14 Songs, 1 Hour 4 Minutes

EDITORS’ NOTES

As Korn enters the new millennium they continue to broaden the parameters of their sound. Save for the tribal thump of “Embrace,” the band has shed all traces of its thrashing rap metal, and instead explores caustic, slow-burning ballads (“Alone I Break,” “No One’s There,” “Make Believe”), atmospheric riff-rock (“Thoughtless,” “Beat It Upright,” “Bottled Up Inside”), and throbbing industrial akin to Ministry and Nine Inch Nails (“Wake Up Hate”). Despite its surging, catchy chorus, “Here to Say” is probably the most disturbing song to ever win a GRAMMY, as Jonathan Davis delivers one of his vengeful missives: “This state is elevating / As the hurt turns into hating.” Even the songs that speak directly to the mosh pit reveal an older, wiser Korn. Ten years ago it was virtually impossible to envision Davis ever singing in anything that didn’t resemble a feral growl, but on “Hollow Life” and “Blame” he uses a fragile croon that could almost belong to a choirboy — at least before the band obliterates any religious serenity in a fiery rage.

EDITORS’ NOTES

As Korn enters the new millennium they continue to broaden the parameters of their sound. Save for the tribal thump of “Embrace,” the band has shed all traces of its thrashing rap metal, and instead explores caustic, slow-burning ballads (“Alone I Break,” “No One’s There,” “Make Believe”), atmospheric riff-rock (“Thoughtless,” “Beat It Upright,” “Bottled Up Inside”), and throbbing industrial akin to Ministry and Nine Inch Nails (“Wake Up Hate”). Despite its surging, catchy chorus, “Here to Say” is probably the most disturbing song to ever win a GRAMMY, as Jonathan Davis delivers one of his vengeful missives: “This state is elevating / As the hurt turns into hating.” Even the songs that speak directly to the mosh pit reveal an older, wiser Korn. Ten years ago it was virtually impossible to envision Davis ever singing in anything that didn’t resemble a feral growl, but on “Hollow Life” and “Blame” he uses a fragile croon that could almost belong to a choirboy — at least before the band obliterates any religious serenity in a fiery rage.

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