Fear Factory
Digimortal (Roadrunner)
by Scott Hefflon
A friend of mine had my Fear Factory CDs out (either to tape, burn copies of, or “borrow”) and I commented that I had to give the lugheads credit, that I couldn’t trace “that eerie baritone vocal style” black metal adopted back any further than mid-’90s Fear Factory. She argued that she’d always thought of Fear Factory as an industrial band.
Really? Sure, genres overlap, and I disagree with A LOT of people about what’s technically what (and, come to think of it, a lot of other topics as well), but metallic industrial and industrial-leaning metal are worlds apart. Fear Factory is metal. Just ask ’em. You’ll have to speak slowly and clearly, and when they continue to simply scowl stupidly at you, give up and realize they’re metal guys. Dumb as fuckin’ rocks, ugly, neanderthal knuckledragging metalheads. And I say that as as one of their ilk (that means I’m a metalhead, meathead).
To be honest, who else’d want ’em? Industrial bands have sillier haircuts (much like nü metal, which I still argue is neither “new” nor “metal”) and are usually pretentious artists talking about programming like computer nerds and “their music” as if any hack with a halfway decent keyboard couldn’t make “cold, inhuman, futuristic” soundscapes with maybe some distorted ranting and boring metal riffs thrown in for the exact same diversity as every other industrial band. Metalheads, historically, have always been a bit shaggy, dirty, and prone to sagging beer-bellies. Industrial dudes, well, I always kinda think of spiky-haired, eyeliner-wearing fops in frilly black draperies who, like my cat, couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. That’s to say they’re both pussies, in case I’m losing you here… But if you were to ask an industrial skippy if he liked metal, aside from sighing at the hopelessness of it all, he’d probably describe in excruciating detail what constitutes industrial music and how and why it is significantly different from metal and other low forms of music. Ask a metalhead and they’ll probably say, “Yeah, dude, Ministry rules! Fuckin’ right fuckin’ on, maaan!” Then they’d knod their head in agreement with themselves or quietly headbang to music only they hear and finally go away to sniff panties and scratch the bugs out of their hair. Or they might reply, “Nah, fuck that pussy shit! Slayer! Slay-yer!” and begin foaming at the mouth.
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