Because, let's face it, by 2017 Linkin Park was pretty lame. It had been for years, even if momentum and attempts at musical reinvention kept its members from going hungry. Like Evanescence's Bring Me to Life (Wake me up inside CAN'T WAKE UP), many of Linkin Park's songs had become the punchline to jokes about edgy, empty teenage angst. Perhaps no example is more iconic than the chorus to Crawling, the fifth track on the band's 2000 debut album Hybrid Theory:

CRAAAAAAWLING in my skin These wounds, they will not heal

And in many regards, the reputation was not undeserved. Linkin Park, in fact the entire "nu metal" genre it was the foremost example of, was not only dated (spiky hair, white guys rapping), it had always sort of been an industry plant.

Everything was an industry plant in the late 90s and early 00s, the high water mark of big studio monopolization on mainstream culture prior to the shakeup caused by mass adoption of the internet. Labels controlled both the radio stations and the falsely countercultural (actually Warner-owned) MTV; if you were an indie or underground musician, you were consigned to local bar gigs and hawking burned CDs on street corners. In some ways, Linkin Park is as much a rags-to-riches story as you can get within this framework (the core of the band were high school friends who only got a shot after one of them interned for an established music producer at UCLA, and even then they were turned down by label after label), but they also sound more "industry" than many similar nu metal bands. Hybrid Theory is a remarkably "clean" album. Clean not only in its professional production and clearly-enunciated and comprehensible lyrics, but also in the sense that across its 38-minute runtime there is never uttered a single swear word, not even one as mild as "damn" or "hell."

That cleanness contrasts sharply with the aggressive tone of the music, which contributes to the feel that the music is "fake." Of course, even Linkin Park's cruder contemporaries were being rigorously focus-tested and psyopped on MTV via fake "people's choice" votes, but the cleanness may explain why Linkin Park reached higher highs than the rest of the nu metal scene and why they still get played today. It's metal, rap, rock filtered by "pop," as in popular.

The implication of being an industry plant is that you're not real. Everything you say was designed in a lab, your emotions are not your own. Hence why Linkin Park's angsty choruses became a joke; hence why Chester Bennington's suicide "changed" the music's meaning.

Because now, he was real. When he sang "Crawling in my skin," that was a legitimate expression of actual mental turmoil, not some industry attempt to cash in on youth counterculture.

One day after Bennington's death, The Guardian eulogized him by saying:

Metal's standard vocal style is to express anger and disaffection through a deliberately obscure roar, mangling diction as a way of setting yourself apart from conventional society. Bennington's decision to sing clearly and openly was, therefore, more radical than he is given credit for, and indeed more socially valuable.

The decision to sing clearly and openly was, of course, motivated by the studio's desire for the band to be more pop-friendly, and clear vocals make for a catchier song. (Eminem's mainstream popularity in the rap scene around the same time is almost certainly a byproduct of his clear, white American enunciation compared to most of his contemporaries.) After all, Bennington was only brought onto the band at the behest of executive producer Jeff Blue, even against the wishes of the band itself, who worried a guy named "Chester Bennington" might be too uncool for them.

In fact, it's unclear how much "Bennington's decision to sing clearly and openly" was Bennington's decision; even ignoring studio meddling (of which there was much), the band's main creative driver and lyricist was not Bennington but Mike Shinoda, the secondary vocalist/rapper.

Guy on right (Mike Shinoda) thought guy on left (Chester Bennington) might not be cool enough.

Shinoda's credits on Hybrid Theory are extensive; he is listed as contributing rap vocals, programming, samples, piano, Pro Tools assistance, drawing the album art, and other line art and sketches. Bennington, meanwhile, is credited only for vocals. Shinoda led the band before Bennington was even part of it, and has continued to lead it after Bennington's death. If it is possible to ascribe Linkin Park's creative vision to any one person, it would be him.

The point is that the creative vision, the authorial intent, does not matter that much; it is already entangled inextricably with studio mandates and behind-the-scenes collaboration anyway. It doesn't matter if Shinoda or some industry ghost was the one who wrote the line "One step closer to the edge, and I'm about to BREAK." In singing it, Chester Bennington becomes part of the line's performance; and his death thus cannot help from being part of its context, regardless of anyone's intent on the matter.

Is this unfair? Yes.

But at the same time, the way people have understood Linkin Park's music, or any music, or anything, has always been unfair, always been marked by cultural forces outside the creator's control. The interpretation of Linkin Park as a hollow, empty industry plant is itself unfair, reliant on assumptions about what went down behind closed doors, what was done as studio mandate and what was done at the band's liberty. Bennington left no note before killing himself; his motives remain a mystery, beyond the fact that he struggled with mental health and substance abuse issues his entire life. Seventeen years is a long time between Hybrid Theory and his death. What connection, if any, there might actually be between them is impossible to gauge. Yet now, to accuse Bennington's screamed, emotional lyrics of being inauthentic, empty, and melodramatic, the way they were accused innumerable times before, would seem to fly in the face of the evidence.

Here's another question: If Chester Bennington's anguished vocals are no longer "fake," is Mike Shinoda and his rapping still fake? Would Shinoda need to kill himself too to be taken seriously? Would he be taken seriously if he did?

Hello Chester. I want to play a game.

And, perhaps most important of all: Why does art need to be "real" at all?

Hybrid Theory, which is identical in 2026 to the Hybrid Theory of 2000, is--if taken seriously--a bizarre, absurdist album. I mean absurdist in the sense of absurdist theater, Waiting for Godot or Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead; like those stripped down, minimalist plays, Hybrid Theory has an almost negligible dramatis personae. Across 12 tracks and 38 minutes, these are the only people who are mentioned or even alluded to in the album's lyrics:

Me

You

Mr. Hahn

There are no parents, brothers, sisters, lovers, friends, family. There are no teachers, policemen, or authority figures of any sort (despite the track titled "Points of Authority"). There are no guys down the street or women in the window. There are not even any metaphorical people, or people evoked for rhetorical effect, other than Mike Shinoda (but not Chester Bennington) occasionally using a general, vague "they" or "everybody" in reference to a universal other. Hybrid Theory is a ghost town, a desolate landscape, and it is in this unpopulated terrain the primary conflict of its narrative plays out: the one-sided war between Me and You.

Me is our main character, represented by the speaker. There are, technically, two Mes, corresponding to Linkin Park's two vocalists, Bennington and Shinoda, who both refer to themselves in first person. It is unclear, however, whether Bennington and Shinoda actually represent two different points of view or are merely two different styles depicting the same perspective; their voices often blend together or echo one another, while there is little difference in the subject matter they cover. They are, at best, akin to Godot's Vladimir and Estragon, two characters who have a certain superficial distinction (one the Laurel to the other's Hardy) despite every other aspect of their personality being indistinguishable.

Similarly, there could potentially be multiple Yous, perhaps a different You per song, but even this is difficult to judge. The ubiquitous You who seems to be the root of all Me's troubles has surprisingly consistent character traits: Overbearing, demanding, sadistically pleased by the torture they inflict on Me, disappointed by Me's constant failures. Even as a kid, listening to Linkin Park's hits on the radio, I was intrigued by the nebulous identity of the "You" that constantly appears. They are difficult to pin down as the speaker's lover, parent, friend, or mentor, chimerically embodying aspects from all four simultaneously. Notably, "You" is not the 2nd-person listener; one of the few things made clear is that Me has a close personal relationship with them.

The cynical read is that this vagueness increases pop appeal. Venting specific complaints might play well in a niche that has those exact complaints; a general anger at a "You" who can be anyone plays well with everyone.

Seen with "love," though--or seen while assuming the art is "real" and not "fake"--the story changes. Hybrid Theory is an album of isolation as much as it is about anger and angst; for as much as Me hates You, they are tied together, incapable of separating. The third track, With You, makes the point clear:

The sound of your voice, painted on my memories Even if you're not with me I'm with you (You, now I see, keepin' everything inside) With you (You, now I see, even when I close my eyes)

Meanwhile, the seventh track, titled By Myself in direct response to With You, makes the argument that Me cannot possibly exist alone:

I just end up gettin' hurt again By myself (Myself) I ask why, but in my mind I find I can't rely on myself (Myself)

These ideas are repeated again and again throughout an album that seems to have only one tone and two characters, where the same words and phrases keep recurring. For instance, "Keepin' everything inside" from With You's chorus reappears in the chorus of In the End (Track 8), when Mike Shinoda raps:

I kept everything inside And even though I tried, it all fell apart

Meanwhile, what's "inside" is made clear in the album's opening track, Papercut.

I know just what it feels like To have a voice in the back of my head Like a face that I hold inside A face that awakes when I close my eyes A face that watches every time I lie A face that laughs every time I fall (And watches everything)

As the first song on the album, Papercut sets the tone for the album as a whole. In terms of the album's sound, it does so effectively, featuring the same quick, aggressive instrumentation that can be found on every other track (save one). Lyrically, however, it's an odd opener. Its subject matter deals with paranoia rather than angst or anger, and the "You" that is ubiquitous almost everywhere else is relegated to a minor and uncharacteristically sympathetic role, when Mike Shinoda states "You've got a face on the inside too / Your paranoia's probably worse."

Papercut is one of three songs on the album (not counting the short nonlyrical interlude track) that lack a confrontation with "You." One of the others is Crawling, the much-mocked anthem for self-loathing with a chorus that evokes self harm. Papercut and Crawling contain another repeated motif, notable because it appears in the chorus in both songs (on top of both songs being singles that received major airtime at the same time). In Papercut:

It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin

Which in Crawling famously reappears as CRAAAAAAWLING in my skin.

As with everything else, the cynic might chalk these repeated ideas up to a lyrical lack of creativity, the ad nauseum repetition of stock imagery intended to press the right angst buttons. Yet the effect of the repetition, when considered seriously, creates an alternative narrative for the entire album, one that reframes the nebulous "You" into an identifiable culprit.

You is Me.

Papercut posits a "face inside," a voice in the back of the head, one that "laughs every time I fall," one that "points out all my mistakes to me." This behavior is identical to that of "You" in other songs, that mocking, sadistic You that Me is at constant war with. From In the End:

In spite of the way you were mockin' me Actin' like I was part of your property

Meanwhile, in Crawling, where the "something inside me" returns, it is described as both "consuming" and "controlling," which likewise correlates to the language of ownership and domination that appears in In the End and elsewhere. From Points of Authority:

You love the way I look at you While taking pleasure in the awful things you put me through You take away if I give in My life, my pride is broken

And if it seems odd that "Me" can look at "You," as posited in the first line above, Crawling also provides an explanation:

Against my will, I stand beside my own reflection (My own reflection) It's haunting (It's haunting) how I can't seem To find myself again, my walls are closing in

Nowhere is the connection between "Me" and "You" more clear than in the solutions the speaker posits to free themselves from their situation. In Points of Authority, he says he "hurt myself again, just to get back at you," while in Runaway, the literal idea of running away is directly tied to escaping one's own head with the closing refrain "I wanna run away and open up my mind."

Only the album's ending points to any hope. In a world that has claustrophobically constricted to a singular Me-You hybrid (the hybrid in Hybrid Theory), the penultimate track, Scratching the Itch, introduces its sole other character, Mr. Hahn. This is the band's turntablist, Joe Hahn, who gets a short interlude to show off his record scratches. As though this opening of the closed circle has changed everything by injecting some external presence into a suffocating internality, the final track Pushing Me Away states somewhat triumphantly that "this is the last," that Me has finally been pushed away from You. He's free!

I'm being cute with it here, reading a literal narrative into lyrics that are at best metaphorical, creating a structure in an album that is, sonically, a barrage of similar-sounding bangers. The album's vagueness--regardless of whether you ascribe that vagueness to cynical pop styling or earnest artistic intent--lends itself to nearly limitless interpretation. For instance, the album's title, Hybrid Theory, might refer to Linkin Park's signature blend of styles (rap-rock, metal-pop), its blend of vocalists into a single speaker (Bennington-Shinoda), or a blend of Me and You. Rather than every instance of You being a reference to "the voice inside my head," there could be both a literal You who actually abuses the speaker, and a figurative You that the speaker has, after such abuse, internalized.

However, I do think my previous comparison of Hybrid Theory to Waiting for Godot sheds light on the album's popularity. Because while Waiting for Godot is bleakly minimalist in its staging and production, featuring only a lone tree on an empty stage to accompany its tiny number of actors, Hybrid Theory balances its unrelentingly miserable lyrics and the depopulated world they depict with an expansive, maximalist sound. Sporting dual vocalists and a hip-hop mandated turntablist, Linkin Park is a larger-than-average band at six members, and this expansiveness is further complemented by generous sampling and lavish production. The result is an album that, regardless of its lyrical content, hypes instead of depresses. The album's biggest highlight isn't any allusion to self harm, or torture at the hands of a toxic You, but Chester Bennington's sudden screaming in the bridge of One Step Closer:

SHUT UP WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UPPPPPPPP

I've written many essays about pop cultural artifacts nobody except me would bother to take seriously (i.e., anime). At the advent of mass media, pop culture started to usurp high culture as the dominant form of art; the internet has accelerated this trend. Even the wealthy and powerful of today are more likely to be influenced by One Piece or Fortnite than by whatever won the Pulitzer last year. And as part of this hunger for the ascension of pop culture to art, YouTube's video essayist mill has found the time to wax poetic on any bit of cultural detritus for eight hours or more, to millions of views. Yet I still find that people are bound to the concept of "artistic intent" as the primary driver of how they interface with art. People seem to find the concept appealing because it promises a solvable riddle, an objective answer (what was in the author's mind) that cannot be found definitely but could theoretically be found. Which, when applied to pop culture, becomes a question that cannot be disentangled from the obvious answer: "They did it to make money." Creating a self-defeating loop, a shutdown of the brain, a perpetual cynicism even in the theater of the ideal that is art.

All art is fake. If it was real, it wouldn't be art. Maybe you could call it news. But art is by definition artifice, regardless of whether it was made cynically for money or for the most earnest artistic intentions. Most art -- pop or not -- was probably made by some unknowable, fundamentally subjective mixture of both. A Hybrid Theory, perhaps. The image of the artist, their biographical reality, has somehow become as important to how much their illusion can be believed as the illusion they actually create.