Four hours or so before he’s due onstage at Inglewood’s Kia Forum, Jacoby Shaddix lifts a steaming water bottle to his lips as he sits backstage in a plush leather armchair.
“On show days, I drink hot water to keep my voice lubed,” says the 48-year-old Papa Roach frontman, his hair swept up in a punkish do. “I’m very disciplined with my lifestyle — borderline monk status at this point. Discipline and obedience is like the new rebellion to me.”
The scene of middle-aged restraint last week was a contrast to the rock-star excess that greeted Papa Roach in 2000 when its song “Last Resort” — a bruising rap-rock anthem about suicidal ideation — exploded on the radio and MTV, propelling the band from small-town Northern California to a Grammy nomination for best new artist and to triple-platinum sales of its album “Infest.” (Among the LP’s other standouts: “Broken Home,” in which Shaddix yowls, “I know my mother loves me / But does my father even care?”)
Twenty-five years after “Infest” came out, though, Papa Roach’s audience has endured on the road and on social media thanks in part to Gen Z’s discovery of “Last Resort,” which never seems far from popping up in a TikTok video. On Spotify, where the song has been streamed more than 1.3 billion times, Papa Roach counts 13 million monthly listeners — more than Soundgarden, Alice in Chains or Smashing Pumpkins, to name three rock acts held in higher esteem a quarter-century ago by critics and tastemakers.
In January, the band — which also includes guitarist Jerry Horton, bassist Tobin Esperance and drummer Tony Palermo — released “Even If It Kills Me,” the lead single from an album expected to arrive later this year. Shaddix, who’s married and has three sons, looked back on “Infest” and how it happened.
You were 23 years old in early 2000. What did you see yourself doing at 48?
I’ll tell you this: We put out our first full-length in 1997 called “Old Friends from Young Years.” And the reason we titled it that was because we had this wild-ass dream that we wanted to do this for our entire life. So I’d like to say I dreamt of this moment. I did dream of it, but I wasn’t sure I was gonna get here.
Because the band would flame out, or you’d die, or what?
Part of it was just the reality of the music business setting in and realizing how cutthroat it is — how tough it is to maintain relevance. We had years where our success was waning.
And now you’re in the middle of a comeback. Is that a word you’re comfortable with?
I’m fine with it — “resurgence,” “comeback.”
Are you surprised that you’re playing arenas in 2025?
It was always the goal, but the reality is surprising, you know what I’m saying? Actually living it, I’m like, “Holy f—, we’re here.” Because even at our hottest, we never did a headlining arena tour.
That’s weird to me.
It is, right? At the height of our career, we just kept supporting — for Eminem or Korn or Limp Bizkit — instead of seizing that moment for our own selves. They were paying us great, but it was totally a mistake. We should have gone, “No, we’re not gonna support you — we’re gonna go headline the arena.”
Though here you are now.
Everything happens for a reason. Maybe I wasn’t ready for it at that time in my life. I’m just so grateful that we never packed it in and said, “We’re out.”
Ever get close?
Every time I tour an album and I go home, I think it’s over. Then I’ll get back in the studio and we’ll write a batch of new songs, and I’m like, “This is sick — let’s go!” But I pride myself on the fact that I’m a family man, so it’s always hard to leave again.
Performing and parenting both require a ton of emotional energy.
Dude, I’m plugged into the ultimate power source. When I get home, I’m exhausted. But being with my family — with people that I love and adore and admire — it’s recharging to me. A goal of mine was to not repeat the cycle of my family history. I came from a broken home, and I was just like, “This isn’t my path — I’m not gonna repeat this thing.” As passionate as I am about my music, I’m just as passionate about fatherhood.
As a dad, is your experience as a son always in your head?
The best way I could explain it is that pouring myself into the relationship I’ve built with my boys is what heals the brokenness inside me. And so now I stand here, 48 years old, and I’m totally at peace with what I walked through in my life because I righted the situation. It’s just a rad place to be in. Even my old man — my biological father — I got peace with him. He asked me, “Do you forgive me?” I’m like, “Life’s too f— short, man — I ain’t trying to hold a grudge on you.”
“Infest” spoke to a generation of disaffected young men in a way that felt healthy. Today, the mood around angry young guys seems pretty bleak.
I’m a firm believer that it starts at home. So I operate in a way that’s nurturing, and we’re very open-dialogue with the boys. They come to me about anything, and I’m like, “I can’t always say that I agree with the way you’re trying to live, but I got you.” The way that I approach the music has always been an open and honest conversation. If you look at the statistics in suicide, it predominately swings male — there’s an issue happening where men are really struggling. Part of it is that third spaces really dwindled through COVID, and we’re built for community.
Why do you think young men are drawn to a figure like Andrew Tate?
Masculinity is a spectrum, and I think because it swung one way, it’s swinging the other way to an extreme. The whole thing of toxic masculinity — I mean, there is that out there, but not all masculinity is toxic. Let’s just be real with each other. Social media has become this thing where some voices get really loud, and so everybody goes, “Oh, that’s what masculinity is — that’s terrible.” F— off with that. We gotta toughen up a little bit. I think us as a people might have gotten a little too soft for a minute. Pulling up your bootstraps and spraying some tough on it is important.
People worry about kids’ lack of resilience, especially after the pandemic.
Not my boys. My kids are resilient, and I’m grateful for that. But the culture has been kind of coddled. You gotta look out for your people and be sensitive to each other, but there’s a balance to this thing. We’re trying to find the balance again because it’s felt catawampus for a minute.
Shaddix, then known as Coby Dick, performs in 2001 during KROQ’s Weenie Roast concert in Irvine.
(Francine Orr/Los Angeles Times)
“My name’s Coby Dick / Mr. Dick if you’re nasty.”
Oh yeah.
What do you think now about your decision to open “Infest” with those lyrics?
I crack up inside. My wife, she cosigned for our first touring van — it was a big old, white 15-passenger van. We called it Moby Dick. My name’s Jacoby, everybody called me Coby growing up. So then I was driving around Moby Dick, and they’re like, “What’s up, Coby Dick?” It was like a joke, right? Then it just became my moniker.
So we put out this record, and I’m like, “Mr. Dick if you’re nasty” — I ripped it from Janet Jackson. “Dr. Dick if you’re sick, Old Saint Dick on Christmas, Count Dick-ula on Halloween” — all these dumb -isms. I loved Wu-Tang Clan, where they had nine members and they each had three names, so I had AKAs. Then when I started to read articles about us, it was like, “Dick says…” I didn’t think that through. That’s why, when we came out with our next record, I was Jacoby Shaddix. It’s a way cooler name, and it’s my real name.
Did you feel understood by the record business before “Infest” came out?
F— no. We were trying to get a record deal, and nobody would sign us: “You don’t have an image,” “You guys aren’t punk enough,” “You’re not metal enough.” Maybe we thought we deserved a record deal before we were really supposed to get a record deal. But then we got a demo deal with Warner Bros., and we recorded “Last Resort,” “Broken Home,” all the big hits from that record. Our A&R at the time got fired, and nobody else at Warner Bros. gave a s—. They were like, “We’re gonna pass.”
Then this guy Ron Handler from DreamWorks somehow heard about Warner Bros. passing and was like, “I want to come down to the studio and hear what you guys are doing.” He was the one that got it. He said, “I love what you’re doing — it feels raw and real and authentic. Let’s finish up this record.” He told our producer, “I can’t have you overproduce this thing with a bunch of harmonies. Just record the band.” And we went and did that. Lenny Waronker and Mo Ostin, they were the presidents of the label, we played them the record, and these old cats just sat on the couch and took the whole thing in. They were like, “We believe in this.”
Which struck you how?
I had no idea the weight of it, but I knew it was huge. Then we put that album out and we had this machine behind us. We thought we were gonna get in the van and go sell a couple hundred thousand records like all of our peers did. Incubus, they built it. Deftones, they built it. All of a sudden we’re selling 80,000 or 100,000 records a week. It was a freak-show moment for us.
The marketing at the time definitely leaned into your mental health struggles. I wondered whether you ever felt exploited in that way.
I had a story to tell, and I had people going, “Your record saved my life.” So I looked at that and was like, “Who cares about the business? This is purpose-driven music.” When we got on the cover of Spin and they dubbed us “broken homeboys” — I was a little put off by that. On the other hand, I saved that magazine. I still have a copy of it. Now I look back, I’m like, “I was too sensitive — get over yourself.”
But I never felt exploited. There was a purity within us as young creators — we hadn’t been tainted by the world in a way, so it was like we could trust our gut. After we had crazy success, then that inner knowing almost disappeared: “Oh s—, now I’m here and everybody’s telling me, ‘You gotta do this, you gotta do that.’” It was a wild one. I toured so hard. I partied so hard.
Too hard?
I drank enough vodka to kill a small village.
You drink these days?
Nah, man. 2004 was when I first put down the bottle. I relapsed a bunch till 2012, then it was no más. Haven’t touched it since.
Music in 2000 was pretty polarized: Papa Roach, Creed and Limp Bizkit on one side and Britney Spears, NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys on the other.
All the rock bands were like, “F— the pop groups!” And the pop groups were like, “Why? We like you guys!” I remember I met Justin Timberlake — we were in Germany, and he sent a security guard: “Hey, Justin wants to meet you.” He comes in and he’s all, “This s—’s like wrestling — behind closed doors, it’s cool.” And I’m like, “You’re right, dude.” I told him straight-up: “I’ve been an a—.”
It’s funny: I saw AJ from the Backstreet Boys — we were all out at the iHeartRadio Music Festival [in 2024] — and I knew he was a sober guy. I was like, “What’s up, man? I’m Coby from P Roach — I just want to meet you and get to know you.” He and I hit it off, exchanged numbers. He’s like, “Dude, listen, I got a studio at my place — one of these days let’s get together and do some songwriting.” All the walls are down.
What’s the best song on “Infest”?
“Last Resort” — the fans have spoken. I really love “Blood Brothers.” “Dead Cell” is up there. But we knew “Last Resort” was special — that’s why we wanted it to be the first single. There were no other songs on the radio that started with the vocal.
What’s the worst song on “Infest”?
Probably “Never Enough.” Lyrically, it’s a little meh.
Last year, Carrie Underwood joined you to record a new version of your song “Leave a Light On.” Who’s somebody else we might not expect to be into Papa Roach?
Timbaland. We found out he was a Papa Roach fan when he cited us in Rolling Stone. Will.i.am from the Black Eyed Peas — met him out at the clubs, and we ended up doing a collaboration on their album “Elephunk.” Swizz Beatz was a fan. I’m not a rapper, but hip-hop was a huge influence on us early on, so to have that respect from the Black community was f— cool.
You wouldn’t call yourself a rapper?
I mean, I could spit some bars. The last few records, I rap on some of them. So, yeah — I got multi talents when it comes to that microphone. MC Dick! I won’t go by that, though.
This story originally appeared on LA Times
