Slightly more promising—and the operative word here is slightly—are the hip-hop–obsessed metal groups that merge funk rock guitars with desperate rap vocals. Packs of these mongrel groups popped up everywhere in late ’98, and the lead dingo was Korn. The lovable jackasses in Korn absolutely fascinate me: They are the first band that I can honestly say I don’t “get.” I understand why they’re popular, and I’ve seen them live twice (and enjoyed them once). But Korn was the band that made me realize I was no longer a target market for hard-rock bands.
Most rock groups dream of being bigger than the Beatles. Korn does not share that dream. In fact, they don’t even think about the Beatles. At all. Ever.
“I’ve never owned a Beatles record. I’ve never even listened to one,” insists Fieldy, the mono-named Korn bassist. “The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin—those bands haven’t influenced us in any way. Nobody in the band ever listened to that stuff. Our musical history starts with the Red Hot Chili Peppers and early Faith No More. As a band, that’s where we begin.”
For rock purists (or even for anyone who casually enjoys FM radio), that kind of inflammatory statement is enough to qualify Korn as a heretical joke. They have an unabashed disrespect for the history of rock, and the band appeals to an audience almost entirely composed of aggressive, confused males. Yet there is something that can be said about Korn that can’t honestly be applied to almost every other rock group that has ever existed: Korn is legitimately new. The band leads a wholly original pop generation; for perhaps the first time, rock music has completely disconnected itself from its roots. As of late, Korn vocalist Jonathan Davis has taken to mentioning how buying Shout at the Devil changed his life (and for many of the same reasons it changed mine), but it’s impossible to hear any of Vince Neil’s influence on Davis’s singing style. Korn is neither an extension of—nor a reaction to—classic rock; the band does not support or mock tradition. Quite frankly, Korn has no relationship whatsoever to the people who invented their art form.
It’s almost as if Korn embodies everything old people hate about kids. They fuse the three most obnoxious elements of modern music: the down-tuned throb of metal, the mind-numbing rhythm of rap, and the inaudible howl of hard-core thrash. The goofballs in Korn wear baggy pants and stupid retro sneakers, but they’re obsessed with new technology and hold a perverse adoration for consumerism. In fact, when I talked to Fieldy in autumn of 1998, he actually conducted the interview on a cell phone from a shopping mall in Irvine, California.
“I think like a fourteen-year-old. Our whole band thinks like fourteen-year-olds,” he said, without one milligram of irony. “You have to.”
In 1987, Korn would have probably been classified as a straight-up rap band (probably as an unfunny version of the Beastie Boys). Davis doesn’t really sing (in fact, half the time he seems to be whispering), and there are no guitar solos or signs of musicianship. Korn’s main pupils, the Jacksonville-based band Limp Bizkit, are even more connected to hip-hop and have managed to become just as popular; Bizkit vocalist Fred Durst admits he’d actually prefer to be a straightforward hip-hop group, but it’s impossible for white guys with metal overtones to get credibility in a predominantly black industry.A The band 311 is kind of in the same boat, only with more Chili Pepper funkiness, more pot, less street cred, stupider lyrics, and a preppy “boy band” cuteness that rivals N’ Sync.
It should be noted that all these acts are fiercely unwilling to adopt the label of “heavy metal.” They are a hybrid of hard rock and rap, but they only choose to recognize the latter. When Korn created and headlined their highly successful “Family Values” tour, the second biggest act on the bill was Ice Cube. Consequently, a group like Korn truly does represent its audience; the current teen populace sees “glam metal” as an archaic load of shit that belongs to a wholly different generation of imbeciles, but they like the look and lexicon of hip-hop. The only obvious influence they take from the metal era is the emphasis on fashion—and that applies to both clothing and lifestyle. Korn is very conscious about how they appear, and their audience pays attention.
“I remember the first time we toured as headliners, and I looked out the window of the bus. Every kid was wearing Adidas,” Fieldy said. “It was an entire crowd of kids who dressed the way we do. We called Adidas and told them they owed us money. I mean, we probably helped them sell an extra million pairs of shoes, because every real Korn fan wears Adidas. It’s fucking unfair. They should have at least given us fifty thousand dollars.”
Much to the surprise of absolutely no one, Adidas did not respond to Korn’s financial request. Despite the free advertising, the familiar three-striped shoe company probably doesn’t appreciate Korn, especially since the band likes to suggest that Adidas is an acronym for “All Day I Dream About Sex.” But this is typical behavior for a group that loves the bad-boy albatross hanging from their necks. Korn members always project themselves as a potential train wreck; their nasty reputation was further solidified when a rash of schools banned students from wearing Korn T-shirts in class. Davis mentions his drinking problem in virtually every interview he gives (every song on their ’99 album Issues was about his alcoholism, just as Alice in Chain’s record Dirt had only been about Layne Staley’s heroin problem), and all five Kornsters are constantly declaring their love for Coors beer.
“We’re all alcoholics, but we don’t care. I don’t get too sensitive about it,” Fieldy said. “I get drunk every day. It has nothing to do with being in this band either, because we were all alcoholics before we ever started Korn. It’s not a big deal for any of us, except for maybe Jonathan, but that’s just because he’s really sensitive about everything. I always do my job. I always get up in the morning. If drinking ever becomes a problem, I’ll just quit.”
The crazy thing about Fieldy’s quotes is that he’s being serious. He probably does think Adidas owes him money, and he probably does think that you can drink every day until you suddenly feel like quitting. These wishes will become reality at about the same time Korn learns how to spell. But my favorite part of his insight was the cagey understanding of his fan base: “Every real Korn fan wears Adidas.” That’s the kind of brand loyalty that only metal and punk fosters. In the mid-1980s, girls dressed like Madonna, but Madonna never demanded them to do so. She never said, “Every real Madonna fan wears fishnets and wedding veils.” But metal bands have done this kind of thing since the dawn of guitar rock. Korn is simply a little more open about it.
Rage Against the Machine shared several aesthetic elements with Korn, but they also offered some major differences. Rage was equally obsessed with rap stylings and unconventional songwriting (there are no real melodies to be found on their albums), but they were highly musical. Guitarist Tom Morello is an expert at making weird noises with his axe; in fact, he’s so good at it, Rage always makes a big deal about stating that all the sounds on their records were “made by guitar, bass, drums, and vocals” (they even include a little warning on the jacket of their CD). In the 1980s, Vinnie Vincent used to do the same thing, and so did Queen in the 1970s. Regardless of all the espoused explanations for why this is important, the bottom line was the same for all three: Musicians are silly, vain people, and synthesizers make creating rock music seem too easy.
Nonetheless, Rage Against the Machine was one of the better bands to emerge over the past decade, even though it’s kind of hard to discuss them without laughing. For almost a decade, they were the most stupidly serious band on the planet. Rage’s first album was released in 1992, and the record’s principal topic was the perceived innocence of Indian activist Leonard Peltier. Prior to getting this CD, I generally believed that Peltier was wrongly imprisoned, but now I’m not so sure; I always assume Rage vocalist Zack de la Rocha only supports guilty people. I’m skeptical of pretty much everything he advocates, even when he’s right. It was a full four years before the Machine released a second album, probably because it took a while for de la Rocha to find new things to be pissed abo
ut. On 1996’s Evil Empire, the subject matter shifted to the Zapatista Liberation Movement and Mumia Abu-Jamal’s unjust death sentence for the murder of a cop. Actually, one would think that Rage would have supported Abu-Jamal even if he were guilty, since they seem to think most cops deserve to get shot.
If there was ever an illustration of how remarkably impressionable teenagers can be, it is the success of Rage Against the Machine. I cannot fathom fourteen-year-olds jumping around their bedroom and screaming about “profits for the bourgeois,” but it obviously must happen. Without much radio support, Rage became a commercial heavyweight, and it’s to Rocha’s credit that he’s made it cool to be informed about current events. Of course, I’m not sure how kids are necessarily supposed to apply these issues—when de la Rocha sings, “Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me,” I doubt if too many eighth-graders consider the plight of Mexican freedom fighters. They probably just refuse to do their geometry proofs for math class.
But here’s the rub: A few of them probably do think about Zapata. They care, and they love it. And that’s really who Rocha seems to be singing for. You can get loaded and mosh to “Guerrilla Radio,” but that’s like using cooking sherry to get smashed. Ultimately, I don’t see even a glimmer of ’80s metal in Rage Against the Machine. They’re really a louder version of War-era U2, except Rage had the sense to quit while they were ahead.A
I guess what I’m saying is that all the predictable suspects are innocent. Rage Against the Korn Chamber 5000 can’t carry glam rock into the twenty-first century. But who can? It’s a perplexing problem. There are only a handful of candidates who seem willing to try, and most are failing miserably. But there are a select few who seem to understand what Axl was yowling about.
The best of these bands is undoubtedly the Donnas, a band that’s so awesome it makes me want to smoke angel dust and kill somebody. The Donnas are four teenageA California girls who sing songs like “Leather On Leather” and “Wanna Get Some Stuff.” Their second album, American Teenage Rock N Roll Machine, was the only legitimately great record released in 1998. Since all the semifoxy mommas in the band have renamed themselves “Donna,” a lot of people think they’re the new all-girl Ramones (and they do have one song that’s totally a Ramones rip-off called “Gimme My Radio,” not to mention an entire first album that sounds like it was recorded in a bomb shelter). However, American Teenage Rock N Roll Machine is absolutely glam metal. “You Make Me Hot” shamelessly steals two guitar riffs from Mick Mars—the bridge replicates the riff from “Too Fast for Love” (which they eventually covered for real on 1998’s Get Skintight), and the final seconds duplicate the conclusion of “Public Enemy # 1.” Guitarist Donna R. is an avowed Ace Frehley disciple (she plays “Strutter” in the studio the way Ace played it on Alive!), but she mostly seems taken by the way Ace looks when he plays guitar—the whole swaying, drugged-out, “I cradle my axe like a newborn baby” routine. It should also be noted that vocalist Donna A. strongly resembles Sebastian Bach, except not quite as feminine.
From what I can tell, the only band who might rock harder than the Donnas is Nashville Pussy. Their debut album (Let Them Eat Pussy) is pretty horrible, but the accompanying stage show is super-awesome delicious. The singer is an ugly redneck who used to front an even crappier band called Nine Pound Hammer; the guitarist is his wife, a long-haired freak with breasts that are always trying to escape to freedom. The bassist used to be a sexy ’n’ scary (mostly scary) six-foot-four model who’s the sister of NBA journeyman Cherokee Parks. She liked to blow fire.
The Pussy’s style is a synthesis of Lynyrd Skynyrd and Motorhead, but the posturing is total glam rock—it’s beyond the point of parody. When I saw them open for Marilyn Manson, they rocked my pants off in an almost literal sense; I suspect Manson likes them because the show is unabashed performance art, kind of like a poor man’s (poor lesbian’s?) version of White Zombie. White Zombie no longer exists, but mastermind Rob Zombie continues to churn out music in exactly the same vein (1998’s Hellbilly Deluxe could have been released as the studio follow-up to 1995’s excellent Astro Creep: 2000 and no one would have raised an eyebrow). Particularly when witnessed live, Zombie seems exactly like an old metal act—sort of like W.A.S.P., except with slightly better music. The only problem is that Zombie is a little too smart; his theatrics are so consciously stupid that they’re cartoons, and he does them with a self-referential understanding that not even KISS possessed (and this is both good and bad). I think the highest compliment you can give to Rob Zombie is that he leads the only industrial art rock band that doesn’t suck. But to most people’s ears, the result is a contemporary type of heavy metal that fully accepts its 1980s roots.
Philosophically, Kid Rock is another glam disciple. Hailing from Detroit Rock City (or at least a Detroit Rock Suburb), the Kid (who files his taxes under the name of Bob Richie) used to party with the Insane Clown Posse, a pair of (ahem) “wigger” joke rappers who refer to their fans as Juggalos and once claimed that KISS “stole our shit.” ICP is totally hilarious, but they’re hardly influenced by heavy metal; they mostly appeal to the preteens who are even too dumb for Limp Bizkit. ICP does not play anything that can be classified as “music.” Kid Rock, on the other hand, bangs for real. On 1998’s Devil Without a Cause, he sounds a little like the early Beastie Boys, except Kid is not being sardonic. His “message” is about the social importance of strippers, methadone addicts, alcoholics, and “all the questions without any answers” (perhaps he’s referring to the sound of one hand clapping). In an earlier chapter, I compared Led Zep to Babe Ruth and Metallica to Hank Aaron; that being the case, I suppose Kid is Bill Veeck—his whole show is nothing but attitude, gimmicks, and midgets. My favorite Kid Rockism comes from “I Am the Bullgod,” where Kid admits he can’t even mow the lawn without smoking dope behind the garage. Now that’s rock ’n’ roll. Kid has all the standard metal obsessions (comparing himself to a cowboy, gawking at lesbians, wearing fur coats, using “fuck” as a verbalized pause, etc.). His video for “Only God Knows Why” is almost a shot-for-shot replica of Mötley’s “Home Sweet Home.” And it’s more than his lyrics or imagery: Devil unleashes some heavy guitar action, and instead of merely stealing samples, there are a few semioriginal creations. Kid Rock’s white trash sensibility makes him seem drug-addled and a little ridiculous, but I love the fact that he’s so earnest about this shit.
Speaking of earnest: With his bald dome and propensity for wearing his heart on his sleeve, Billy Corgan could be perceived as the Charlie Brown of modern rock. However, the now-defunct Smashing Pumpkins were also a remarkably heavy rock act, and the only person who seems willing to accept that reality is Corgan himself (a Van Halen superfan who hangs out with Tony Iommi and is only half-joking when he compares his music to Judas Priest and Mountain).
The person I most often compare Corgan with is John Fogerty, another prolific songwriter with world-class pop sensibility and a desire to completely control everything he’s involved with. The grim facial expressions he and his bandmates displayed during their rise to popularity downplayed their metal roots, as does Corgan’s drought-strickened skull. But the actual music Billy writes often has a metal edge—or at least his better stuff does. The two Pumpkins records that are the least metal (1991’s Gish and 1998’s Adore) are multitudes weaker than the material that came between (Siamese Dream was rockin’ like Dokken, and a few tracks on Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness dripped of the Rainbow and the Whisky). Machina: The Machines of God goes so far as to include the song “Heavy Metal Machine,” which Entertainment Weekly called “KISS for eggheads.” I realize EW was trying to be snarky, but that’s just about the highest compliment a guitar-based alt rocker can get.
I would never seriously label the Pumpkins as a prototypical “metal band,” but they often operated under the same structural parameters: swirling, heavy guitars augmented by a straightforward rhythm section. Since Corgan understands songwriting better than Nikki Sixx or Warren DeMartini,
he disguises his banger tendencies more deftly (resulting in well-deserved critical acclaim from every possible direction). But those of us with the right kind of radios detect a conspiracy. We all know that Corgan is actually keeping glam rock alive, even though the rock press doesn’t want to believe it. And that’s why he can get away with it. Keep acting pretentious, Billy. We “understand.”
As I write this paragraph, it appears that the original lineup of Veruca Salt will never record again. This is too bad, since I liked both of their albums (especially the second one that nobody bought). Veruca also made an EP with Steve Albini, a producer who makes such a big deal about hating metal that everyone halfway suspects he probably loves it, which he doesn’t, but I guess that’s the idea. Albini once told me that Led Zeppelin was a horrible rock band, mostly because they had “the worst vocalist in music history.” His willingness to make that statement in public seems to be the only possible explanation as to why he got hired to mix the 1998 Page-Plant album Walking Into Clarksdale. I will never understand cool people.
I don’t think I ever listened to the Veruca Salt EP that Albini worked on, mostly because it had a really stupid title. But I’m guessing it was probably pretty decent. Veruca was fronted by two righteous rock bitches: the sniveling prima donna Nina Gordon, and the sniveling bad-ass Louise Post. Gordon did most of the singing, but Post did all the work; she always claimed her main influence was Angus Young, but her fast machine had a cleaner motor than AC/DC ever did. Both American Thighs and Eight Arms to Hold You have way too much filler to be classified as genius, but the good stuff is stellar: “Seether,” “Straight,” and “Don’t Make Me Prove It” have that sense of hardness that categorized early Skid Row and Judas Priest. This is the best modern example of a group that’s hard, but not heavy. Veruca Salt reminds me of a Mexican middleweight in the mold of Julio Cesar Chavez—they’ll jab the piss out of you, cleverly setting up an overhand right that is a little louder than you’d expect. These women have great taste in power pop, and they also had some real visual flair (the video for “Volcano Girls” was the best use of bungee cords since “Panama”). I’m still not exactly sure why former best buddies Nina and Louise now hate each other; rumor has it that one of them (I think it was Louise) was sleeping with David Grohl, who eventually dumped her for Winona Ryder, thereby casting Veruca Salt into unexplained turmoil. I don’t know; I guess I never read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
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