Linkin Park’s Magic Is Gone
Apparently, Linkin Park has decided that it’s prudent to imitate twenty one pilots.
No, really. The California sextet, who for nearly twenty years has for better or for worse continually and consistently carved new paths into the nu-metal and hard rock scenes that hundreds of millions of doting and devoted listeners have trod, has taken a sharp turn into TOP’s realm of electronic misery. “Heavy,” their first new material in almost three years, is a moody, introspective alt-pop #sadbanger, claustrophobic and solemn. There’s at least some modicum of continuity from the band’s previous material: it’s got Linkin Park’s standard lyrical depth (read: very little) and subject (read: everything sucks, especially me), as well as a slightly dulled rock edge which sounds like an A Thousand Suns released last month instead of in 2010. Further updating the band’s M.O. for The Modern Music Consumer, vocalist Kiiara and writer Julia Michaels have deluged the track in their hedonistic, hollow brand of young-adult rebellion, a mode which typically works very well for their own solo material.
That said, “Heavy” doesn’t really sound like a Linkin Park song. It’s too muted, the frantic despondency of Chester Bennington’s wail discarded in favor of sedate melancholy. Rather, its emptiness is more aligned with Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun. The Ohioans have mastered the particularly neutral form of angst shown here, with a discography chock-full of songs rendered potent by the emotional trauma buried shallowly under a veneer of calm. “Heavy” is trying to be relatable by bursting at its glassy seams with despair; that’s absolutely twenty one pilots’ way of artistry.
More importantly, though, that’s never been Linkin Park’s way. I think this is probably the most disappointing thing about “Heavy”: that it relinquishes everything which made Linkin Park special to me. Hybrid Theory was vital when I was a teenager because it said exactly what I wanted to hear at exactly the right time in my life. I’ve talked about this more in-depth in other places, but — in short — it meant so much because it was the first time I’d run into angst of the particular kind Linkin Park peddled. It’s not particularly nuanced or refined misanthropy, but it’s a misanthropy that nevertheless resonated with me when I was fifteen. My middle school and early high school years were rough, and it meant the world to be able to cocoon myself in Chester Bennington’s screams after a long day at school. As much as I make fun of “SHUT UP WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!!!” when I hear it now, its cathartic climax was one of the things that got me through six or seven years ago.
I bring this up because I hear almost exactly the same tone in twenty one pilots’ music. I find it satisfying to see adult music writers absolutely perplexed that this band slipped under their tastemaker’s radar for so long — about two out of every three pieces on twenty one pilots for critically-esteemed publications asks the eternal “Who are these guys, and why did my editor assign me this story?” at some point — because I think it’s a perfect summary of the band’s fanbase. They are to teens and tweens in 2017 what Linkin Park was to me in 2010, which is to say they suck up the fear and anxiety and awkwardness of their fanbase and spit it right back at them, assuring their listeners that they feel the same.
More importantly, though, their empathy occupies a sonic space that none of their contemporaries did when they were blowing up. The band understands that My Chemical Romance’s eyeliner emo and Breaking Benjamin’s despondent machismo can’t demonstrate the same compassion to current teens as they did to teens ten years ago. Their goofy, slightly awkward electronic bells and whistles, Josh Dun’s comfortable, crunchy drum grooves, and Tyler Joseph’s self-conscious yelps make up the new face of angsty emo. For some reason, their musicality befits their dead-eyed misanthropy right now better than Three Days Grace’s theatrics or Black Veil Brides’ glam. I don’t exactly understand why this is true; maybe I’m finally too old to get it. All I know is that, from the deep, deep devotion seen in fan Tumblrs and YouTube covers and Facebook groups, their music works.
Crucially, this is also why Linkin Park’s music worked. The reason each of these bands listed in the above paragraph is worth mentioning is because they spun off Linkin Park’s nu-metal model in their own ways — but their models of success were drawn from Linkin Park nevertheless. Breaking Benjamin took Bennington’s more aggressive edge, Three Days Grace amped up their misery and misanthropy, My Chemical Romance took Three Days Grace one step further, and Black Veil Brides did the same to MCR. twenty one pilots, meanwhile, took Mike Shinoda’s calm, even-keeled rapping and sampled A Thousand Suns’ apocalyptic production and made their own way, turning down the volume and the rock and turning up the introspection. They’ve made their own beast, but they’re indebted to Linkin Park nonetheless.
Of course, Linkin Park wasn’t the originators of their style — other bands had been tossing around rap-metal combinations for about a decade, with varying success — but they were the first ones to perfect the nu-metal formula. Korn was too weird, Slipknot was too aggressive, Deftones was too unapproachable. Linkin Park got it — their music was a perfect blend of accessibility, anger, simplicity, and catchiness. Theirs was a then-unique misanthropy which allowed the listener in, saying that the kid who stumbled out of the CD shop with the insectoid album cover wasn’t alone. The band’s particular blend of everything that gave nu-metal its heft was fiercely original. Their success blazed a path for legions of followers, all of whom would diversify and deepen the band’s perfect presentation of emotion.
Which is why “Heavy” is such a disillusioning song. It’s misanthropy and angst, but it’s not their misanthropy and angst — or even a misanthropy and angst they can reasonably lay claim to as their own. It’s the deadened sadness of twenty one pilots and the Insta-ready moodiness of Kiiara and Julia Michaels, nothing more. Before, when Linkin Park had dulled their rage, it was in a new direction, as with the early-2010s albums and their seething, mechanical ambience. Now, it’s in a direction already explored by other musicians — musicians who have, ironically enough, achieved their own success by taking a page from the originators.
What happens when Linkin Park starts to walk in paths blazed by those who drew their original direction from them? Most likely, their relevance fades. To resonate with The Kids These Days, artists need to understand them in a way that nobody else has. “Heavy” demonstrates that Linkin Park understands their listeners best through other bands’ successes — a typically ineffective tactic, and one which unfortunately might signal their decline. There’s no space for Linkin Park’s older brand of angst anymore, so they need to create a new one. If that creation hinges too heavily on the work of those around them, the band might find that all the real estate is gone — and with it, what’s made them special over so many years. It might be time to bid farewell.
