Limp Bizkit Turned Denver Into a Wild, Unscripted Party with a Viral “Nookie” Moment at Metallica’s No Repeat Weekend 2025

Empower Field at Mile High felt like it was holding two different storms on June 27, 2025. Everyone came for Metallica’s No Repeat Weekend, but the air really started buzzing early because Limp Bizkit were on the bill, and Denver crowds don’t do “polite warm-ups.” By the time the sun was sinking behind the stadium rim, the floor and lower bowl were already loud, a sea of black tees and throwback caps ready for something chaotic, nostalgic, and heavy.

Limp Bizkit hit the stage with the kind of swagger that doesn’t ask permission. The band has always treated arenas like oversized clubs, and Fred Durst walked out like the ring announcer for a fight he promised you’d never forget. There was no slow build, no easing in. The opening minutes were about setting a tone: loud, loose, and a little reckless, the way their best nights always feel—half precision, half mayhem.

Right away they leaned into that “party before the war” energy, tossing out a classic-rock-flavored tease to let the stadium know they weren’t showing up timid. It was a smart move for a crowd split between old-school nu-metal diehards and Metallica fans who might have last seen Bizkit on MTV in the early 2000s. Within a song or two, that split disappeared. People who came skeptical were nodding along, then yelling along.

“Dad Vibes” came in early and hit harder live than it ever did on record. The newer track worked like a bridge between eras—same bounce, same punch, but with a band that’s older, weirder, and even more comfortable in its own skin. Denver responded like it was a hometown anthem. You could feel the stadium accepting the idea that Limp Bizkit in 2025 isn’t a nostalgia act; they’re a living, breathing tornado.

Then “Rollin’ (Air Raid Vehicle)” detonated the first true crowd eruption. That riff is still a clearance-sale for adrenaline, and when it dropped, the floor turned into a moving ocean. The big screens caught waves of people jumping in sync, and Fred played conductor, cutting the chorus into giant call-and-response chunks. It wasn’t just sing-along loud—it was the kind of roar that makes a football stadium feel like it’s shrinking around the band.

Between songs, Durst kept things loose and conversational, throwing quick jokes, pointing out wild signs, and pacing like a guy who grew up on punk shows and never forgot how to work a room. He wasn’t over-explaining anything. He didn’t have to. The crowd already knew the mission: make this hour feel like a block party, with distortion instead of fireworks.

Wes Borland was in full mad-scientist mode, painting the space with those twisted, rubber-band guitar tones that make Limp Bizkit sound like no one else. His playing was sharp all night—tight when it needed to be tight, and gloriously ugly when the riff wanted grime. You could see people in the stands pointing at the screens just to watch his hands, because Borland live is a reminder that this band’s weirdness is real.

The middle stretch of the set leaned hard into the early-career fire. “Proud Mary” showed up as a curveball, and in a stadium setting it worked like a giant wink—part homage, part chaotic sing-along, part setup for the heavier punches to come. It’s the kind of left-turn Bizkit have always loved, and Denver ate it up, shouting the hook like it belonged to them.

By the time “Nookie” arrived, the temperature in the place had moved from fun to feral. That opening bounce felt like a trigger for collective muscle memory; people were shouting the first words before Fred even leaned into the mic. Then he did what he’s always been great at: turning a big show into a personal moment by pulling someone out of the chaos.

He spotted a young woman in the crowd, brought her up, and the stadium lit up with that “no way this is happening” electricity. She took the mic and blasted the chorus like she’d been waiting her whole life for that exact second. The moment was pure Bizkit: spontaneous, messy in the best way, and so honest you couldn’t fake it if you tried. The crowd’s reaction was thunder, because everyone loves seeing one of their own become part of the story.

There was a bittersweet undertow running through that high, too. The band’s history hangs in the air at shows like this, and hearing the song rip through a stadium with the memory of the late Sam Rivers in the background gave the chorus a little extra weight. You didn’t have to say it out loud; you could feel it in the way longtime fans looked at each other, smiling like they were back in 1999 and also aware time moves fast.

“Full Nelson” and “My Way” kept the momentum stomping forward. “Full Nelson” was a pit-starter even in a stadium, that fast-twitch track that makes people forget they’re standing on concrete. “My Way” brought the opposite—the swagger, the sneer, the huge hook that crowds still belt like it’s tattooed on their lungs. Denver screamed it so hard Durst barely needed to sing.

“Hot Dog” was the set’s snarling grin. It landed like a sledgehammer, with John Otto and DJ Lethal keeping the groove thick while Borland threw razor wire through the riff. The chorus hit and the field jumped again, because some songs just refuse to get old when they’re played with this much bite. There was nothing polite about it; it was loud, bright, and deliberate.

As the final stretch rolled in, the band kept the party-metal spirit high, tossing out more familiar hooks and letting the crowd carry the loudest parts. That’s the secret of Limp Bizkit live: they’re not trying to be flawless, they’re trying to be electric. In Denver, they were. The set felt like a single accelerating pulse, every song feeding the next.

When they finally walked off, Empower Field wasn’t cooling down—it was boiling over and ready for the main event. Limp Bizkit had done the job only a great opener can do: not just warming the crowd, but raising the ceiling so the headliner has to come in swinging. On a night built around generational heavy music, they proved they still understand the simplest rule of all—if the crowd is smiling and yelling, you’re doing it right.