Slipknot
Slipknot

Release Date: 1999 | Tracklist

I'm sure you know that kid.

You know, that kid. The one who subtly reeks of oddity and decaying food. The one who wears Naruto and Death Note armbands everywhere. The one who spouts out profanities and jokes and memes that no one finds amusing. The one who imitates Peter Griffin at the most inappropriate moments. The one who lived through a fucked up childhood and copes by acting like a total moron for the sake of attention.

Yeah, I'm sure you know that kid. I do - well, more accurately, did. We spoke for the last time about a year ago, but back in the day, boy, did I know that kid. We first met during our sixth grade year. I enjoyed the stigma of the new kid the year prior; as the stereotypically introverted nerdy boy, I didn't exactly blend in with the tight-knit group of preppy Catholic school kids on whom life suddenly dropped me. I expected to endure the sixth grade as an outlier yet again - but then, out of nowhere, that kid started talking to me about Family Guy or something. I didn't recognize him; I assumed he was new and softly humoured his eager loquacity, even though I never really enjoyed - let alone watched - the show. A friendship of sorts sparked - as the only individuals whose interests rang in harmony, we stuck to each other like glue. Our personalities clashed; our appearances clashed; our experiences clashed - yet our homophonic names led to endless confusion between which of us was which. I honestly felt a sense of dislike towards him; at the same time, I found a twisted sort of solace in his presence: his obnoxious braggadocio, his warped pride in his weirdness completely devoured any attention drawn to my own trepid irregularities, and then some. I enjoyed the shield of his idiosyncrasy and, with time, even began to subconsciously add some of it to myself.

I suppose it's fitting that he was the one who introduced me to Slipknot. The mindless vitriol flung at once towards everyone and no one; the histrionic insistence on morose and morbid imagery; the ironically consumerist counterculturalism - it's almost as though the band carefully crafted its entire ethos to create a wonderfully accurate metaphor of that kid I once knew. Hell, completely remove the band, its image, its very being from the music: I can see his unmistakable silhouette behind this addition to an anamnesis of anger and edginess. That said, Slipknot possess an intelligence notably absent from that guy, most notably in their heavily-layered instrumentation - yet the vapid angst on which such talent wastes itself readily mirrors that of my old friend. "Fuck it all / fuck this world / fuck everything that you stand for" might as well have been his mantra; I recall with clarity similar gems of directionless fury emerging from many of his trademarked outbursts. The standout track, "Wait and Bleed," demonstrates further the blind rage on which Slipknot so avidly relies: "I've felt the hate rise up in me / kneel down and clear the stone of leaves / I wander out where you can't see / inside my shell I wait and bleed." The vague stanza in question raises far too many questions to convey to the listener any coherent point aside from that of rage; however, such ambiguity proves itself as Slipknot's most drawing feature. The legions of teenagers who find themselves suddenly encumbered with the weight of puberty and angst flock to the minimal archetype of rage presented in Slipknot, shaping the album's nebulous anger into that of their own.

My friend and I, of course, came among those legions - I wouldn't be writing this otherwise. Unlike my friend, however, I found more pleasure in the sound itself than in Taylor's one-dimensional lyricism. The infectiously rhythmic introduction to "Eyeless" took me by complete surprise upon first listen; I never expected such a hip-hop-esque beat to appear on a metal album. The sonic hyperbola of "Wait and Bleed"'s chorus plagued my mind for days upon end; the song's further unoffensive heaviness and groove followed more often than not. I masochistically cringed at the shrieking feedback of "Surfacing"'s maniacal hook, then returned for more punishment. "[sic]", too, overwhelmed my virgin ears with its belligerence and clever dynamics. Taylor's cadence, however, more often than not soils otherwise enjoyable tracks; "Only One," in particular, falls square on its ass once he steps up to the mic. "Spit It Out," while not as wretched as the aforementioned track, never failed to incite a giggle because of Taylor's downright goofy introduction to the thrashing mess. The album begins a sharp descent with this track; out of the eight tracks that follow "Spit It Out," only the 'experimental' pieces - "Prosthetics" and "Scissors" - merit any note. Even the inconsistent Taylor shines here; he grows notably unhinged as "Scissors" bides its time to the crushing climax, at which point Taylor's guttural growls give way to pained wailing.

The youthful endearment I once held for Slipknot, despite its scope and strength, ultimately failed to stand the test of time, as did my friendship with that kid. The failures of both came to fruition through, unsurprisingly enough, the same occurrence: I turned fifteen. High school brought to me the music, the friends, the literature, the talents, the anything and everything that expanded upon the limited sight of my youth. There's little need to look back upon such things as my fourteen-year-old music taste and my fourteen-year-old friendships when my seventeen-year-old music taste and my seventeen-year-old friendships overpower them in every regard. I'm human, however, and I do look back upon myself as a fourteen year old - aforementioned need be damned - and look back with fondness. A tumor of cathartic nostalgia grows in the back of my mind with each recollection - without that kid, without Slipknot, I wouldn't be who I am today.

I suppose this review is my long-overdue remuneration for their influence. I admit, I dislike the shit out of both of them, but damn if I don't owe them this much.

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3.7 great

Rank: #115 for 1999