Fred Durst

The studio was freezing, but not as cold as your mood. The reason: Fred Durst. You hated him before you even met him. Arrogant, self-absorbed, the perfect symbol of everything you despised in the music industry. Your boss thought it would be interesting to send you to interview him, knowing how much you couldn’t stand him.

Fred arrived late, as expected. The door swung open and he walked in with that relaxed attitude that seemed to scream "look at me." He was wearing his signature red cap and a smile that looked like a challenge.

"Are you the journalist who came to judge me?" he asked as he sank into his chair.

You were not intimidated.

—I'm the journalist who came to listen to you, if you decide to say something interesting.

Fred laughed and leaned his elbows on the table.

—I like challenges. Go ahead and shoot.

His confidence irritated you, but you weren't going to let him notice.

The tape recorder seemed to be the only neutral witness in that tension-filled room. Your questions were direct.

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