Uploaded April 2026 | Updated September 2026, 2 weeks ago
The story of Fred Durst's feud with Taproot
Podcast on Apple Podcasts
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youtube.com/@RockNRollTrueStories2
By the late 1990s, Fred Durst wasn’t just Limp Bizkit’s frontman; he was a kingmaker in a booming nu‑metal scene. Limp Bizkit were selling millions, and in 1999 Durst became Senior Vice President of A&R at Interscope Records, with his own imprint, Flawless Records. He’d already helped break bands like Staind and Cold, and an endorsement from the guy in the red cap suddenly meant everything.
Meanwhile, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, a young band was grinding it out DIY style—playing local shows, mailing out demos, and cleverly using the early internet to build a fanbase. They were hardcore Limp Bizkit fans and even saw them open for Korn before the first album dropped. When they got an advance copy of Limp Bizkit’s Three Dollar Bill, Y’all, they noticed an address for bands to send demos. They mailed theirs in before the album was even officially released, unknowingly putting themselves on a collision course with Durst.
The demo landed directly with Durst, and he loved it. He reached out immediately, and a genuine friendship formed. He flew their singer to L.A., let him stay at his house, and even brought him into Interscope meetings. On MTV’s Diary, Durst publicly shouted them out and announced his intention to sign them. He wore their shirts on stage, hyped them in interviews, and positioned them as his next big project. At the same time, their relentless hustle helped them sell around 10,000 demos on their own, attracting interest from other major labels.
When a contract finally arrived from Interscope, it wasn’t the dream deal they expected. It was a “demo deal”: they’d record three songs, the label could choose to sign them later, and if they passed, Interscope would still own those songs. They’d likely use their best material and risk losing it forever. Other labels, with Velvet Hammer management’s help, started offering real album deals without those strings. Faced with a shady‑looking contract versus a safer future, they chose to walk away from Durst and sign elsewhere.
Durst saw this as the ultimate betrayal. He’d used his reputation to lift them up, and now, in his eyes, they were using that buzz to get a better offer. His response became infamous: a furious voicemail, left not on the singer’s phone, but on his mother’s answering machine. On it, Durst delivers a bitter rhyme, accuses them of biting the hand that feeds, threatens to blackball them, and warns him not to show up at Limp Bizkit shows. It was both “scary” and “stupid,” a raw snapshot of ego and power in late‑90s rock.
The band leaked the voicemail, and it spread online, turning into nu‑metal legend. For a while, it even helped them—fans respected them for standing up to Durst, and some radio stations shifted support their way. The feud allegedly got so messy that another band was briefly booted from a major tour as collateral damage. But over time, nu‑metal cooled off, the beef faded into a war story, and the voicemail became more funny than frightening. Years later, the singer has said he understands why Durst felt betrayed and insists there are no hard feelings. He even covered a Limp Bizkit song live and was spotted watching their set side‑stage in 2024—a sign that, decades later, the hatchet is finally buried.
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#limpbizkit #freddurst #taproot
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The story of Fred Durst's feud with Taproot
Podcast on Apple Podcasts
podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/the-rock-n-roll-true-stories-podcast/id1876614383
My second YouTube Channel
youtube.com/@RockNRollTrueStories2
By the late 1990s, Fred Durst wasn’t just Limp Bizkit’s frontman; he was a kingmaker in a booming nu‑metal scene. Limp Bizkit were selling millions, and in 1999 Durst became Senior Vice President of A&R at Interscope Records, with his own imprint, Flawless Records. He’d already helped break bands like Staind and Cold, and an endorsement from the guy in the red cap suddenly meant everything.
Meanwhile, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, a young band was grinding it out DIY style—playing local shows, mailing out demos, and cleverly using the early internet to build a fanbase. They were hardcore Limp Bizkit fans and even saw them open for Korn before the first album dropped. When they got an advance copy of Limp Bizkit’s Three Dollar Bill, Y’all, they noticed an address for bands to send demos. They mailed theirs in before the album was even officially released, unknowingly putting themselves on a collision course with Durst.
The demo landed directly with Durst, and he loved it. He reached out immediately, and a genuine friendship formed. He flew their singer to L.A., let him stay at his house, and even brought him into Interscope meetings. On MTV’s Diary, Durst publicly shouted them out and announced his intention to sign them. He wore their shirts on stage, hyped them in interviews, and positioned them as his next big project. At the same time, their relentless hustle helped them sell around 10,000 demos on their own, attracting interest from other major labels.
When a contract finally arrived from Interscope, it wasn’t the dream deal they expected. It was a “demo deal”: they’d record three songs, the label could choose to sign them later, and if they passed, Interscope would still own those songs. They’d likely use their best material and risk losing it forever. Other labels, with Velvet Hammer management’s help, started offering real album deals without those strings. Faced with a shady‑looking contract versus a safer future, they chose to walk away from Durst and sign elsewhere.
Durst saw this as the ultimate betrayal. He’d used his reputation to lift them up, and now, in his eyes, they were using that buzz to get a better offer. His response became infamous: a furious voicemail, left not on the singer’s phone, but on his mother’s answering machine. On it, Durst delivers a bitter rhyme, accuses them of biting the hand that feeds, threatens to blackball them, and warns him not to show up at Limp Bizkit shows. It was both “scary” and “stupid,” a raw snapshot of ego and power in late‑90s rock.
The band leaked the voicemail, and it spread online, turning into nu‑metal legend. For a while, it even helped them—fans respected them for standing up to Durst, and some radio stations shifted support their way. The feud allegedly got so messy that another band was briefly booted from a major tour as collateral damage. But over time, nu‑metal cooled off, the beef faded into a war story, and the voicemail became more funny than frightening. Years later, the singer has said he understands why Durst felt betrayed and insists there are no hard feelings. He even covered a Limp Bizkit song live and was spotted watching their set side‑stage in 2024—a sign that, decades later, the hatchet is finally buried.
Have a video request or a topic you'd like to see us cover? Comment below or send in your idea: bit.ly/3stnXlN
CONNECT ON SOCIAL
TIKOK:tiktok.com/@rocknrolltruestory
Instagram: instagram.com/rnrtruestories
Facebook: facebook.com/RNRTrueStories
Twitter: twitter.com/rocktruestories
Blog: rockandrolltruestories.com
#limpbizkit #freddurst #taproot
These videos are for entertainment purposes only. DISCLAIMER rockandrolltruestories.com/youtube-disclaimer
