Gallows

It’s possibly the most universally ridiculed genre to have ever formed and spawned hit records, and with Linkin Park’s recent decision to ditch the style in favour of hip-hop and punk rock, it seems that we have truly seen the last of nu-metal.

*Papa Roach *were always thought of as one of the less wonderful facets of the late ‘90s mob. They were perceived to be riding the coattails of their mentors Korn, and their subject matter more often than not concerned matters of teenage angst. But teenagers they most certainly were not.

With their classic rapping-over-metal method substituted in 2004 for a softer and more rock-oriented sound, it seemed that Papa Roach were heading out of the very scene that they helped to perpetuate. They promptly celebrated a second platinum record off the back of a massive second single.

Which brings us to the here and now. Tonight, the black-clad Californian quartet is playing to a totally sold-out Astoria with no stage dramatics: no pyro, no podiums, not even a backdrop. It’s a bold move. Do they really have enough in the tank to satisfy over 2,000 people with their songs alone? Almost.

Jacoby Shaddix (_née _Coby Dick) is instrumental in his frontman role. Amazingly, the rollicking crowd adores every single move the mulleted, glammed-up madman makes and bow down to him as he prances across the stage, working the room like a maniacal rock ‘n’ roll preacher man. He stands upon the monitors, a mini pedestal for the diminutive frontman, and serves his sermons to the willingly converted. They lap it up.

You can be sure that this man could take charge of any band in the world and he would make their live show one of the most wonderful experience for thousands of people in every country across the world. And I mean any band, regardless of the quality of songs, because his band’s songwriting skills are, to put it kindly, very patchy.

That the rest of the band is fairly anonymous is not a surprise. When there is a talent quite as extraordinary as Shaddix’s, you do nothing to distract from it. Also, you should never do anything to attract attention to the fact there aren’t any virtuoso guitar displays or mind-boggling guitar fills: this is the big-budget alternative to the one-man band.

It obviously takes until the very end to hear those magical words…

“Cut my life into pieces…”

…but after that opening gambit, he doesn’t need to sing another word.

Papa Roach is dead.

Long live Papa Roach.