The 90s were a cartoon decade, temporarily unmoored from the dramatic solemnity of human history. The Cold War had been won, the terror attacks of 9/11 lay in the future; reality itself took on the form of a garish, interminable MTV show, a never-ending video game-like simulacrum. Limp Bizkit were an impish byproduct of this strange mood of celebratory nihilism, this postmodern allergy to sincerity and gravitas. They combined rap with metal, and though they weren’t the first to commit this particular crime against humanity, they did stand out by leaning more into the unapologetic frat boy obnoxiousness of the former, rather than the tired, tortured teenage angst of the latter.
And yet despite being arch-purveyors and architects of one of the most hideous genres in the history of rock, I can’t deny that I have a bit of a soft spot for Limp Bizkit, not merely because they’re my childhood best friend’s favourite band and I’ve seen them live twice, completely inebriated on both occasions. I also like the sheer cynicism with which they took the hair-brained ferocity of Nu Metal acts like Korn, but then commendably proceeded to divest the genre of its laughable sub-Alice in Chains po-faced seriousness. Fred Durst wasn’t a whining abused child from a trailer park – he was a calculating record executive who cannily sensed that there was a mass market for moronic party music among barbaric metal heads, and then he duly catered to it, with occasionally spectacular, more frequently devastatingly embarrassing, but often remarkably lucrative results.
Significant Other is the album that broke Limp Bizkit. The guitars are scything, migraine-inducing, brilliantly produced heavy metal buzzsaws, but rather than James Hetfield singing about sea monsters, you get Fred talking about how big his dick is, and it’s all underpinned by the supremely irritating obsessive-compulsive record scratching of someone called “DJ Lethal”, whose contributions are something that the average five-year-old would be capable of essaying. There are also occasional, thoroughly mortifying diversions into dance, hip-hop, and what might generously be identified as “funk rock.”
And the truth is, when Limp Bizkit make raucous, idiotic metal for the mead-fueled Germanic destroyers of the Roman Empire, they are supremely proficient at it. “Break Stuff” is an amusing, murderously bad-tempered paeon to those afflicted by what the DSM-V refers to as “Intermittent Explosive Disorder”, while “Nookie” is a seedy, oddly melancholy take on casual sex and abandonment. “Trust?” is delightfully grimy and cantankerous, while “Just Like This” is perhaps Fred’s most programmatic attempt to combine obstreperous hard rock with rap’s flippant urban elan.
The problems come when Limp Bizkit attempt to venture away from this familiar, willfully unsophisticated, unashamedly idiotic territory – that is, when they try to be “serious artists”. “Re-Arranged”, for example, is a regrettable attempt to channel the “reflective, soulful funk” of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers – one of the most risible bands in the history of popular music – while songs like “Don’t Go Off Wandering” and “Nobody Like You” mimic the godawful mall rat angst of appalling Nu Metal acts such as Korn. These are tragic imitations of musical styles that were already terrible to begin with, and when Fred tries to inhabit the role of tortured Layne-Staley-esque social misfit or, worse, pensive funk-rock folk philosopher, he is wholly unconvincing and, in fact, desperately embarrassing.
But when Limp Bizkit ditch any attempts at credible musicianship or intelligent lyricism and accept themselves for what they are – a bunch of sniveling white-collar males impotently losing their rags and reverting to the violent philistinism that is their historical birthright – it’s actually quite entertaining, even culturally paradigmatic. Ultimately, they’re at their best when they’re not being too serious, when Fred does things with a wink and a nod to the fact that he’s an opportunistic record executive who constructed a band to appeal to a specific target market. Limp Bizkit were the undisputed masters in this – admittedly, rather contemptible – niche, though given that the competition were the likes of Papa Roach and Coal Chamber, that’s maybe not much of an accolade.
Overall rating: * * *
Standout track: “Break Stuff”