“In the End”—Linkin Park

I'm Yasi Solid and I'm here to announce a brand new season of my Ringer original podcast, Bandsplane, the show where we explain cult bands and iconic artists to you and yours. This 10 babe? We're going across the pond. That's right, I'm absolutely chuffed to be talking about the music scenes of 80s and 90s Britain. I'm talking Madchester, I'm talking Baggy, I'm talking Shoegas, I'm talking Brit Popmate. So tune in every Thursday starting November 7th for a new episode of Bandsplane on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. So here is the deal we are making today, you and I. The deal is that I am about to read for you in its entirety my absolutely mortifying review of the first Lincoln Park record. The first Lincoln Park record is called hybrid theory. Hybrid theory came out in the year 2000 in October 2000 when I was and I cannot stress this enough. 22 years old. I was 22, I just want to stress that. 22, you know that Taylor Swift song? 22, I was that old. My absolutely mortifying review of the first Lincoln Park record appeared in the January 2001 issue of alternative press magazine, the great Cleveland based underground punk metal industrial magazine alternative press. I interned at AP in the late 90s and I don't think anybody liked me and then I wrote mortifying freelance record reviews for a few years and I'm starting to think that everyone liked me less but see print magazines have crazy long lead times right months and perhaps years elapsed between when you write your stupid review and when your stupid review gets published so perhaps perhaps perhaps I wrote this stupid review of the first Lincoln Park record months and months earlier. Back when I was only 21 and I'd like to stress this point as well maybe I'm only 21 maybe I'm 12 I'm going to read this whole thing for you word for word it is mortifying. I am properly mortified but the deal we are making here today is that before I read you this stupid thing I wrote we're going to talk about how sometimes often well meaning rock critics get it wrong. Quote the whole album is a shock despite the murky song titles and some inane lyrics that sound like vanilla fudge playing dog or old tribute to Alistair Crowley the album has nothing to do with spiritualism the occult or anything much except stiff recitations of cream cliches that sound like the musicians learned them out of a book grinding on and on with doggy persistence vocals are sparse most of the album being filled with plotting baselines over which the lead guitar dribbles wooden collectinisms from the master's tire just cream days and quote rowing stone trashed the first black Sabbath album the very famous and beloved self titled black Sabbath album upon its release in 1970 famous rock critic lester bangs wrote that I was hoping lester bangs would be a little quipier about it in a shark sandwich more like shit sandwich sort of way but instead lester just brings up cream like twelve times in two hundred words nonetheless he was wrong quote their music is as a femoral as marvel comics comics with an ex that's extra rude and as vivid as an old technicolor cartoon it doesn't challenge anybody's intelligence or sensibilities relying instead on a packed visceral impact that will ensure absolute stardom for many moons to come their albums refine the crude public tools of all dull white blues bands into something awesome in its very insensitive grossness like a Cecil B. Demille epic and quote rowing stone trashed pretty much every led Zeppelin album including led zeppelin three also from 1970 also trashed by lester bangs immigrant song has now come up twice in the past three episodes of this podcast about songs from the two thousands three is a trend anyway he was wrong and immediately hear him in a bizarre nostalgia loop right because why do I know that rowing stone initially ripped every album led Zeppelin ever made do I know that because I personally read all those mean led Zeppelin reviews in back issues of Rolling Stone no of course not I know that Rolling Stone ripped every album led Zeppelin ever made because Jason Lee's character says that verbatim in the movie almost famous in the very famous and beloved 2000 Cameron Crow film almost famous no you can trust him he's a fan but it's Rolling Stone he looks harmless but he does represent the magazine that trashed Layla broke up cream ripped every album led Zeppelin ever made almost famous of course is Cameron Crow's fictionalized account of his time writing for Rolling Stone as a teenager in the early 70s Jason Lee plays the lead singer of the fictional rock band stillwater a fake band that I love every bit as much as most IRL rock bands from the early 2000s still waters best song as you might recall is called fever dog a cool thing that I used to do in the year 2000 as a 22 year old as I'd be at work and I'd call up my friends while they were at work and they'd pick up the phone and go hello and I just go fever dog and then hang up just a little insight into my vibe at the time everyone loved me the real life Rolling Stone did not really trash Layla the magazine did not give the 1970 Derek in the Domino's album Layla another assorted love songs and especially bad review quote a double album means you can expect some filler and quote that's not mean every review of a double album in rock and roll history includes that sentence verbatim including the reviews that I wrote this Layla review is not especially quotable I don't know what Jason Lee's almost famous character is on about there the real Rolling Stone did trash this however we're just too lost so swimming in a quote by their own admission pink Floyd will never bring home any blue ribbons for their instrumental abilities their mastery of their tools peaks at competence the illusion of complexity that caused their drooling legions to make wild claims of high art accomplishment was actually nothing more than the skillful manipulation of elements so simple the basic three chords everyone else uses that any collection of bar packs could grind out a note for note reproduction without difficulty furthermore with regard to all the other space rock bands copying pink Floyd quote the one thing those bands have going for them and they're cofinously inept way is a sincere passion for their scare quotes art and passion is everything of which pink Floyd is devoid and quote Rolling Stone trash pink Floyd's 1975 album wish you were here that's Ben Edmunds writing and Rolling Stone I can assure you Ben speaking as a shoddy amateur guitar player that grinding out a note for note reproduction of pink Floyd's wish you were here resulted in a great deal of difficulty for myself and all my neighbors yes I'm stalling of course I'm stalling two more quote those concerned with the future of hard rock may take solace in knowing that with the release of their first us album by these Australian gross out champions the genre has unquestionably hit its all time low things can only get better parentheses at least I hope so furthermore acdc has nothing to say musically parentheses two guitars bass and drums all goose stepping together in mindless three chord formations furthermore stupidity bothers me calculated stupidity offends me And, quote, "Rowing Stone Trashed" ACDC's 1976 album, "High Voltage." That's Billy Altman writing in Rolling Stone. Just to keep the bizarre nostalgia loop going, perhaps you recognize that ACDC song? It's a long way to the top parentheses if you want a rock and roll. From that ACDC album, or perhaps you recognize it as this song Jack Black and all the kids play. In the very famous in Beloved 2003, Richard Linklater film, "School of Rock." If there is one thing the history of evolution has taught us, it's that classic rock will not be contained. Classic rock breaks free. It expands to new territories and crashes through barriers painfully, maybe even dangerously. But I'm simply saying that classic rock finds a way. Rock critics struggle in particular with hard rock, with metal, with heaviness. Rock critics often trash hard rock mercilessly and unfairly. Is that fair to say? Many well-meaning rock critics are put off by heaviness, pretentiousness, outsized ambition, or conversely crudeness, grossness, loudishness, broishness. In all its historical permutations, not everyone digs, loud men hooting at and/or complaining about chicks. Is that fair to say? You know what Beloved Rock and Roll album Rolling Stone initially hated, and that genuinely bummed me out in real time? How can you not immediately love this, dude? How can you not immediately love? Weezer Frontman Rivers Cuomo reeling off the names of ladies he's tired of having sex with on a song called Tired of Sex, from Weezer's problematically awesome and awesomely problematic 1996 album, Pinkerton. Quote, as a songwriter, the band's singer and guitarist Rivers Cuomo takes a juvenile tack on personal relationships. Furthermore, Weezer over-rely on catchy tunes to heal all of Cuomo's wounds. In El Scorcho, the song's infectious chorus proves to be slim reward. Tired of sex, a look at a brooding stud's empty sex life, is as aimless as the subject's nightly routine. End quote, Rolling Stone's review of Pinkerton, written by Rob O'Connor, is skeptical, but reasonable, what really bummed me out is that the 1996 year end Rolling Stone critics poll called Pinkerton one of the worst albums of the year, and it was number three on the Rolling Stone readers poll of the worst albums of the year, and overall people hated Pinkerton so much that Rivers Cuomo himself started to hate it, and then I'm still stalling, fine, fine. I am not proud to say that as a younger man and a less adept rock critic, I added to this wofful canon of well-meaning rock critics misunderstanding and underappreciating beloved hard rock and hard rock adjacent albums. But I did write a stupid review, and my stupid review is much, much stupider. I remember those drums. I remember hearing those drums through the ears of an empty head at 22 year old. I remember that little symbol thing. I remember putting in this CD to listen to it yet again, and rolling my eyes up into my empty head. That's the first song on hybrid theory. The first Lincoln Park record. So I was called Papercut, just setting the mood, and now here is a dramatic reading of my review of hybrid theory, published in alternative press in January 2001. When, just to reiterate, I was 22 years old, Max. The little headline, the subhead of this review is, "The bastard child of Fred Durst and Christina Aguilera." Yeah, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. "Curm, can I have some soothing classical music please?" To play under this. Thank you. Quote, "Manlier than the Backstreet Boys, hotter than 98 degrees, sharper than Britney Spears, meet Lincoln Park. Five agro-rap metal Southern California sweeties with hot pink teen pop polish painted on their nine inch nails. They've got the angst-ridden moves to make all the little girls swoon on hybrid theory. Picture arenas packed to the rafters with love struck 15-year-olds, clutching Lincoln Park posters and screaming along to every heartthrobbing word. Who among us can resist shaking our hips to the weak electrobeats, yawning guitar distortion, and screaming/rapping tag team that shake their collective bon-bon on knockout tracks like paper cut. Certainly the angst-ridden I Want It That Way Of Our Jaded Generation. Every hard-hitting track on hybrid theory leaves plenty of room for trade-off vocals, dance breakdowns, product placement, and perhaps in the future a guest-wrap from Aliso left eye Lopez. You thought the kids were done pissing all over pretty hate machine, but oops, they did it again. End quote. Okay. Okay. Well, all right. A couple initial thoughts. Just a few top-line observations. Top-line observation number one. What a bitch. Can I say that? I just said it. What a bitch. Wow. Wow. What a bitch I was. At 22 or perhaps even 21. Get a load of this chump. How'd you like to party with that guy? Can you smell the me who wrote that? Can you smell the Part Plus? Two in one shampoo and conditioner, wafting off this person? Can you imagine all the time I saved combining shampoo and conditioner into one substance? Extra time I evidently used to write more dumbass album reviews. Can you feel all the corduroy I'm wearing? Can you hear the built-to-spill playing in the background? As I typed that, you were right by built-to-spill. I should have mentioned that song in the rundown of everything. It's going to be all right songs from the Jimmy World episode. Somebody emailed me and suggested you were right as an interrogation of everything's going to be all right songs and they were right. Can you hear the dead silence of my AOL instant messenger not going with a new message because no one would talk to me. Fun fact about my journalism career in the year 2000. This is true. I would write in Microsoft Word, but I did not yet realize that you could A) copy and paste text or B) attach a Microsoft Word file to an email. And so I want you to imagine me typing out all that bullshit Lincoln Park action and then retyping it into an email to file it. I did that for everything that I wrote for like a year. I typed and then retyped many thousands of words in this fashion. There's me typing up my thousand-word phone with eb6's bassist twice. You ever write something and you accidentally delete a whole bunch of text and so you just go boob and the text reappears. I didn't know you could do that. So I just started over. Can you picture the look on my face when I discovered Control X and Control V? It's like I invented fire. Mr. Mensa over here making backstreet boys jokes. Does this sound like the angst ridden I want it that way of our jaded generation to you? No, it does not. We got Mike Chinota of Lincoln Park wrapping here and it decidedly non-Nick or Brian or Kevin or Howie or AJ like manner. A shruder and more open-minded 22-year-old critic might have noticed just the subtle way Mike's rhythm switches up on the line or how the pressure was fed. And that shruder critic might have then realized that the rapper in this particular rapper out band was a much, much better rapper than most other rappers. rappers in other rap rock bands. But no, no, I was too busy typing out the phrase, five agro-rap metal Southern California sweeties with hot pink team pop polish painted on their nine inch nails and then accidentally deleting it and then re-typing it again. There are six people in Lincoln Park, by the way. (claps) ♪ It's like a ♪ ♪ There are no I'm looking over my back ♪ ♪ It's like a ♪ ♪ World winds inside of my head ♪ ♪ It's like a ♪ ♪ Can't stop what I'm hearing within ♪ ♪ It's like the face inside is right beneath the skin ♪ And see again, a shooter and more open-minded 22-year-old critic might have heard Lincoln Park singer Chester Bennington scream the words beneath my skin and that shooter critic might have realized that the singer in this particular rap rock band was a much, much, much better singer than most other singers in rap rock bands. But no, no. I was too busy making snooty, derisive references to the Backstreet Boys 98 degrees Britney Spears and Lisa left dilopes. And that's the truly mortifying part of this stupid review. Yes, my bitchy dismissal of pop music, my bitchy, non-awesomely problematic dismissal of pop music, hot pink teen pop polished painted on their nine-inch nails. This review sucks, man. I am aware of that. The attitude animating this stupid review sucks. This stupid retrograde notion that pretty hate machine by nine-inch nails, just some hallowed fount of integrity. They can be desecrated by the presence of pink nail polish or rap music or pop music or teenage girls. Ooh, this review really sucks, man. I sincerely do not remember thinking like this and I always should have never thought like this. I vaguely remembered writing a pissy review of the first Lincoln Park record and I thought, oh, it'd be a hoot to read that again now. And so I emailed some very nice people currently working at alternative press. Thank you to Neville and Rob from AP. And they sent me the PDF of this fucking Lincoln Park review and I read it and it was not a hoot at all. And my soul left my body. My soul evacuated my body. My soul has not yet returned. To my body, my soul was like, did you not hear the bridge to the Lincoln Park song "Paper Cut?" The muscular and propulsive and just slightly startling bridge and did you not realize, Rob, that this rap rock band was much, much better at song structure than other rap rock bands? You dumbass. I can't believe you called them "sweeties." (clicking) ♪ The reason why it's right there needs to stay ♪ ♪ Inside the fire ♪ ♪ Inside the fire ♪ ♪ The reason why it's right there needs to stay ♪ ♪ I feel like the dream ♪ Really fantastic bridge, man. The drum pounding, bridge within the bridge, especially. Yes, I must conclude reluctantly that as a younger, stupider man, 22, I did sometimes espouse the wayward notion that rock music, usually made by glowering men with guitars who were usually complaining about either having sex or not having sex. I thought that rock music was inherently better and more important and more real than the fake and plastic and dance-oriented pop music, often not made by glowering men. There is a word for this in the rock critic community. And conversely, there is a word for the notion that all types of music made by anybody can be great and important and real. And it's so fascinating really, the rock versus pop dichotomy, the philosophical implications of who gets to make what kind of music and who should get to enjoy that music and how important that music is relative to other kinds. Critics love to talk about it and I could talk about it all day and maybe I will right now. That word is (beep) and if you had a couple hours, I'd really love to go deep on how I'm still bleeping that word out. It turns out I was one of the rock is realer and more important dumbasses who made the invention of that word necessary and I'm still bleeping it out. Bleeping that word out is this show's most obscure and obnoxious running joke. Every time we do this, somebody emails me, like, "What is that word you bleeped out?" And I just write back, "Stay out of it." As with global thermal nuclear war, when it comes to (beep) the only winning move is not to play. But yeah, in conclusion, Yowza, that review sucks. My 22 year old attitude sucks. My 22 year old conception of what counts as great music sucks. And I am sorry. And so here today, to use another super technical rock critic term, this is a doover. I'm gonna do better this time, or at the very least, I'm gonna try this time. ♪ I tried so hard and got so far ♪ ♪ But in the end, it doesn't even matter ♪ Yeah, well, it matters to me. My name is Rob Harvilla. This is the ninth episode of 60 Songs that explain the '90s, "Cole in the 2000s" and this week we are discussing in the end, by Lincoln Park. From their very famous and beloved 2000 debut album, Hybrid Theory, I stopped writing for Alternative Press Magazine eventually. Due to my terrible attitude, I was low on the totem pole of album reviewers, obviously. And I kept writing pissy reviews that were like, this sounds like a third tier band on epitaph records. And eventually my very patient editor had to call me up and be like, "Rob, they literally are a third tier band on epitaph records." Can you try to be a little more thoughtful? And I was like, "I doubt it." And also, as punishment for adding such a bitchy review, I went on Goodreads.com, and I planned to read you mean excerpts from one star reviews of my book, my book called "60 Songs That Explain the '90s." Now in paperback, but I will not be doing that. I will not be reading one star reviews of my book because I did not enjoy that activity at all. It turns out I am not egoless. Surprise, I took more offense to those one star reviews than I anticipated. Those mean people have no idea what they're talking about. I do not ramble, sir, or madame. I didn't finish that review in order to notice who wrote it. What a terrible idea I had to read mean reviews of myself, basically. I was like, "This will be hilarious." It was, in fact, not hilarious. I feel weird though. It feels incomplete and almost disrespectful to only play half the chorus to end the end. Hold on. I had too far to lose it all. But in the end, it doesn't even matter. Much better. Just the subtle inflection there, the way Chester Bennington sings the phrase, "To lose it all." The way he pulls back ever so slightly, the ocean of subtle melancholy implied there while he's still screaming the super famous screaming chorus, I might have noticed the greatness and importance of that. Also, even as a dumbass, 22-year-old, this is a truly great song by a truly important band. I know you know that. I just want you to know that I know that. Now, after the break, I'm gonna tell you the single best thing about this song, and I will do that right away, honest. All right, we're back. I am the best at ad breaks. I better win the Pulitzer Prize for ad breaks. You know what's genuinely awesome about this song and about this band? The whole ball game here, the distilled essence of Lincoln Park can be found on in the end. And it happens on the words, "I tried so hard." It's the synergy, the profound spiritual connection, the intergalactic mind-meled, between Mike Shenota, the rapper and Chester Bennington, the screamer on these four words, the truly stupendous handoff here, between the rapper and the screamer. I might have noticed it back then, but I'll have to settle for telling you right now that one of the most important rock bands of the 21st century is born right here on the words. I tried so hard. ♪ Or we stayed at odds to watch ♪ ♪ You go ♪ ♪ I kept everything inside and even though I tried ♪ ♪ It all fell apart ♪ ♪ When it meant to be, will eventually be a memory ♪ ♪ Of a time I tried so hard ♪ If you wanted to get super floored, excuse me, if I wanted to get super floored, I would say that the whole 21st century is born right there. When Mike and Chester align on the words, "I tried so hard," Or at least best case scenario 21st century sharp topping rocket roll is born right there. And I do mean chart topping, even though hybrid theory, the first Lincoln Park album from 2000, peaked at number two on the Billboard album chart beaten only by Creed. Creed. The Creed album weathered. The one with the song, My Sacrifice and the album cover where the dudes from creator like etched into a tree. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't look it up. It's really disconcerting album cover. Lincoln Park's hybrid theory went diamond, my dude. It sold more than 10 million copies in America. You know another rock band? This century that put out an album that sold 10 million copies of the Beatles. The Beatles won album. Their greatest hits album with all their number one songs on it that also came out in 2000. That also sold 10 million copies. Lincoln Park and the Beatles. And also Evan Essence and Nickelback. But yeah, Lincoln Park and the Beatles, two of the most commercially successful rock bands of the 21st century. And so let's go back and meet the Lenin and McCartney of New Metal. Oh, I'm just kidding about this being the Lenin and McCartney of New Metal. That's a little joke. Chester Bennington's not in this version of the band and this band is not yet called Lincoln Park. No, right now this band is called zero spelled XERO. This song is currently called Rine Stone and it kicks off zero's four song 1997 demo tape. That is indeed Mike Shinota, rapping and co-producing and more or less masterminding this project. But the other guy you're hearing right now, your singer, your screamer, your ostensible frontman is a lovely gentleman named Mark Wakefield who will not be long for this band. I am tempted to be extra obnoxious about the whole Beatles thing and call Mark Wakefield the beat best of Lincoln Park. But even I have my limits. At least I thought I did. Mark is a huge fan of 90s grunge giants like Nirvana and Pearl Jam and maybe especially Alison Chains. But he cannot quite sing with the fearsome soulful intensity of the dudes from Alison Chains. But then again, who can? It's just your Bennington, the Lenin or the McCartney of Lincoln Park. I can't decide. He's the screaming tough guy but he's also the melody guy, you know? Much to consider. Let's start with Mike Shinota. Mike Shinota is born in 1977 in Agora Hills, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. Or at least you can drive to Los Angeles from there. Don't at me about Los Angeles geography. I don't care. When Mike is eight years old, he hears songs from Run DMC's second album 1985's King of Rock. That's the album before the one where Run DMC and Aerosmith redo walk this way. That's on the Raising Hell album from 86. But King of Rock is a great album too. When Mike is 14 years old, he attends his first concert, Public Enemy and Anthrax. The Rap Gods Public Enemy in the Metal Gods Anthrax. Joining forces for Historic 1991 double bill inspired by their, "Hey, you dipped your metal into my rap music remix of Public Enemy's Bring the Noise." And right here is where the Mike Shinota we know and love is born. There's a great new book, A Biography of Lincoln Park written by Jason Lipschitz, an executive director at Billboard magazine. This book came out in October 2024 and it is called It Starts with One, The Legend and Legacy of Lincoln Park. And Jason writes, quote, "By the time Mike went to that Public Enemy in Anthrax show in 1991, shaperoned by his friend's dad, bellowing, turn it up, bring the noise, watching Anthrax deconstruct a rap song into a rock song in the way that Mike wanted to deconstruct rock songs into rap songs, marveling at the mashed up tenacity in moshing bodies and velocity of the words being hurled from the groups on stage and back at them, Mike already knew he could make music. But that was the night he started thinking about becoming a musician." My personal favorite part of this Bring the Noise Remix is when Chuck D. from Public Enemy stops rapping and Scott Ian from Anthrax starts rapping. You learn a lot right here about the enthusiasm. The sincere mutual love driving this fairly new idea of rap metal. And as far as rapping goes, you perhaps learn a little bit about the learning curve also. Beat is for Yoko Ono. Scott's doing a great job there really. Mike Shenoda wants to be a musician now. Can he learn to rap better than Chuck D? Of course not. Can he learn to rap better than Scott Ian? Perhaps. Mike is rapping. He's writing songs. He's making beats. He's forming bands with various classmates and cohorts and Agora Hills. And he winds up with a six man rap rock crew called zero X E R O. And with the exception of the ill-fated Mark Wakefield on vocals, everybody here is going to wind up in the classic Imperial lineup of Lincoln Park. Mike is rapping. We got Brad Delson on guitars, Dave Farrell on bass, Joe Han handling turntables and also artwork and Rob Borden on drums. Per the book, at 1.0 goes over a courting studio. Right. And Mark Wakefield is struggling to lay down his vocals. And the producer eventually walks out of the booth and says, it's been a couple hours. And I'm afraid he's not getting any better. End quote. Then zero does an industry showcase gig in December 1998 at the whiskey a go go the famed LA rock club. You can drive to the whiskey a go go from various other cities in Southern California. Ooh, an industry showcase. We got multiple ultra big shot music business titans in the crowd tonight. Clive Davis, Tommy Matolla, poly Anthony, Gio Siri, Gio Siri knows Madonna. Anyway, according to this book, zero bombs. Apparently they show totally sucks and the lead vocals, especially kind of suck. And afterward, somebody goes up to zeros to manage your type dudes and says, you both have to go underground for six months after this show. Seriously, don't show your faces. Oh, wow. The vibes are bad. I'm sorry to tell you, but zero needs a new lead singer specifically, zero needs this guy. Here we have Chester Bennington, front man for a Phoenix, Arizona alternative rock band called Gray Days, G-R-E-Y-D-A-Z-E that song is called Sickness. Chester Bennington is born in Phoenix in 1976. Chester grows up hard. Chester has spoken often of being a survivor of abuse, of struggling with substances with drugs and alcohol, starting in his teenage years. Chester has a truly startling rock star voice. Yes, the screaming, the ferocity, the anger, the pain. And clearly, there is no shortage of real life pain and anger from which to draw. This band Gray Days is trying to catch the early 90s grunge wave and they put out a couple albums and tour a little bit, but it ain't happening. Music business big shot wise. No whiskey a go-go industry showcase is forthcoming. And so they fizzle out and break up. And Chester's back in Phoenix. He's married. He assumes he's out of the music biz for good. He's at his 23rd birthday party and the phone rings. And why don't we just say the rest is history? Wow, okay. So now that's Chester Bennington singing alongside Mike Shinota. And now the Lenin and McCartney of New Metal have aligned. And now this band is called Hybrid Theory. And they put out a little EP. But wait, now they've changed their name again and they're called Lincoln Park Now. And their full-length debut album is called Hybrid Theory. And now this song is called Forgotten. And the Hybrid Theory album is going to sell 10 million copies. Answer your phone. That's the big takeaway here, I think. Okay, here's just one more important issue to address. Before we arrive at this diamond-selling album. "There was immediately loved and respected by everybody on Earth except me." Don't you love it when you're reading a book and you ask a question out loud? Because you are socially inept. In the book immediately answers the question you just asked. I love that. So I'm reading this Lincoln Park book, right? And I blurred out more or less. Why are Clive Davis, Tommy Matola, Polly Anthony, and a guy who knows Madonna all hanging around together at the Whiskey Ego Go in late 1998 to hear some random wayward rap rock band called Zero with an X. And the answer, as it turns out, is that rap rock is the next big thing. [Music] Rap rock is the next big thing, thanks in part to our dear old terrifying friends in Corn. Corn with a K, who are from Bakersfield, California. You cannot drive the Los Angeles from Bakersfield. Corn have blown the fuck up with their third album, 1998's Follow the Leader. Specifically, this song Got the Life has blown the fuck up on TRL on the fabled MTV afternoon call in show Total Request Live. I am swearing all of a sudden because we're about to enter the brief but ultra-sweary portion of this fucking conversation. One are suddenly famous pop stars in the vein of Eminem and Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera and the Backstreet Boys and all those other bold face names. I did not yet fully appreciate as a 22 year old. There is a rap rock gold rush, a new metal gold rush. That's new metal and you with an umlaut hyphen metal. Hold down the option key and hit you and the umlaut will appear and then you just hit you again and now the you's got an umlaut. Just a little keyboard shortcut for you. I've learned all kinds of keyboard tricks since I was 22. And the good news is that consequently in late 1998, every big shot record executive you've ever heard of will show up to hear your wayward little ill-fated new metal band Succine Stereo on stage. The bad news is that in summer 1999, Woodstock 99 will occur and ruin new metal's reputation for everybody. Here we have Korn doing got the life at Woodstock 99, a K.A. Ultimons 99, a truly accursed music festival rife with sexual assault and arson and wanton property destruction and a suffocating aura of gross hypermasculine borishness, all of which is dismayingly captured on camera. As you can see now in the ringer documentary, Woodstock 99, peace, love and rage, which in turn is based on our friend Stephen Heidin's excellent but tremendously sobering podcast called break stuff. Historically, no band that is part of the next big thing wants to be identified explicitly as part of the next big thing, right? Nobody truly important a grunge wanted to be identified as grunge. For example, but the situation here, new metal's reputation is now world historically awful. In the Lincoln Park Book, Mike Shinota says, quote, "I never wanted to be part of new metal." Though he also says, "There was a moment when that term and what it meant was actually pretty cool. It's almost impossible to imagine." End quote. And so, in October of 2000, we get two major new metal albums, hybrid theory by Lincoln Park is one of them. This is the other one. The other big new metal album released in October 2000 is called Chocolate Starfish in the Hot Dog Flavored Water by our dear friends, Limp Biscuit. I fucking told you it's about to get super sweary around here. This song is called Hot Dog. It appears that Limp Biscuit frontman Fred Durst has a few thoughts about the word fuck. So, you found a boy who thinks really deep thoughts. What's so amazing about really deep thoughts? This is not my personal favorite era of Limp Biscuit. My personal favorite era of Limp Biscuit is when they perform on stage in front of a giant toilet, but Fred Durst emerges from Woodstock 99 as the poster boy for the scumbaggery and villainy and stupidity of new metal. And that's not fucking fair, man. So we owe it to Fred now, I think, to listen to all his really deep thoughts about the word fuck. Remember that guy who thought AC/DC was a new low for Hard Rock? Fuck the B. This song is fucking stupid. In context, that's not even an insult necessarily, but it is the truth. Stupidity bothers me. Calculated stupidity offends me. It's the ad-libs here that really drive the point home. I think Fred Durst all in the booth going, "Eyed's! Six! I'm afraid he's not getting any better. Do you want to hear the chorus?" I don't. I'm sorry, but see, this concludes the ultra-swery portion of our conversation because an underrated but tremendously important element of the Lincoln Park album Hybrid Theory is that it contains no swear words. Cool little drum fill at the end there. Rob Borden on drums. Just reminding you, there are five people in this band. Six. Sorry, I mean six. How do you convey maximum ferocity? Maximum fury, maximum pain, without swearing. You sing like Chester Bennington. That's how the serrated edge to his voice, the paradoxical serrated vulnerability of his voice. Chester's voice is the first element of the song One Step Closer that makes you sit up a little straighter, ideally. In the Lincoln Park Book Chester says, "When Mike and I sat down and wrote the lyrics, we wanted to be as honest and as open as we could. We wanted something people could connect with, not just vulgarity and violence. We didn't want to make a big point of not cussing, but we don't have to hide behind anything to show how tough we can be." Cool little bass line coming in here. Lincoln Park's bass player Dave Ferrell does not actually play bass on this record because he's briefly left the band. He's a tutorial with his high school pop punk band who were called "Tasty Snacks." Dave comes to his senses and rejoins the band after Hybrid Theory, but shout out to whoever is. So, it's just these six guys. Lincoln Park aren't overnight success despite the years of striving and failing that preceded that overnight success. So, it's just a little bit more fun. One step closer is Lincoln Park's debut single. Lincoln Park's debut single "Tasty Snacks" is a great song. mission was not experienced when it came to rap music. And he didn't like any of Mike's or Chester's lyrics, and he kept making Mike and Chester rewrite their lyrics over and over. And thus, Mike and Chester eventually wrote lyrics about how annoyed and close to the edge they were with their snooty perfectionist producer. I cannot take this anymore. I'm saying everything I've said before, etc. He got any ideas for the bridge to a song about how angry you are at the guy producing the song. Fantastic. Perfect. Thank you. Great idea. Moment on hybrid theory, when I flash back to my dipshit 22 year old self when I hear this record now, as I heard it back then, I vaguely remember smirking like a dipshit listening to Chester Bennington sing the word heel. Here's me at 22 or 21 driving home from Kroger after buying more pert plus 2 and 1 shampoo and conditioner and I'm like, "Heel doesn't have two syllables dumbass." But heel has two syllables when Chester Bennington sings it. Heel has two syllables if you genuinely suspect that you will never heal. This also might have occurred to me at the time, or at least I should have had a little more respect for the way Chester Bennington sings the word insecure. Do not try to sing the word insecure like that. Honestly, I would try to avoid even thinking about how insecure you have to be to sing the word insecure like that. This song is called Crawling. Crawling one step closer and in the end are the 3, 10,000 pound gorilla monster singles on this record. But I'm here to tell you now that hybrid theory has no skips energy. It has greatest hits album energy. I'm having a real moment right now with a song called With You. You know who can sing with the fearsome, soulful intensity of the dudes from Alice in Chains? Yep, you guessed it. But it's also the camaraderie Chester develops here with these 5 other dudes. The skillful and thoughtful and revolutionary feeling combination of elements that would stock 99 suggested we should stop trying to combine. We got a rapper rapping. We got Johan on turntables, turntableing. We got the best case scenario version of what we've already decided was the worst case scenario future of Hard Rock. The piercing laser beam sample dude deep in the background there is really doing it for me. I'm going to be lightly making fun of Joe the Lincoln Park DJ in a couple minutes and so I just wanted to point that out. Have you noticed anything odd about Lincoln Park's lyrics? The consistency, the severity, the austerity, the laser focus. Virtually every Lincoln Park song here is the story of me and you. I, I, I, I, you, you, you, I'm with you. Shut up when I'm talking to you. The way I feel was promised by your face. Everything you say to me takes me one step closer to the edge and I'm about to break. Lincoln Park are two people alone in a room screaming in each other's faces. Every Lincoln Park song is two people alone in a room screaming in each other's faces. But somehow this does not feel repetitious. This does not get old or tiresome or predictable. There is a compounding, a multiplying, a tremendous fearsome gathering force and sometimes there is only catharsis, only screaming, only breaking, only whatever comes after screaming shut up when I'm talking to you doesn't work. That song is called a place for my head and I wonder if that bridge also is directed at poor Don Gilmore, the producer. I wonder in fact if every bridge to every song on hybrid theory is addressed to Don, including this one. It does not surprise me that in the end has emerged, has endured across eight studio albums and lots of detours over the past 25 years as Lincoln Park's biggest song or at least the band's most streamed song. But can I say it kind of depresses me? No, it doesn't depress me but it is awfully striking to me how hopeless, how bleak, how defeated in the end is, lyrically. I'm so struck by the alchemy of a song that can drop the line in the end it doesn't even matter in the chorus but still endure as this triumphant immortal, unbreakable anthem. And what makes in the end unbreakable has to be the camaraderie. The camaraderie within the band, the camaraderie between the band and the ten million people who bought this record. Or even the camaraderie just between Chester the singer and Mike the rapper, the truly stupendous handoff here, right off the rip on the word one. Two people who align on the word one and never, ever, ever, ever break apart. You know what I've been annoyed me at the time as a 22 year old but now it's one of my favorite parts of this song, the little glitch here on the word property. Maturedly. One way to define maturity and sophistication is when you realize that this glitch on the word property is very cool and important. It's very important. The glitch on property is very important. I sound like I'm joking but I'm serious. The battle between man and machine implied by the glitch on the word property is very important. A lot of other songs though, right? A lot of other albums. I can't get to everything. I'm a little stressed about it. Are you going to get mad at me if I don't mention collision course, the Jay Z and Lincoln Park EP from 2004? You're going to be mad at me. I'd be mad at me. Okay. This is so you don't get mad at me. This is not the famous song, the famous smash up from the 2004 Jay Z and Lincoln Park EP collision course. The famous track from collision course is NUM on Corp. I went to a work thing in Stockholm last summer and we all did karaoke and two of my co-workers were going to do NUM on Corp. Both of these co-workers are a solid 15 plus years younger than me and I'm very curious about whether their NUM on Corp karaoke version will be totally ironic or absolutely sincere or what. But the guy at the bar running karaoke took forever to call them up and I left before they did it and I can still hear it in my head. The NUM on Corp that I personally never heard, the sad and profound absence of their karaoke rendition of NUM on Corp. I'm still depressed about it, which I guess is an appropriately Lincoln park sort of construction. But anyway, no, that's Izzo in the end, which is a way more discordant mash up on collision course. I think you'll agree. The jauntiness of Izzo by Jay Z clashes tremendously with the bleakness of in the end by Lincoln Park, but it somehow still works. Doesn't it? There is a lemons from lemonade phenomenon here. In addition to the cosine, Jay Z functionally provides here for Lincoln Park. But man, NUM. I can't believe we almost forgot NUM. I almost did this whole episode about NUM. The second Lincoln Park album comes out in 2003 and it is called Mediora and the biggest and best song is called NUM. It's the drums that really do it for me. on numb. The drums are simple. On obtrusive. Not drawing a huge amount of attention to themselves, but the drums feel absolutely massive to me. I can't explain it, but maybe the less than I should have learned from this band immediately was to not talk about this band at all. I love the drums on numb so much. The drums bolster the inherent archetypal me versus you of numb. I'm stalling again for a very different reason. Of course, I'm stalling. My realization at Lincoln Park are a truly great and truly important band. My realization happened in two phases by a two songs I heard nearly 20 years apart. The first phase, the first song, is very, very, very silly, but I'm driving at night, right? And a new Lincoln parks on the first single from their second album, 2003's Mediaora, Comes on the Radio, and I am transfixed by the sound design here, genuinely. This is the first 10 seconds of the Lincoln Park song, "Somewhere I Belong," and I remember hearing this for the first time. I am driving somewhere alone at night in California, I think it's pitch black out, and this comes on the car radio, and I am immediately transfixed by this series of noises. And I remember thinking, "Oh, shit, I have massively underestimated this band, and I hope the stupid thing I wrote about them isn't too stupid." I love the beginning of "Somewhere I Belong" very much. I love it so much, in fact, that I am willing to overlook the presence of the chicken. Did you hear the chicken just now? Twice? Joe Han is your DJ. I apologize to Joe. Joe is an essential element of Lincoln Park, and the chicken is an essential element of "Somewhere I Belong," "Stalling, stalling, stalling, stalling," and Mediaora, the second Lincoln Park album released in 2003, sells fewer copies than hybrid theory. Mediaora sells a mere 8.5 million copies in America alone. That is still a bonkers number of copies to sell of an album in 2003. Sheesh, Lincoln Park are now very arguably the single "Biggas Rock Band" of the early 21st century, and they are certainly the biggest and best case scenario new metal band. I can't stall anymore. The third Lincoln Park album is called "Minutes to Midnight." It comes out in 2007, and it includes my personal favorite Lincoln Park song, but I do not realize that it is my favorite Lincoln Park song until it is too late. My favorite Lincoln Park song is called "Shadow of the Day." This is the one. This is the song. The song is anomalous as Lincoln Park songs go, perhaps in the sense that this song features neither rap nor metal, but the surprise, and maybe even the shock is essential to its greatness. The shock that Lincoln Park are capable of a song like this. The shock that Chester Bennington is capable of delivering, of selling a song like this. But so I realized that "Shadow of the Day" is the one on July 20th, 2017, when I hear the news that Chester Bennington has taken his own life. He was 41. I hear this, and "Shadow of the Day" pops immediately into my head, and I know it's the one, and it's too late. Sometimes it buys the only way. And it's obviously convenient in a morbid and melodramatic sort of way that this song solidifies in my head right in this moment of collective shock and grief and mourning. Sometimes goodbye is the only way. What fascinates me about this band eternally is that they can write such desolate, defeated, nothing even matters type anthems that provide so much solace to so many people. And there's a lot that goes into that, but I don't think any one element is more important than Chester Bennington's voice. The defiance and also the comfort in his voice. The solace he provides, even at his angriest and most hopeless, the defiance he provides, even at his softest and prettiest. The solace for you. The solace for you. It's With or Without You. This is Lincoln Park's answer to you, too, With or Without You. This is the Power Ballad. This is the cigarette lighters in the air moment for a generation that no longer brings cigarette lighters to rock concerts. After hybrid theory and media or at Lincoln Park make five more albums with Chester Bennington and some are much harder than expected and some are much popier than expected, but none of them are expected. This is a band that expands, that evolves, that surprises, that defies expectations, that silences haters, that tries shit. And so here, with Shadow of the Day, they tried to write their own stairway to heaven, and they did it. Of course, they did it. And now Lincoln Park is trying to move on without this person. And my overwhelming impulse is this shut up now. What Lincoln Park did, what Lincoln Park does, is find new and spectacular ways to bridge the divide between rap and metal, between the 20th and the 21st century, between stadium filling rage and headphone filling serenity, and between I and you. Shadow of the Day is my favorite Lincoln Park song. It is indeed Lincoln Park's with or without you. It is heartbreaking, truly, to live with the loss of Chester Bennington, but we will never live without his voice. We are so honored to be joined today by John D'Arneal, frontman for the Mountain Goats, whose latest album is called Jenny from Thebes. He's also the author of four fantastic books, the latest of which is called Devil House. John, I'm so grateful for your time. Thank you so much. Oh, it's been a pleasure to talk to you. It's a totally morning. Thanks for thanks for calling on me. Of course. When Chester Bennington died in 2017, you tweeted something that really stuck with me, and real quick, I'll just read it. You said, Lincoln Park meant a lot to a lot of kids. I used to take care of in treatments and placements, and therefore to me too, very sad today. Why was Lincoln Park so important to those kids? During that moment of time in popular music, there was a sort of post-Nervana signing frenzy of rock bands, and rock had grown in this time to incorporate a lot of hip hop, which was really a more popular music form, but popular radio was failing to meet the moment and stuff. In this interesting moment, there were all these rock bands whose vibe was about people who were a little frustrated with life, not because of their material conditions or anything, but sort of your standard alienated feelings, that you'd often satisfy in literature or wherever else, but doing so at a very conversational level. This wasn't novelistic stuff. This was the movement that we now call new metal. Nobody likes the term new metal. I don't think any bands call themselves new metal bands, but it was actually a super interesting moment that was very severely hated on by grownups at the time. There's nothing to more completely cement a musical style to young people than a bunch of grownups saying that it sucks. That moment was full of these bands that were, I think the way I think of them now is just as bands that were trying to make good music, but at the time I was pretty behater. I worked with a lot of teenagers and they would try to explain to me, like, no Lincoln Park is about this, or I mean Creed, a lot of them like Creed. I'm not a big Creed defender, but I came to understand them better on their own terms. When I was taking care of people to whom those records spoke, right? Lincoln Park, I think, was sort of the most interesting of them precisely because they were the most earnest, the most seeking and the most relatable of those bands. And so on their terms, like when they try to explain to you why Lincoln Park are great and why Lincoln Park are important to them, how do they describe this band? What are they getting from this band? Well, we're talking about young teenagers. So we didn't sit down and really do kind of a break it down for me. But they would say, you know, I mean, they'd say things like, no, they're good. That's what a 13 year old says and trying to explain it to you. They know they're good though, right? You know, it's really, they're good. They're not like that at all. If you were saying, they're kind of, you know, pretenders or whatever. I was saying, no, no, they're doing their own thing. You know, so we didn't have any big intellectual breakdowns about it. But they would, they would often, and the thing is like a child in treatment, uh, when upset, you know, when, when, when, you know, sent off to reflect on something, we'll often scream or sing lyrics really loudly. Like the big one from back then was last resort by popper roach, right? Every, every adolescent I took care of in the 2000s, adored that song, right? Cause it spoke to their frustration. But I think Lincoln Park spoke more to yearning, you know what I mean? It's like, like, like last resort, big song from that moment, you know, is, is a, is a song of anger and frustration and desperation, right? But I think Lincoln Park is sort of, they're almost, you know, there's this horrible term old soul that I don't really like, but, but, uh, but, you know, they're mature beyond their years in what they're thinking about, right? They're, they're, they're sort of, there's a wistful quality to what they do. And I think kids who've been through a lot related to that related to sort of looking at your life that hasn't even gone that far yet and feels like it's already been a lot, you know? You say last resort and it makes me think about the Lincoln Park song in the end, you know, which I think is emerged is probably the biggest song. And glee rickly, it is tremendously bleak. The chorus of this song is I got so far and tried so hard, but in the end, it doesn't even matter. Like how does this song like that or like last resort, you know, that sounds so defeated. How does that become an anthem, you know, a ball, a comfort to so many people? Well, I mean, it's a big question because like again, at the time, I was, you know, I was not into this music. I became interested in it because my kids were interested in it, you know? But my first reaction as a grown-up would be, you know, what do you mean you came so far? You're a child. You're 20. So, so and the older you get, the more the more that you struggle to not become the sort of jaded adult who who forgets that at 20, you do feel like you've been around for a long time, right? Well, actually, you've only been a grown-up for a year or so at that point, you know, and two and it's like, but it feels that way. Like the weight as you be as you potentiate, as you become an adult, right? You you sort of feel the pressure of life, right? And there's there's no, you know, the word life is so general and large that it's hard to dwell on, but I think that's what a lot of these bands, especially Lincoln Parker, thinking about is how do we do, there's a term in recovery, this thing called life, right? And how do we do this? What does this look like? Is it worth the effort, you know? And and that's a big question when you're a young person. I'll say a young man, especially young men who feel that they're going to have to be taking on responsibilities that they maybe didn't bargain for, you know, inheriting a world that that that kind of, you know, has been set up for them in a way that now it doesn't benefit them that benefited the generations before them, right? And these are, I think in that moment, a lot of young men are are saying to themselves, wow, I'm, you know, I'm being handed a plate full of stuff that I didn't pick that now that I now have to eat, you know? And and I think that's that's where I would Lincoln Parker dresses this not I think so much with rage. There's anger in their music, right? But but I think in in all their stuff in somewhere I belong in in in in this one, you know, there's there's this there's this feeling of sadness that sort of woven into both anger, but also hope they're a really hopeful band. I think that's probably why one reason why they're more successful than a lot of their peers is that when you when you give the reader or the listener, you know, as sort of a a a a life preserver to to climb up on even while you're dwelling on the hard parts, that's a thing that is appreciated, you know, because we all have we like to get down with the hard parts sometimes, but we also you need to be able to to find some light in the corner somewhere. Yeah, I was going to ask you as a songwriter when you became interested in this band, what you made of it because the songwriting in Lincoln Park is so fascinating to me because there's such a rigor and consistency to it. It's all me addressing you, you know, it's I I I you you you you know, you did this to me and here's how I feel I put my trust in you shut up when I'm talking to you. I'm tired of being who you want me to be like there's there's almost no other characters, no settings, you know, it's not flowery. There's just over the course of now eight albums, you know, decades. There's just such a consistency and a focus to this battle between me and you. I just I wondered what you made of that as a songwriter. Well, I mean, as a songwriter, that's not something I relate to at all. I'm a storyteller, right? I tell stories. I'm almost never the guy talking to you, right? And even when I am, you know, I'm a college guy. I think, you know, I have thoughts that will not be interesting to your listeners about how no matter how hard you try to say this is me and I'm speaking to you, you can't do that. That's not possible, right? It's mediated. The actual eye that's trying to speak isn't actually coherent enough to to come through. I mean, that's how I think of it, right? Other people don't think of it that way. I think clearly, you know, in Lincoln Park, there's an attempt to sort of actually make a direct communication. I think it's the desire to make that communication that electrifies and potentiates it, right? But as a songwriter, I mean, part of what I like about it, and this is true with a lot of music I listen to, is that it's not what I do at all, right? I don't I listen to way less singer songwriter stuff. The most people assume, most people think because I play an acoustic guitar that I want to listen to guys with acoustic guitars, but I actually mainly listen to heavy metal and ambient and jazz, right? And I prefer to listen to stuff that is not what I do, right? Because that's what thrills me, you know, it's like, if I if I could do what Lincoln Park does, I would do Lincoln Park, you know? So in my zone, what I'm doing is essentially literary enterprise, right? No matter how raw it gets, I'm bookish, right? Lincoln Park, I don't think they're unintelligent, but I don't think of them as bookish. I think of them as trying to do something that's, you know, that's visceral. It's trying to forge a connection. There's a real nobility to what they do. I don't think of what I do as noble. What I'm doing is curious, right? And there's a difference there. I agree with you that they're noble, but I disagree with you that you're not noble. I thought about this year. I thought about I appreciate you, but I'm just some guy telling stories that's I am. But that's that's absolutely not true to a lot of people. I was I was thinking about the burden that must have been placed on Chester Bennington, you know, the idea that he's written these songs that have saved people, that have helped people. And I know that's absolutely true of thousands of mountain goat songs. I thought of this year immediately as just this anthem that I'm sure is just helped so many people through so many things. And I've wondered about the burden that that puts on you and might have put on Chester Bennington, right? That, you know, you're so important, the songs you're writing are so important. And that connection that you've made ways on you to a degree. I have to imagine. So I apologize in advance if I get it's hard for me to think about Chester Bennington because his work was so useful to so many people and he took his own life, right? But but I also, you know, I don't know what was going on with him. I don't know what all that is about, but I do know that there's a thing I'm always wanting to impress on one to people who say that that I saved their lives, but also, you know, like I don't know a lot of other songwriters and stuff. I'm kind of a hermit, but but the thing I always say to people and that I would hope every performer also has internalized this. And I think most of them have, right? Is like when somebody says, oh, you saved my life. I say, no, I did not do that, right? What I did was I made a thing that I wasn't thinking of any. I mean, if you sit down to write a song going, yeah, I'm going to save this guy's life. There's something very wrong with you, right? It's like, that's not what you're doing when you're writing songs. You're just writing songs. You're just trying to make the song something good. That's all, right? It's not. You don't sit down to say, now I today I will inspire people or anything like that. You do that work before you write the song. You think, why am I writing? Why do I do this? Well, I hope music does for me, what it does for other people, what music has done for me, right? But the thing that I say to people is, no, I did not save your life. No, I didn't, right? Under any circumstances, I made a thing that you, as a listener, chose, actively chose to use as a tool in your own healing. I'm immensely grateful for my role in that process, right? That's a beautiful blessing in my life. But I don't, I don't care any weight about it because I didn't do anything. All I did was write a song, right? And the thing that I did that it's valuable makes me feel the sort of pride that I imagine I would feel if I build houses for a living, right? And if I build a house and someone lives in it, I say if that person is alive 100 days out of the year when it was freezing, right? But that person's never going to see me and say, You save my life. I have a house to live in, right? Well, no, I didn't. I just built a place that is warm, right? And writing songs is building places that are warm, right? But it's the people who choose to take up residence in them that actually did the work of scouting out the address to bear the metaphor out, of scouting out the address and seeing if it looked like a place where they could stay, right? But I think on a lot of songwriters, especially young ones, that weight of feeling that you live inside people's heads, like that, that you're conflating yourself with your work. It's hard because your work does come out of you, but it's not you. It's something you do. For me, that's a very useful way of thinking about it. But again, I don't know the rest of what was going on with Chester Bennington. I have to assume that if you could hear this conversation, you'd say, look, it had nothing to do with Lincoln Park or with my songs or anything. I had other stuff going on. It does make me think, though, of your first book, The Black Sabbath Book. It was part of the 33- and a third series. It was about Master of Reality. And most of those books are just the stories of how their records were made. But you did a fictionalized account of a kid in treatment. And all he wants is his tapes. All he wants is to listen to Black Sabbath. That's the only thing that's going to help him. And I wondered when you talked to these kids, and they're telling you what Lincoln Park means to them, do you flash back to the music that you loved as a teenager that maybe helped you as much as Lincoln Park is now helping these kids? A funny thing about that is that a lot of people read that book. They come out of it very angry at Gary, the therapist. And they're relating strongly to Roger, the patient. But in my work, I was the Gary. Gary's actually named after an old coworker of mine. I'm the guy whose job it is in these hospitals to put you in a robe when you get admitted and to put your tapes in the office. Like that was my gig, right? I think that-- I mean, I was not the head nurse or anything. I was just a new job to me. And as I grew in the business, I learned ways of welcoming people into the facilities where I worked at that were better. But these 80s facilities I was working in during the satanic panic, they had a regimented very-- and I only worked at-- I guess it was only six months at this one place. But they had a very regimented system of taking these kids' stuff away, which I thought was messed up. And I would try and talk to these guys when they would-- not all guys, but when they would come in. But in the book, I'm trying both to show the helplessness of a 16-year-old feels, having been stripped of his stuff, even his clothes, admitted. But also, in the answer part, the grown-up understands that he was a kid then. He just thinks the system was messed up and that the people working within the system need to take some responsibility for their roles in it. But yeah, I think Gary is sort of the invisible character in there that we're very inside of Roger's head for the entire thing. But there's a world outside of his head also that's supposed to be implied by the book. Yeah. You mentioned it earlier, but Lincoln Park has a lot of credit for talking, for singing, about mental health, long before that was common in pop music. Chester was so painfully honest about his struggles, his setbacks, his feelings of hopelessness sometimes. I mean, you've been in a band now for 30 plus years. Is it any easier now to be vulnerable in that way in a song and how hard must it have been for Chester now 25 years ago to be doing this? So, I mean, again, that's not-- I don't really do the expression of my feelings in song thing that much. That's not my neighborhood. My songs are very emotional, but they're usually not about a present situation. Usually the speaker is somebody else. I experience cathartic sort of release of emotions through storytelling. That's how it works for me. For him, though, I think it is very natural for young men, especially after punk rock to sit down and write a song and write something like, you know, you take black flag. We are tired of your abuse, try to stop us. It's no use. Like, I think that stuff actually is the first thing you think of to write when you get in a rock band. I mean, I think what's interesting about Chester Bennington is that he is introducing this element of vulnerability. It's interesting because that whole new metal moment is full of testosterone, right? It's very-- If you look at-- What was the band Mudvayne? If you look at the band-- is that the one I'm thinking of the world and makeup on their bodies and the video and the thrash of the-- Yeah, I might be. --the really being very intense physically. It's very deeply testosteroney stuff, right? And Lincoln Park is bringing, for lack of a better word, a sort of a feminine element to the presentation. There's a looseness. There's a liquid quality to it. That's inviting and a sadness. And that's the thing is like, lots of music is sad, right? But in that moment, sad was sort of off to the side and rage and frustration were more in the front. And you get into fine divisions of expression. But there's a real sorrow in Lincoln Park's music that I think most adults, over 21, missed entirely at the time. And-- But I think spoke very deeply to people who are just-- were at the time just getting in touch with these deeper currents of emotion that grow these sort of reservoirs of feeling that grow in size as you age, right? It's such an arthane to talk about. But I do wonder, a teenager who looks up to Chester to this degree, how you feel when you lose him. I cannot imagine how devastating that would be to a young person, especially. Yeah. I mean, well, there aren't good ways of talking about suicide, especially the suicide of other people. Because you don't know what was going on with the person. You can't. Even if they leave a note right before they go, you don't know what was going on in their skull. And they sort of-- suicide demonstrates the gulf between us and others, right? That's what makes it so painful. That it sort of is almost an accusation that we can't reach across the gulf between self and other. So-- I mean, yeah. The thing is like the other side of what you're saying is as an artist, you just sort of have a responsibility to take care of yourself, right? Because people are going to be looking to you for examples, even though, as I say, I don't think, when I write a song, I'm not saying, here's me, relate to me, right? I'm trying to make a thing that is useful, right? But that's just a thing I made. It's not-- it's only self-expression to a certain extent. But yeah, I mean, I don't think publicly we're really encouraged to feel anger when an artist does something like this. But I do. I-- it's one of the feelings I have besides the sadness and the grief. I feel anger because I do think if you're in the public eye and people are looking to you for comfort, you have a responsibility to take care of yourself. But that's overtaken from me, generally, by the sadness that I'm certain that he tried the best he could. I'm certain that he did all he could to beat his demons and couldn't in the end. Of course. Do you think there's a way that fundamentally changes the relationship a young person has with the songs? When they go back and listen to in the end, or even the songs, as you say, that are more hopeful, somewhere I belong, does it screw up the way that they hear this music now? Well, I mean, the thing is you and I are going granular on something. And our relationship to it is that we have thought a lot about it, and about the people who make it. But-- and this is the thing most entertainers never get their heads around. The vast majority of people who hear a song neither know nor care about the people who made it. And I think that's fine. There's nothing wrong with that at all. To me, that's an ideal situation. I hope the people are enjoying my music. Don't care who I am or what I'm all about. I mean, obviously, they might do a little check, make sure I'm not a monster or whatever. But that's the thing. The song is self-contained. The song is much bigger than the people who make it. So I think most of the people who hear it in the future-- and I think it will be a song that people return to, both of these songs that work in dures. And-- but I think it will only be the occasional listener who really goes to find out more. And then I do think that complicates, or maybe enriches your relationship to the music. This is an old question, like with Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath killed herself. And all of her poetry reads like a sort of prediction that this is going to happen. And in fact, she has these poems are explicitly about suicide and so forth. And-- but I do think it's important to not be doing-- that's a very 19th century way of reading stuff to say that the biography and the work are inextricably intertwined. They can be free of each other. You can-- yeah, and you have the freedom as a reader to include or exclude as much of that as you need to. And so I think-- I think-- you know, in a-- sense an artist who takes their own life and has written songs that offer a branch of hope sort of is on the other side of the song at this point. The song sort of stands as an accusation at that point or as a counterpoint at the very least. Just to wrap up, I was so struck rereading your Black Sabbath book just by your dedication. It just blew me away for some reason. It just says, "To all the children to whom I ever provided care in the earnest hope that your later lives have brought you the joy and love and freedom that was always yours by right." It was just so beautiful to me and I was just wondering, "With kids, you've kept in touch with in the years since, have they found that and has Lincoln Park or really any music helped them find that?" Well, so the thing is you don't, patient confidentiality, which is gospel for me as a nurse, means that you don't reach out to people after they leave your facility. You don't reach out. It's against the rules. Rightly so, for a lot of reasons, if you think about it, it's like, if I took care of you and then I see you out in the community three years later, you were 17, then you're 20 now. You've gotten your act together. You were a mess when you were 17, say. Right? But now you're doing your best. You're on the other side. You've got a gig. I show up at, I don't know, car dealership or you're selling cars. I want to buy a car. If I say to you in front of your co-workers, "Don't I know you from Charter Oak?" Then you'd be like, "No, I don't talk about that. That's not part of my story for me. I don't have the right to make that your story. If I reach out to you by contacting you, then I'm forcing you to own a story about you that's not mine to force." So I haven't kept in touch. I have had once or twice a child reach out as a grown-up to say, "Hello," and it's very emotional for me if they say that they took something good from my care. That's something I think because we talked in the field about it. You're just planting seeds. You're not trying to fix anybody. You're not trying to solve anybody's problems. You're trying to do what an parent would do. Give them a couple of skills that you hope they're able to use out there in the world. In the limited instances where I have any information about that, I don't take any credit for it. All the credit that kids I used to work with get for what they made their lives goes to them. They took some stuff they learned in our care and used it. But it's a blessing to me to know that if I was instrumental in anywhere there. John, this has been really wonderful. I'm so grateful for your time. Thank you so much. The pleasure is entirely my. It's hard to talk about. Chester Benningson's death was a sad moment. I mean, sad when anybody doesn't manage to make it through a difficult moment like that. But it's especially sad when somebody who's worked meant so much to so many. But yeah, it's good to work some of this through sometimes. Yeah. Thanks so much, John. Thanks very much to our guest this week. John, Darneel, we were thrilled to have him. Thanks to our producers Justin Sales and Jonathan Kerma. Thanks to Olivia Creary for additional production help. Thanks to Juliana Ress for fact checking. And thanks very much to you for listening. And now why don't you go listen to In the End by Lincoln Park. We'll see you next week.