Durst's bluster used to infuriate me for myriad reasons, not least of which because he's so obviously enjoying himself. He truly does not give a fuck what you or your momma or any rock critic in the world thinks about him. He just wants to sell a couple million records and party at the Playboy Mansion, and for this I once would have wanted to wring his neck: "Dude, what are you doing? You're a musician! You're supposed to be taking this shit seriously! What are you, a complete phony?"

Then it hit me: Of course he's a phony. He knows it, we know it, and he knows we know it, so which way's the keg? That's when I wised up and began digging "Rollin'" for what it is: a stupid frat-party thing made by a stupid frat-party guy. More I heard it, the more clear Durst's do-a-little-dance-make-a-little-nookie ideology became. Like there's this moment at the beginning of the song right after the tense stompsqueal intro builds builds builds explodes and Durst seizes the mic -- "Back up, back up, tell me whatcha gonna do now" -- and the power chords behind him drop out and the only guys left in the spotlight are Durst and the drummer and it's all throw your hands up and breathe in now breathe out and SHIT GET DOWN!... the whole thing makes perfect sense now. Of course, rock critics aren't really supposed to "get down," especially not to any band whose lead singer was in Backstage Sluts 2. Because Limp Bizkit aren't exactly acclaimed, I would once snap their older songs off my radio whenever they dared soil mine virgin ears. But if nothing else, "Rollin'" has convinced me to be just a little more open-minded when it comes to Top 40 radio. It occurred to me that I had become entirely too dependent on nose-thumbing rock journalists regarding what music I should and shouldn't listen to. That is pathetic. I promptly began my Lighten the Hell Up campaign, and it's been going great ever since.

The Lighten the Hell Up campaign has three main goals. Goal the first: to realize that rock'n'roll music is sometimes just that and nothing more. Not every band is out to make a Kid A-type statement, nor should they. [Ed: See Ozga's statement-making review of Kid A.] Goal number two: to accept albums/ songs/ bands on their own terms. If Durst's main goal is to write muscular, catchy songs to which he can par-tee down, then I should judge his music on that criterion alone. And finally, the last goal: to quit self-consciously worrying about what other rock critics are going to say about an album/song/band. Those are tough objectives for an insecure amateur music journalist like myself, especially that last one. What if I make a bad call on an album? What if I trumpet the pretentious, glorify the banal, celebrate the half-assed? Fortunately, my first "find" as part of the Lighten the Hell Up campaign was neither pretentious, banal, or half-assed (they're rather whole-assed, actually - well-assed, you could say).

Last summer, while on vacation in California, my younger sister played her Destiny's Child CD as I drove through L.A. in a rented car. At first, it ticked me off ("What the... I bet they don't even write their own stuff! If Lester Bangs was alive, he'd hate this crap!"), but as the air cooled and night fell and office lights began to outline a sketch of a city, the music started to grow on me. Back at the hotel, I couldn't stop those songs from swirling through my head. I became enamored with the jittery, jumpy sparkle of the almost atonal beats, not to mention the knowingly sexy coolness of the vocals.

After returning home, I delved whole-hog into Top 40 radio. I began to glean pleasure from all kinds of different songs - on their own terms - critics be damned! And the more I heard from Destiny's Child, the more I wanted to hear more. "Independent Women Part One" was the climax. Know the part where they go "Throw your hands up at me?" Well I do, every time I hear that song. Lightening the Hell Up had exposed me to an embarrassment of radio-ready riches I'd have turned me nose up to just a short while ago. "The Thong Song," "Party Up," "It Wasn't Me," "Shake Ya Ass" -- it got to a point where I wasn't even considering the critics' opinions on, well, anything. While discussing pop music with my friends, I would unabashedly declare my love of "I Want It That Way" without ever dorkily wondering to myself if I've finally gone too far with this whole Lighten Up thing. It was a profoundly cathartic experience, and as long as the hits just kept on coming, I never once felt the weight of too much liberty. But everybody knows that Top 40 radio works in cycles. Q102, my local supplier for chart-topping goodies, has deigned itself to playing Moby's "South Side" around the clock -- come on, guys, if I wanted to hear that song I'd listen to the record! Thankfully, it was about this time that one of my Napster-loving buddies compiled a CD-R he promised to be the greatest album ever known to man. And, after surveying the track list ("What's Your Fantasty?" by Ludacris, plus the theme song from Fraggle Rock, various techno remixes of old Nintendo game music, "Me Lost Me Cookie at the Disco" by Cookie Monster; yeah, I've graduated from Top 40 for the second time), I could not disagree. And then actually listening to the album late one Saturday night in his parked car, thick with pot-fog, I was completely convinced. "Novelty songs," you might scoff. I have but one response to that: Lighten the Hell Up. If I hadn't have driven through a glowing Los Angeles at sundown last summer I myself might have never Lightened the Hell Up, and I would have missed out on what is without a doubt the greatest rock song ever: "Fish Fuck" by Gwar. Note that I say that with complete and utter sincerity -- if I'm lying I'm dying, and if I'm dying I want it written on my tombstone that "Fish Fuck" is the greatest rock song ever. 'Cause it is. The very model of punchy efficiency, "Fish Fuck" clocks in at under two minutes, but it squeezes more sheer visceral/musical content into its verse-chorus-verse than I've ever heard. Perhaps you've heard of Gwar.