I saw a live version of Numb from Linkin Park’s latest performance. Emily might be a great singer but she doesn’t seem to get the song Numb the way Chester got it. Emily was smiling and giggling while singing the song.

As a teenager in the 2000s when the first internet native band was born; this song has a special place in many of our hearts and Emily singing it just like another random song doesn’t do justice.

Emily hits every note; perfect pitch, flawless technique; but singing “Numb” feels like she’s announcing a mall grand opening. Cameras catch her joking with the drummer between verses, grinning like she’s on a runway, while the line “I’ve become so numb” slips out like foam from a latte. I see her lips curve on “numb” and wonder if she even knows the word sounds like a frozen foot.

For us millennials who downloaded Hybrid Theory off LimeWire while our parents yelled about phone bills, this song wasn’t about vocal control. It was salvation. We turned it up until it hurt. Chester wasn’t just singing—he was screaming raw, jagged pieces of teenage despair, every shout like a splinter tearing from a broken soul. You could feel the pain in his voice.

Now, watching Emily bounce across the stage in pristine high-tops, fresh off the bench, it hits: she’s wearing the merch, but not the pain. She’s hitting the notes, but not the scars. Her smile feels like a TikTok trend, not a lament. The song flattens into a meme, polished, safe—no weight.

I don’t blame her. You can’t erase the sound of desperation from a dial-up hotline with a new pair of earbuds. You can’t reboot a generation’s grief with a MacBook Pro. Some songs aren’t covers—they’re scar tissue. And if you didn’t live through the bleeding, the graft never takes.

This show didn’t need to resurrect Chester. He’s still screaming in every chest that ever held his voice like a lifeline.

❤️