
They swore. They drank. They wrote songs about decaying flesh. Straight out of the blocks, Slipknot had all the measures in place to guarantee the outrage of Iowa's retirement homes.
Fusing the bile of punk with the brutality of thrash, they recruited the cream of the town’s underground metal scene, slackening their guitar tunings down to drop B, and dabbling with a series of leather masks, ranging from a bloodstained clown to a chap with nails sticking out of his head.