Limp Bizkit: Chocolate Starfish And The Hot Dog Flavored Water : Music Reviews : Rolling Stone

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Some people hate Limp Bizkit's Fred Durst for his loud mouth, some hate him for his hip-hop posing, and some hate him for setting back the cause of white men fighting for their right to wear dumb hats by twenty years. But most people just hate him because he's Fred Durst, and he likes it that way. Like many other obnoxious rock & roll rage queens before him -- Axl Rose, Courtney Love and Billy Corgan come to mind -- Fred Durst is nowhere near as full of shit as you wish he were, and nowhere near as unmusical as he probably deserves to be. You can't even say he'd be great if he weren't such a pain in the ass, because being a pain in the ass is what he's great at. But unlike the aforementioned, he keeps getting funnier at his shtick. And when his band decides to get off its yeah and jam, he's a bona fide rock star. His signature song, the 1999 TRL-metal epiphany "Nookie," was everything loud, stupid rock should be: hilarious, catchy, sad, human, not to mention loud and stupid. The meanest and funniest punk-rock breakup song since PJ Harvey's "Dry," "Nookie" was absolutely flawless, in that deeply flawed kind of way.

It was only natural to suspect that Limp Bizkit would fall on their faces this time by getting serious. But Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water is looser and livelier and just plain better than anything they've ever tried before. Even before you get the CD out of the case, they're goading you with an album cover even more idiotic than the title, a daring bid to capture this year's Fiona Apple Award for the worst title attached to a good album. Since "Limp Bizkit Presents" appears above the title, and since the album begins with "Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water," it seems that our boys are attempting a concept album in which they play the role of a fictional rock group. So we're probably supposed to think of it as Ziggy Starbucks and the Spiders from Bennie and the Jets, or maybe just Sgt. Pepper's Show-Your-Tits Club Band. But ignore the concept, and what you'll hear is Limp Bizkit finally getting their act together for more than one song at a time.

They don't tinker with their basic sound, so if you hated them before, you won't change your mind. But they've never sounded as righteous or confident as in the opening headbanger, "Hot Dog," which switches between a strange Nine Inch Nails parody and a populist summary of the worldview that makes Limp Bizkit resonate with the scared, screwed-up kids in their audience. Over Wes Borland's break-stuff guitar, Durst lays it on the line: "Fucked-up moms and fucked-up dads/There's a fucked-up cop with a fucked-up badge/Fucked-up job with fucked-up pay/Fucked-up boss, it's a fucked-up day." He really slams it home with the chorus chant, "Everybody knows this song." Damn straight -- if you don't have days like this, you're probably Jewel, and you're also lying. And if you give up on the kids who feel this way every day, you're as much of a sucker as Durst says you are. But in case you accuse him of lacking a sense of humor, he ends the song with the couplet: "If I say fuck two more times/That's forty-six fucks in this fucked-up rhyme." In another song, Durst boasts, "I've seen The Fight Club about twenty-eight times," and believe me, that explains a lot.

The slate of hip-hop guests is impressive: sure, DMX, Method Man and Redman, but Xzibit, Swizz Beatz and DJ Premier? Still, the main musical attraction is Borland's trick guitar. Unfortunately, he's still bigger on abstract sound effects than on riffs, as befits a serious music nut who worships concept artists like John Zorn and Aphex Twin. He's even proclaimed that "Limp Bizkit is definitely a dumb rock band, as far as the fact that our songs are written in pop format." But Limp Bizkit make a really great dumb rock band; their problem is that they make a fairly dumb art band. So they're best when Fuck Said Fred vents his angst into blowouts like "Full Nelson," "My Way" and the genuinely moving "The One," in which he mourns the death of a relationship without blaming it on the girl, quite the spiritual achievement for a young rap-metal star, and an encouraging sign that the best Bizkit may be yet to come. Fred Durst still rages against the stupidity of the world. But on Chocolate Starfish, he's also smart enough to rage against the stupidity of Fred Durst, and that's what makes him a believable high school anti-hero for our time.