Let’s Party Like It’s 1999!

Words by Mollie Dowling

Looking around at the tube dwellers before me, you can’t help but feel the buzz. A myriad of red baseball caps litter the carriage like spots on a hormonal tween, and an atmosphere you can only describe as an overly ambitious Duracell bunny . As soon as my feet touch the battered concrete of Wembley Park station, the flurries of excitement cascade through the growing herd of ragtag metalheads. This is it. It’s go time.  

Ambling into the stadium like a herd of very aggressive-looking sheep, the crowd slowly began to build, and the stench of weed filled the air. This was it, in a matter of hours, I’d be mere meters away from the god of nu-metal himself. Performing a bob and weave that even Muhammed Ali would be proud of, I made my way through the crowd, to a semi-decent spot slap bang in the middle of the pit. 

Donning my baseball cap and makeshift lipliner soul patch, I wait. The lights go down, as whispered ooo’s and ahhh’s bounce from the walls in anticipation. This is the moment we meet our MC for the night. Jon Carnage, a man that screams divorce and self-esteem issues. His shrill American accent booms over the PA, and the energy inside the auditorium turns from one of bumbling chaos to something comically uninspiring. His attempts at hyping up the crowd went down like a lead balloon, as he was immediately confronted by an infernal chorus, harmoniously blending chants of “wanker!” with the ever tasteful “pedo!”. Ah, Britain. 

MC Jon Carnage photographed by Justine Louise Photography

One piece of information I’ve kept until this moment is that this bill housed five opening acts… And there’s a reason for that. Bones, Ecca Vandal, N8NOFACE, Karen Dió and special guest, meme sensation Riff Raff. Let me save you the hassle of looking them all up. The general consensus was they were shit. If we’re putting it nicely, I’d describe the line-up as an eclectic train-wreck. It was a bit like JD Vance: You didn’t want to look, but you couldn’t not look. Honouring its namesake, Loserville in this moment achieved what it set out to do. Albeit in an extremely unorthodox way, every member of the crowd was practically begging to see Limp Bizkit.  

Support Act N8NOFACE photographed by Justine Louise Photography

After a couple more rounds of hurling abuse at the MC, the moment had arrived. As the lights dimmed once again, the voice of God boomed from the speakers, dissipating into the ears of a disappointed mob. He recited his first commandment: “Let’s party like its 1999!” and we did just that – If that party was a wake… For someone we didn’t particularly like. 

The curtains peeled back, and a mop of silver curls came bounding onto the stage, emulating what one could only describe as a toilet brush on copious amounts of cocaine.And the crowd went… mild. Chatters of “Is that Fred Durst? It doesn’t look like him,” began to circulate throughout the arena. In all fairness, I’d seen five or six guys in the queue for the toilet that looked more like Fred Durst than Fred Durst, but as soon as that riff blared through the amp, there was no mistaking. This was Limp Bizkit.  

Fred Durst photographed by Justine Louise Photography

With no time to prepare, the band launched into their signature hit ‘Break Stuff’, and I was swallowed by the mosh pit. Like an eclipse of flailing limbs, all sense just evaporated as I was plunged into complete darkness, tousling with the other sweaty bodies that encased me in this human forcefield.

As the song reached its plateau, I was finally freed from my gyrating flesh prison, laying eyes on the stage for the very first time.  

Alongside Durst stood something resembling a jazzy gimp. A nightmarishly vacant figure masked behind a whimsically vibrant exoskeleton. He’s clad in an extravagant two-piece upon which lies a loud expressionist painting. In keeping with the theme of eccentric hairdo’s, Borland ditched a nice ponytail or funky hairclip for a complete structural monstrosity. A mane of hot pink feathers that defied all laws of gravity stood proud, swaying eagerly with every shred of the strings. It’s safe to say I felt severely underdressed. 

Wes Borland photographed by Justine Louise Photography

Without even a second to catch my breath, we were transported into the next song. Banging out hit after hit without so much as a second to look at the audience, the sound cocooned the building with so much power I could have sworn I felt my skeleton vibrate. The basslines rumbled through the mix, swamping the area in a puddle of low-end sludge as Otto’s drums crackled like static, hitting every breakdown with enough force to turn the building into an apocalyptic pile of rubble.  

After cycling through their discography in a neatly packaged 90-minute set, the hum of feedback dissipated into an eerie silence. As the crowd geared up for what would be the last song of the night, another proclamation forced its way out of the speakers, severing any anticipation in the room into fractals of disheartened murmurs. Obligatory thank you’s to the band, the audience, and just about everyone else he could think of padded the next five to ten minutes, stringing out every sentence until the crowd buzzed with increasing impatience. It was sadistic. Like a lion toying with its prey before allowing it the sweet release of death.  

Just as we were beginning to lose momentum, that all too familiar riff flooded the auditorium, like a sonic deja vu. Are they playing Break Stuff again?! The pit opened like the jaws of a particularly bloodthirsty shark, and once again I was thrust into its mouth. Jostling between sweaty 40 year old men and sweaty 14 year old girls, washed an overwhelming sense of community. We were going to go absolutely apeshit. A swirling vortex of limbs and adrenaline, a perfect end to a perfect evening.

For just a few minutes nothing existed apart from the music and the feral joys of euphoric recklessness.