkin Park, whose 2000 debut, Hybrid Theory, was a commercial feast of rapping, m
elodic screaming, and industrial metal rhythms; Des Moines, Iowa’s Slipknot, whose 1999 self-titled debut featured rapping and syncopated beats within a sea of experimental guitar riffs, samples, scratching, and percussive clatter; Chicago’s Disturbed, who started out combining rap and vocal melodies with abrasive guitar riffs; and Lawrence, Massachusetts’s Godsmack, whose 1998 self-titled debut featured plenty of staccato drop-D riffing and vocals that sounded like a blend between front man Sully Erna’s favorite singers—Layne Staley (Alice in Chains) and James Hetfield (Metallica).
MIKE SHINODA (Linkin Park): When we came out with Hybrid Theory, the other stuff that was even remotely close to it was what we were calling behind closed doors “frat rock.” It was really aggressive male, testosterone-filled, “I’m in your face, I’m a badass,” alpha-male shit. Our stuff was not that. We came out with a flavor of hip-hop, but there was also a flavor of Depeche Mode and the Cure and stuff that was a little more introverted, and we exposed insecurities that those other bands would not touch. Our own A&R guy at the label was telling [vocalist] Chester [Bennington], “We need to kick Mike out of the band, we need to put you in front and do less of that other shit.” He wanted our DJ to wear a gimmicky outfit to look like a mad scientist because other bands had gimmicks.
CHESTER BENNINGTON (Linkin Park): The second we heard it, we were like, “Fuck that.” We had this repulsed reaction to that. We thought of ourselves as a band that was on the forefront of doing something original that had not been done before. Granted, a couple of bands we had no connection with had done a similar thing to what we were doing, but to be lumped into that nu metal thing felt wrong. We felt at that point that we either needed to embrace this or separate ourselves, because if we’re going to be expected to make this kind of music for the rest of our lives, that’s not very exciting.
COREY TAYLOR (Slipknot): We had elements of nu metal, but that was because we wanted to do everything. We were so much beyond that, and it took ten years for people to figure it out. We were the heaviest, craziest fucking band on the stage. Everyone gave us attitude and we were like, “Put it the fuck away. We don’t give a fuck. We’re not here to make fucking friends or suck up to anybody. We’re here to destroy and move on.”
JIM ROOT (Slipknot): I’m not really sure what nu metal is. I grew up listening to thrash bands like Overkill, Flotsam & Jetsam, Slayer, Venom, Metallica, Megadeth, and Anthrax. So to me, the guitars, other than the fact that we’re tuned down real low, are real riffy like that. Sometimes that gets a little bit convoluted in the mix with all these auxiliary drums, but I really think we’re our own thing.
SULLY ERNA (Godsmack): Unfortunately, we got lumped into the nu metal thing, and we were never that. We weren’t rap-rock. We weren’t doing all that weird shit and weird sounds like Korn was doing. We were just a rock band. It’s because at that time Korn and Limp Bizkit were blowing up so big that they just had to categorize us. But you can’t compare Godsmack’s “Keep Away” to “Nookie.”
DAVID DRAIMAN (Disturbed): The one thing that seems to unify nu metal bands is that they’re all focused on issues like self-development and individuality and things that are strong and inherently a part of the human condition, which is definitely something I’m proud to be associated with—as opposed to old metal, which sort of dealt with content that was somewhat flimsy, nonsensical, meaningless. On the other hand, I don’t see how rap-metal and what we do can be categorized together. As nu metal became defined as this fusion of hip-hop and metal, we began to feel like the odd stepchild, going, “Why are we being lumped in with this?” Granted there’s a rhythmic vocal delivery, but truth be told, I borrow a lot of the vocal rhythms more from reggae than from anything else. And I’m always sure to fuse them with very strong melodies, unlike most rappers. We certainly benefited from the momentum of the movement at the time, but years later it’s frustrating to be labeled as one of those bands when we didn’t really have anything stylistically to do with it.
The first nu metal pioneers to implode were Coal Chamber. By 2002, after the release of their third and final album, Dark Days, the band members were traveling in different buses and there were fights almost daily. Some of the friction stemmed from the death of Drowning Pool front man Dave Williams, who succumbed to a heart attack on the road in Virginia on August 14, 2002, at the age of thirty.
DEZ FAFARA: Dave was so over the top he made me look not over the top, and I was over the fucking top. When we lost Dave, it was a huge wakeup call. I started to straighten out my life, and to do that I had to get my own tour bus to get away from the drugs and the craziness. I had just gotten married, so the orgies weren’t gonna work. And being surrounded by people that don’t go to bed for days wasn’t gonna work either. Those guys were on meth so hard. These days, I’d rather have a glass of wine, smoke five joints, and talk about dragon mythology than be off my head and blowing shit up.
MEEGS RASCÓN: The final point came when we all decided without Dez to end our relationship with Sharon Osbourne, who was our manager. We felt like we weren’t going anywhere with her. It had run its course and we needed another point of view.
DEZ FAFARA: They had a meeting in a hotel room one day behind my back. Some of the guys had been up for four or five days straight on meth. They called Sharon and fired her. And she’s not only our manager, but also my second mom. The only reason we had a good shot in the business is because she was behind us. They fired my business manager, and that night at a gig they handed me contracts that would have signed the band name and the whole band over to them. Normally I would just take a piece of paper and sign it and walk out, but I looked at it and showed it to my fiancée, Anastasia. And she went, “Whoa, this is fucked up. They’re trying to take the band.”
MEEGS RASCÓN: I don’t think it was quite so dramatic. I don’t remember any of the details ’cause I was too fucked up. But I know we got to Lubbock, Texas, and from the morning to the evening we were all fighting. By the time I got onstage we had both drank a lot and we were taunting each other, and before you know it we were throwing shit at each other and punching each other.
DEZ FAFARA: I booked every show. Came up with every song, came up with the name of the band. And people on drugs wanted to take over the band. I watched them spinning on meth before we went onstage, and people in security came over and said, “Hey, they’re really cranked out over there. Crazy shit’s gonna happen.” Sure enough, Meegs tried to stab me with the guitar headstock for the first song. I realized, “Wait a minute, this guy’s trying to actually fuckin’ hurt me.” I said, “That’s it,” and we started roughhousing. I grabbed the mic and said, “This is the last Coal Chamber show ever.” Then I walked into my tour bus. Meegs came in ten minutes later and we exchanged blows. I think I got the better of him because he was on the bottom when they pulled me off.
MEEGS RASCÓN: We literally wanted to gouge each other’s eyes out and break each other’s bones. The band was a ticking time bomb and that was the moment where it exploded.
After Coal Chamber’s career came to an abrupt end, Fafara continued as the front man for the more thrash- and death metal–oriented DevilDriver. Other nu metal pioneers also went through major life changes. Weary and depressed from years of drug and alcohol abuse, and newly committed to a life of Christianity, Head left Korn in 2005. Drummer David Silveria quit and opened his own restaurant. Unable to express himself fully musically or coexist with front man Fred Durst and his ever-growing ego, guitarist Wes Borland left Limp Bizkit in 2001, effectively crippling the band. He rejoined briefly in 2004 and played on The Unquestionable Truth (Part 1), which was inexplicably released without any advertising or promotion. Borland quit again, and Limp Bizkit began a long hiatus, which they ended in 2009 for a European tour. Their first studio album in six years, Gold Cobra, came out in 2011 and received a lukewarm response from fans and critics. The band from the nu metal scene that has enjoyed the greatest longevity is unquestionably Deftones, which, ironically, has endured some of the wor
st trauma. When the band was working on its fourth album, Deftones, Moreno was drinking too much and drifting away from Carpenter creatively, and Cheng, who had just gone through a divorce, was in the throes of drug addiction. But things were about to get worse.
CHI CHENG (Deftones): I was so fucked up I don’t even remember writing Deftones. Before I came in I’d crush up some mushrooms and put them in some hot-and-sour soup. I wouldn’t remember playing in the studio at all. I was doing every kind of drug except heroin. I was just broken up because of my divorce, and I was going the irresponsible route. I’m not proud of it, but I decided to go gonzo style and see how far one man could push it. It was pretty much 24/7 for a while—until they threatened to get all Betty Ford on my ass.
CHINO MORENO: The next record, [2006’s] Saturday Night Wrist, was a fucked-up time for me. I had never worked on a record without [producer] Terry Date. He’s like another father to me. And suddenly we’re with [producer] Bob Ezrin, and I didn’t have anybody that I trusted, so I was completely lost and I started not having faith in my own singing. Plus my head was all messed up and I was trying to self-medicate any way I could to deal with the pain. Basically, I had a child with another girl. This happened around the time when we started writing the record. I found out and I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t tell anybody in my band. I spent the whole summer in Malibu with all this weight on my shoulders. Then one morning I woke up and said, “Why am I living like this? It’s affecting my creativity. No matter what, I just have to be honest with myself.” So I told everyone. My marriage didn’t last through it, and we’d been married since I was nineteen.
CHI CHENG: After I got clean, I was trying to work out and get in shape, too. Our guitar tech, who is one of my best friends, was going, “You never drink with me anymore.” It was a Sunday morning. So I get on my beach cruiser with him. We get breakfast, get some mimosas, end up at a bar at 10:30, drink until about 12. I was coming down the PCH highway in Malibu at full speed, and this car whips out of his fuckin’ driveway out of nowhere and I blasted into him head-on. I crushed the front of their car, blew in their hood, smashed up the windshield. They had to airlift me out. I never lost consciousness, but I couldn’t move at all. I was laying in the road and the people there were saying, “No, we can’t move you.” I was like, “Someone’s gonna come drive by and finish the job. Pull me out of the road.” I thought I might die, but I was pretty comfortable with it. I thought it might be a drag for my wife and kids to go on without me. They flew me out M*A*S*H-style and I had this big thing around my neck so I couldn’t even enjoy the view. I was like, “Fuck, push me into the ocean.” I was beaten to shit and my knees and shoulder were blown out. I chipped my spooky tooth. But they were shocked I wasn’t way worse. When they landed, they were like, “Ooh, this guy’s done.”
Louder Than Hell: The Definitive Oral History of Metal Page 45
