The Chemical Brothers, Limp Bizkit, and Missy Elliott
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22 June 1999
The Chemical Brothers
Surrender
With ten years’ hindsight, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Surrender was the high-water mark of late ‘90s popular electronic music. Sure, many albums sold better—the Prodigy’s Fat of the Land, Moby’s Play, the Chems’ own Dig Your Own Hole. And Surrender also had the misfortune of being released within a few weeks’ of Limp Bizkit’s Significant Other and the Backstreet Boys’ Millennium—placing the album squarely at odds with the dominant schizoid strains of pre-millennial bubblegum. The “electronica” revolution had passed, leaving little impact in its wake save for a ton of great, mostly unheralded music.
Nonetheless, Surrender still sounded like the Future (already receding), neatly encapsulating all the conflicting strains of ‘90s dance music, bundling up acid house, techno, synth-pop, and even the egregiously named “big beat” sound that made the duo famous, wrapping it all in one big shiny bow of blissed-out psychedelic perfection. At the time, it seemed like a revelation: it was forward-thinking music with an eye on history, sonically dense and subversively intellectual musique concrete, filtered through the lens of New Order, Mercury Rev, and—yes!—the Beatles. It was consciously retro, but considering how marvelously forward-thinking the Chems’ first two albums had been, the historical focus hardly seemed like a sin. It was the electronic music equivalent of the world’s most awesome covers album, a respectful nod in the direction of every fondly-remembered variety of ‘90s electronic music—hip-hop, rock, house, and pop, it all got thrown in the pot to make the stanky, fertile bouillabaisse of ‘90s dance.
But, unfortunately, the tide turned, and the Chemical Brothers’ utopian future never actually came to pass. Most of the acts who defined ‘90s dance and electronic music either stumbled or fell entirely soon after the calendar turned. The Prodigy went into hibernation, Underworld lost a member and with him a great deal of their urgency, Orbital and Leftfield both split, and Aphex Twin decided he’d rather spend his time doing anything but making music. In the ensuing years, the Chemical Brothers have consistently released solid albums, but nothing quite so revelatory as their first three LPs. They can still be depended on for a handful of great tracks per disc, and a few sleeper deep cuts, but the perception of invincibility has long since faded. There was a time—gather ‘round, kiddies—when these two homely British dudes (with a passion for medieval history and Bob Dylan, of all things) were making the most exciting music on the planet, more powerful than any angry rap-rock, more debonair than a thousand teenyboppers, and just about the smartest stuff that ever made it onto MTV, Radiohead not excepted. Those were the days, and they seemed like they would last forever. They didn’t, but I still prefer this future to the one we actually got. 
Tim O’Neil
22 June 1999
Limp Bizkit
Significant Other
I’ve been a music obsessive for as long as I can remember, and when I was 13, in the summer of 1999, Rolling Stone was the Bible and Limp Bizkit were the prophets. I was the perfect audience for their debut record, 1997’s Three Dollar Bill Yall$, a rap-metal tirade that spoke to teenage angst like the Who staring angrily into a mirror. I found it puzzling at the time that my beloved Rolling Stone predicted such an engaging album as Significant Other would destroy the Bizkit, but it makes complete sense now. Skyrocketing to popularity destroyed Limp Bizkit’s appeal to the disaffected teens that made them.
But the honeymoon period was glorious, and for the summer of 1999, Limp Bizkit owned MTV. Veteran metal-loving VJ Matt Pinfield even offers his ecstatic endorsement at the close of the album, presenting Limp Bizkit as an antidote to boy bands. Much as its intro might declare the Bizkit to be “the worst”, Significant Other was the sound of rap-rock trading in its “underground” card for chart domination. There are two ballads (“Re-Arranged” and “No Sex”), and a straight-up hip-hop collaboration with Method Man and DJ Premier (“N 2 Gether Now”) with nary a guitar in sight. All of which makes Fred Durst’s puerile angst on tracks like “Nookie” and “Break Stuff” that much harder to see as sincere.
Marketing fake rebellion is as old as rock music itself, but the Bizkit couldn’t last long after releasing something as diverse as Significant Other. Quickly branded as shallow sell-outs, it didn’t help the Bizkit’s case when their single “Break Stuff” was plastered across TV screens as the reason for the rape and rioting that closed the disastrous Woodstock 99. Limp Bizkit had abandoned its sweaty nu-metal purism for a grab at mainstream success, only to have the mainstream ultimately decide that “return of rock” bands were the ticket to authenticity in the new millennium. That, and the follow-up album was named after hot dogs and anuses, but that’s another story. David Abravanel
22 June 1999
Missy Elliott
Da Real World
It took Missy Elliott two years to release the follow-up to her breakthrough debut, Supa Dupa Fly, but when hip-hop and R&B’s leading lady emerged with the futuristic masterpiece Da Real World after two months in the studio, it was clear that she hadn’t suffered from any sophomore slump. A natural extension of her singing and rhyming, her songwriting and producing prowess, the record solidified the unique artist’s stature as the most important hip-pop phenomenon on the planet.
Da Real World was released to wide critical and popular acclaim, but it’s now commonly considered the weakest of Elliott’s early outings. This is faint praise for a work that in 1999 easily bested most of what hip-hop had to offer. It’s also an unfair assessment ten years in retrospect. Critics consider Da Real World darker and denser than either Elliott’s debut or her third and fourth albums, a mind-blowing party-starting one-two punch. By this they mean that Da Real World lacks international hits like “Get Ur Freak On”, “One Minute Man”, and “4 My People” (Miss E…So Addictive) or “Work It” (Under Construction).
But Misdemeanor has always been more than a singles artist, and the record welcomes listeners into a World that is defined by fascinating soundscapes and dense musical strata. The singles are all inventive and catchy: both “All N My Grill” and “Hot Boyz” showcase Elliott’s strength as a singer, while “She’s a Bitch” presages the Middle Eastern percussive rhythm of her prospective popular hits. Even lesser-known tracks like the ominous dancehall of “Mr. DJ” and the ballad “You Don’t Know” sound stronger now than most of the chart-topping hip-hop from ‘99. Ten years on, Da Real World—along with Supa Dupa Fly and the two albums to follow—are must-haves for one of the most vital artists of our time. Luke Fenchel
