Like Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park, Korn were part of the Nu Metal Bad Spelling Crisis of the late 1980s and early 1990s. The crisis was such that 3rd grade English teachers from across America were ordered to Air Force bases and prepared to scramble F-22 fighter jets to what officials were calling “Slade Zones.” Said one official at U.S. Grammar Command at the Pentagon, “There was a very real fear we’d have bands like Kracked Wheet on our hands. The situation was totally fubar. We weren’t as concerned by the likes of Phish, because everyone knows jam band fans are harmless imbeciles.”
What gave rise to the crisis? According to scientists, this sudden plague lent credence to the long-held thesis that excessive build-ups of testosterone in the post-adolescent male body shrink the grammatical cortex, and if there’s one thing bands like Korn and Linkin Park have, it’s testosterone coming out the sphincter. And the only way many can vent it is by tearing off their shirts, bellowing like enraged moose, and misspelling one-syllable words.
Why the rage? Psychiatrists theorize it’s directed at women—girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, and females intelligent enough to give male Korn fans a wide berth in the first place. Rumor has it that Rage Against the Machine Rage originally hit upon the name Rage at My Slut Girlfriend, but changed their mind lest said girlfriend kicked in the door of their apartments and shoved the band’s platinum records down their throats.
All of which brings us to Korn’s 1998 sophomore LP Follow the Leader, which mixes ho-hum aggro-metal with some very lame rapping. On Follow the Leader these cock-in-sock wannabe Red Hot Chili Peppers (is it really possible to set your sights so low?) double down on the anger, presumably to appeal to the unhappy teen males of the world, all of whom bear grievances not merely at women but at most everything.
Like Trump supporters they harbor the suspicion—no make that conviction—that they’re the innocent victims of a vast conspiracy being perpetrated upon them by condescending indie rock types, society, teachers, parents, foreign types they’re convinced are out to destroy the United States of America, and their mom’s spoiled rotten cat Precious. Especially their mom’s spoiled rotten cat Precious.
None of this makes Follow the Leader a happy listen. But that’s precisely the point. Korn fans don’t want to be happy. The closest they’ve ever come to true joy was Woodstock ‘99, where they were granted free reign to rape, pillage, roll around in fecal matter, knock over sound towers, and set fire to everything in sight. Things might be different if Korn had a sense of humor, unfortunately Follow the Leader is a veritable game reserve for the mirthless, and Korn can’t even milk a laugh out of their cover of Cheech and Chong’s “Earache My Eye.” Inconceivable, right? But the band’s anger management class dropouts succeed in only sounding pissed, and they can’t even reproduce the Gaye Delorme monster guitar riff that makes “Earache My Eye” a metal classic.
Where to start on this beginning-to-end grudge fest? “Life’s got to be always messing with me,” sings vocalist Jonathan Davis—whose only positive attribute is he isn’t Fred Durst—on “Freak on a Leash,” before adding “Can’t they chill and let me be free?” Amazingly enough, the freak at the end of leash isn’t a degraded woman but Davis himself, while on the crushing metal bore “Dead Bodies Everywhere” he gripes about his parents who want him to be someone he can never be and who, if the title is to be taken literally, live in a mass grave in a war zone somewhere.
Ice Cube makes a cameo on “Children of the Korn,” which I’m assuming is the name of the band’s fan club. I can make neither heads nor tails of the lyrics, which may or may not be misogynistic but are definitely homophobic (“It’s open day like me insanity/Go figure, once a fag/Now a player.”) But what to make of lines like “Fuckin’ bitches major/Catch me if you can, fuck the law with my dick in/My hand.” Fucking with the law with your dick in your hand sounds like no easy feat, unless you intend to beat them senseless with it. I do not see Davis having the dick to pull this off.
And while we’re on the subject of rank homophobia, “All in the Family” comes complete with lines like “Check you out, punk, yes I know you feel it/You look like one of those dancers from the Hanson video/You little faggot ho’, please give me some shit to wank with/’Cuz right now I’m all it, kid, suck my dick kid like your daddy did.” Message to Korn: The gay bashing is both repugnant and reprehensible, but when you start fucking with Hanson watch your back, because the kids in their fan club make the Manson Family look like members of your high school debating society.
Then we have “Justin,” which opens with Davis shouting “Fuck all that bullshit!” He then sings, “The Kids must die,” although I’m not quite sure why. Boy does he growl! Like a Chihuahua at the sight of a naked ankle! “Reclaim My Place” opens on a similar note; “What the fuck?” he screams before launching into a story about how once upon a time he was a 98-pound weakling but now he’s, to quote the great Vivian Stanshall, “two separate gorillas.” I could be wrong, but I get the idea it’s because he has a posse of bowling ball-headed thugs and not because he ingested fifty pounds of whey powder per day and spent an entire year squeezing hand grips.
On “Seed” Davis seems to be having emotional hot flashes–one minute he’s questioning his fame and the next he’s looking at his seed, by which he could mean the cum on his sheets or the seed he sprang from, you know, leaving him a tiny little Korn who was “beautiful and carefree.” The title “Cameltosis” (featuring Slimkid3) gives you the impression you’re in for some lyrics for the sorts of giggling 13-year-olds drawn to Frank Zappa, but instead you get “I cannot ever love another cunt/You trick ass slut/Love twice and you’ll get fucked/You see this time.” Lyrics like these would be ridiculous if they weren’t so pernicious, and you walk away from them thinking Valerie Solanas was definitely onto something.
The sole interesting musical moment on the LP comes on “My Gift to You,” which opens with Davis on bagpipes. Bagpipe metal is hardly new—AC/DC pulled the same stunt on 1975’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n’ Roll)” and they did it far better. Perhaps Korn should have gone with the didgeridoo. “Pretty” opens with the lines, “So, so long wait/But I don’t realize/Small, white legs, broke/The pain between her thighs” and goes downhill from there. “Who do I feel sorry for?” asks Davis. Well, he could start with the girl whose face is “smashed against the bathroom floor,” but then again he could just feel sorry for himself. “B.B.K.” is another sensitive number: “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be loved,” sings Davis, and if you’re like me you’ll want to cue up Morrissey singing, “I am human and I need to be loved/Just like everybody else does.” But Korn would write off Morrissey as a fag, then sic Precious on him.
Look, I’m sure there are plenty of friendly and well-adjusted kids out there who like Korn’s music and aren’t inclined to follow them down the road of sexism, homophobia, and chronic spelling abuse. Many of them, I’m sure, are female, and some may even be gay. But I fear for them. Our children face so many dangers in this world. They could take up drugs. Join gangs that wear zoot suits and carry zip guns. Become vegans. Or put Follow the Leader on their turntables and be declared brain dead within the hour.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
F
