Oddly enough, the only band to emerge from the festering nu-metal carcass with the tiniest shard of credibility has been Slipknot, whose fast-spin cycle, d’n’b-tinged, crusty gimp-masked nonsense has aged surprising well – albeit now with inevitable diminishing, slap bass/emo-dirge-flirting returns. This greatest hits, Antennas to Hell, the first release since the death of Slipknot bassist Paul Gray two years ago, compiles all their choicest cuts of lovely gratuitous screaming and apeing around in one handy place, for when Annabell from finances just won’t process your overtime fast enough, or when that kitchen extension doesn’t look like it’s going to be finished in time for Chistmas after all.
On the surface they certainly were one of the most infantile of the crop: the masks, the charming boiler suits, referring to fans as ‘maggots’, songs with titles such as People=Shit and Frail Limb Nursery, eating fly poo on stage, or shagging graves, or whatever it was they did to strike a cord with all those other hard-metal-bastard children with bike chains attached to their jeans. Oh dear… all that “perceptive” anti-nu-metal ‘satire’ I used to write as a teenager is beginning to repeat on me.
Openers (sic) and Eyeless create a pulsating vortex of white hot metal punishment, with Corey Taylor’s bilious roar complementing his dissents into sing-song, old lady on valium madness. Singles like ‘Left Behind’ and Wait and Bleed are reminders of the acceptable face of the early 2000s commercial hard rock racket, as opposed to, say, this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SttN9OpuulY
However, as energetic as the first half of this career-spanning best-of is, if you’re over 10 years old, or still have loads of safety-pinned band patches attached to your rucksack, how much of this racket do you really need in your life?
I mean, it won’t do you any favours mentioning the lyrics when attempting to write a semi-positive review of Slipknot, but wrecks like “Everybody hates me now so fuck it/blood’s on my face and my hands don’t know why/I’m not afraid to cry/but that’s none of your business/Whose life is it? Get it? see it? feel it? eat it?/spin it around/so I can spit in his face” can’t really go unchallenged (although, I suppose they still don’t compare to the uninentional LOLs gifted by Fred Durst when he claimed he was “blasting out the hot shit” 24/7 on Limp Bizkit’s touching gimp-rock masterpiece Rollin’). The Heretic Anthem and Disasterpiece are also particularly terrifying chunks of stomach-churning metal fury, if you’re into that sort of thing.
It is all puerile, immature silliness – not deep, not scary, and not even that good – from beginning to end, but it’s hard not to deny its guilty pleasures. The sheer punishing force loses its impact after about six tracks, and out of 19, by the time Antennas to Hell signs off with Snuff, a Staind-ish dribble of pure, unadulterated emo balladeering horsehit, you’re too exhausted to get mad again and be affronted. You’re already supposed to have been at the top end of completely fuming for approximately 18 songs!
It’s all obviously going to collapse under the weight of its own overwrought narcissism, as is the nature of music made for and in the mindset of teenagers. But if you’re like me, you’re approaching your late twenties, go to work and think, “I hate it here. How can the world be so boring? You’re all so boring. I reject you, and your pathetic attempts at morale boosting by turning up Absolute 80s every day and shouting ‘tuuuuune’ every time they play ‘Here I Go Again’ by Whitesnake, or ‘Come on Eileen’ for 5,000th time. I know. I’m going to be a right hard, spooky bitch: I’m going to put my headphones on and listen to Slipnot. I’m so alone””, you’ve sort-of become what Slipnot themselves were to begin with: grown adults with arrested development, with no choice but to see humanity as a bunch of gurgling maggots. “Maybe I’ll form a band”, you think. “Put a washing-up glove over my face…it’ll be great… really hardcore and subversive…”.
[Rating:3]
