Deftones - Pink Maggit

2:43 mark

Having more in common with perhaps The Cure's Disintegration than most general nu-metal albums at that time, White Pony was an album you opted not to pursue, but rather, through word of radio or compact disc, had its majesty bestowed upon you by chance through a friend in a car with a drink and a smoke. Never has an album been more representative of a generational epoch without representing much of anything, Chino's lyrics so cryptic at this point that as a collective they signify the essence of obscurity. But the music, that sweet, spring-to-summer haze, the trails of gasoline-fueled road-trips, a girl's perfume and nicotine stuck to your clothes the next afternoon, that music was our hedon wine god holding a ticking clock. White Pony is at all times sexually urgent, yet confidently strides through eleven songs in a linear, story-book rendition much like the aforementioned Disintegration (Cure and Deftones are fans of each other). The obvious hit from the get-go was Change  In The House of Flies, with Knife Party trailing behind, but I'll be damned if I ever skip a track. Feiticeira is a perfect opener like a reel being fed through an analog machine, Digital Bath a slow bubble never exactly bursting, Elite being that burst, and then Rx Queen, with its opening beat I drum on tables fifteen years later. Teenager has everything to do with a first kiss from a girl you'll never see again, Knife Party building unfinished ideas from Around the Fur by slicing emotion in two, closing with Change and Pink Maggit, over twelve minutes of the most unraveled depth of a generation eager, beaten, sullied. Deftones wore this album as a disclaimer that it was more than radio and a spiky look. This album was the myriad of every frustration to accompany the time between which high school ended and the legal age to drink, which we never followed, began. In a morbid, yet devoted pact, we picked songs to be played at our funerals when we were only 19. One of my five favorite albums of all time from any genre, a testament to the ability of this quintet to craft one transcripted moment of time, and not just become its soundtrack. Beware special 12-track editions with Back To School, an abbreviated, dumb reinvention of Pink Maggit, as the opening track, completely diluting the impact of both the original opening and closing moments.