LIMP BIZKIT
O2 Academy, Bristol | 12 February
What cutting-edge magazine sends its managing director to a Limp Bizkit gig in a dark nightclub in 2014? We do. So fuck you. Durst is in town and we’re fucking hyped.
For every 16-year-old, angsty, weed-quaffing teenager with hormones spiralling wildly out of control, the fact Fred Durst managed to get noshed off by Britney Spears made everything and anything a possibility. A self-confessed “red neck fucker from Jacksonville,” a man who wrote a song that contained the F-word 48 times represented the kind of mindless self-glorifying rebellion wholly encapsulated by that most divisive of words. At 16, when this writer was first exposed to Significant Other and then the colossal Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavoured Water, the word ‘fuck’ pretty much summed up the headspace of the time on two levels. To fuck was all you wanted to do, and at the same time it was the one thing you wanted to appear like you gave very little of. Fred Durst was the absolute boss of both variations on the term.
So 10 years on, has the fact they’re playing Bristol’s O2 Academy, a venue that must seem minuscule in comparison to their arena-sized glory days, lessened their ability to tap into the most juvenile of psyches with their somewhat dated nu-metal brand? Well, that really depends if you’ve lost your grip on what constitutes fun.
Durst is still wearing a red-cap, and – you’ll be pleased to know – he’s still grabbing wildly at his crotch at any opportunity, Wes Borland is still dressed like an absolute penis and DJ Lethal? Well he’s been outed and replaced by some complete no-mark called DJ Skeletor. You can’t have everything. But tonight we get the full Bizkit experience encapsulated in 12 tracks of unrivalled drop glory and fuck-spitting stupidity. Rollin’ is rolled out early after an entirely unnecessary cover of Welcome To The Jungle, Nookie still invites the audience to “stick it up your motherfucking ass,” and the level of moshing reaches frantic proportions after the drop is faked twice on My Generation. My Way does an equal amount of topless sweat pit damage before Durst gives the crowd a choice.
“You’ve a got a choice between a song about someone I wanted to have, or a song about someone I had many times.” Oh Fred, you old tease. Didn’t you hear? Fred Durst boned Britney Spears. Sex sells and by all accounts old red cap’s the head of the fucking sales team. Either way, we get a full airing of the Bizkit’s utterly ludicrous cover of George Michael’s Faith instead of his, only slightly bitter, ode to Britney; Eat You Alive. Yes, that’s right, you’d all consigned the fact that their breakthrough smash was a George Michael cover to a dusty corner of your subconscious. A confounding band on every level.
By this point Crack’s mosh pit comeback was going so well we were finding it hard to breathe and so, to the bar for a stiff one as Limp ploughed their way through their angstiest number Break Stuff and finally, Take A Look Around. It was a nu-metal smash-and-grab of the most entertaining order. The crowd was one of the most cobbled-together we’d ever seen, split between genuine topless metal fans, intrigued Limp Bizkit fans from yesteryear who’d smartened up their act (but dug the hoodie out for tonight), and a small minority of the truly disaffected. They were the ones requesting the Behind Blues Eyes cover. Anyone who feels genuine emotion at Limp Bizkit’s Behind Blue Eyes cover has probably got a few issues a’gwan. They didn’t play it. Thank fuck.
Tonight Limp Bizkit fucked our shit up and we can’t lie, it was a total pleasure. Oh, and if we say fuck two more times that’s thirteen fucks in this fucked up review.
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Words: Thomas Frost
Photo: Kay Cornwell
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