Slipknot and Korn Bring Nu-Metal Nostalgia, Good Vibes to Bridgestone Arena

The nu-metal generation is well into adulthood, or at least 18 years deeper into stunted adolescence. Like all things '90s, there seems to be a groundswell of nostalgic revivalism for the sounds of Slipknot and Korn, who brought a little taste of Ozzfest, maybe even Woodstock '99 to Bridgestone Arena Friday night. Impressive a feat as that may be, nu-metal is still the embarrassing cousin of the metal family tree, and one that we got drunk and tried to relate to for a solid, ear-splitting three hours. It's a genre that's long prided itself on drawing from a broad spectrum of influences, yet arriving at a whole far, far less than the sum of its parts.

But you really can't blame the artists. Musical movements are products of their times, and nu-metal is no different. The best aggressive, hard music always thrives under oppressive, conservative climates and poor socioeconomic conditions for working people. Ronald Reagan's America gave us Dischord Records and Bay Area thrash. Margaret Thatcher's England spawned UK82 punk and the first three Killing Joke albums. It's perhaps no coincidence that Killing Joke's "Requiem" spun on Slipknot's between-bands playlist. And it's no coincidence that American hardcore finally got great again right after the 2000 election and 9/11. By contrast, Korn's genesis was just after Bill Clinton's inauguration. Over the next eight years of economic growth we saw a decline in the quality of heavy music. We started with disenchanted white guys in plaid flannel screaming about recession, alienation and corporate corruption. We ended the decade with hedonistic white guys rapping about doing it “all for the nookie" and breaking "stuff."

In spite of the naysayers, there is still a loyal core of fans who refuse to retire the JNCOs. Those still rollin', rollin', rollin' with The Nu flooded three levels of Bridgestone Arena. As we arrived, echoes of Korn singer-bro Jonathan Davis' angsty whisper-growls greeted us at the gate. Inside the hall, Korn already had their at-least-two-generations-spanning legion of proud fanatics in a frenzy. The band was ridiculously tight, a signature of the Godfathers of Nu. The prog-rock overachiever behind the drum kit took every opportunity to showboat — from Carl Palmer-style drum fills to effortlessly executed stick tricks, this spotlight-stealer was basically the This Drummer Is at the Wrong Gig guy of '90s/early Aughts alt-rawk, and fittingly his kit looked like something that rolled right off the set of Pimp My Ride, but his licks were actually pretty tasteful, we must say. It would have been a great show, had any other band in the world been playing. Korn get mad points for professionalism, to be sure.

The real moment of tension came when the band left the stage to a lone bagpipe player, Davis. If we recall, this directly followed some kinda turntable keyboard solo thing? Anyway, fans started chanting ... something ... and the rest of Korn — who still perform while hunched to the ground as if looking for each others' contact lenses — stormed back out and blasted into "Shoots and Ladders," to the delight of many. Smiles abounded. You probably know "Shoots" as “the song where the dude barks and moans nursery rhymes.” They even worked in the helicopter bridge from Metallica's "One," just to further stir the mosh pits. Bare-chested fans swung their shirts over their heads even faster with adrenaline. This continued all the way through a tightly wound, yet oddly celebratory victory lap of the band's biggest hits, like "Got the Life," "Blind," that kind of thing. At set's end, guitarist Brian “Head” Welch — who recently became the Jack White of Donelson — ran to center mic and greeted the cheering masses of Middle Tennessee. Swelling with Music City pride, he raised a kid in the air and exclaimed, “This is MY hometown!” We're sure he now knows how Springsteen feels at Giant's Stadium.

The house lights came up, and we finally got a good look at the folks in the seats, then quickly wished the lights were turned off again. We knew the freaks had been let off of their leashes for the night. The room looked like an open career fair for the Hot Topic Distribution Center in La Vergne. It's been 20 years since metal traded in Reebok high-tops for Adidas Shell Toes. The fans are aging, more reluctantly than they are gracefully. Chinstrap beards are going gray. And they have finally grown into the size 43 pants they've had since back in the day. Suffice to say, it would be a slow night for the bartenders of Cheatham County. We did manage to see at least two people puke, like, right in the crowd, that was entertaining.

The lights dimmed again, and a velvet curtain rolled up revealing Slipknot, all 89 members in all their be-masked, boiler-suited glory standing on a stage fit for the great pantheon of metal royalty. Converging ramps connected two levels of staging, every angle trimmed with gas pipes spewing forth bursts of flames. There was even a monstrous ram's head overlooking the band. It was a campy pedestal that might merit an act like Manowar or Dio. As Slipknot kicked into "Sarcastrophe," the lead-off hitter from their new album, we wondered if they had enough hesh in them to justify their surroundings.

And surprisingly metal they were! There were hair-whips, guitar solos, blast beats and even a few Slayer-worthy riffs. They were nailing every lick, and the rhythm section — all four of them — sounded like synchronized thunder. We didn't like any of the songs they played (because they were Slipknot songs), but we couldn't imagine anyone else playing them any better. We were just about to give in and let the masked men drop the “nu” from their metal status, then they blew it. Corey Taylor, charismatic-albeit-too-earnest-to-actually-be-scary frontman for the Iowa rockers, told the crowd to squat down until he gave The Signal to jump up in unison. Then he had the audacity to say — in earnest — that nonparticipants were missing “an opportunity to be a part of history.” And just like that, we were snapped back into the reality that Slipknot is the last of the '90s mall-metal bands. We'll admit that once the crowd did "jump the fuck up," briefly making the arena look like a dead dog's exposed rib cage filled with maggots in the midst of a feeding frenzy, it was a spectacular display of call and response. But we'll also note that Slipknot's occasional emo choruses kinda sound like late-'90s backstreet boys transposed to minor keys.

As the masses let out onto Broadway, we realized it had been the best possible night of music that we found to be dreadfully unlistenable. The sound was mixed flawlessly. The lighting, pyro and all that jazz were a lot of fun. The musicians (one of whom is reportedly Max Weinberg's kid, who went from subbing in the E Street to, um, this) played without noticeable errors. Even the ram head was really, really cool. But we still drove home knowing that Slipknot and Korn hang their hats far too close to the red cap of Mr. Durst. Our first bit of advice to nu-metal revivalists: If you like these bands, like even remotely, go see this show, it'll rock your Docs off. Our second bit of advice to nu-metal revivalists: Get your pants tailored and start listening to Motorhead before you ruin another generation of hard rockers. The proof that this generation of hard rockers ain't rockin' all that hard? Throughout the night we observed shirtless bros taking mid-mosh selfies in the pit. Pit selfies and bag pipes, motherfuckers. Fuckin' pit selfies and bag pipes.