In the thunderous world of heavy metal, few names resonate with the raw, unyielding power of Joey Jordison. As the masked maestro behind Slipknot’s blistering drum kits, Jordison didn’t just play music—he unleashed chaos, precision, and soul-shaking fury that redefined the genre. Born Nathan Jonas Jordison on April 26, 1975, in Des Moines, Iowa, his journey from a wide-eyed kid pounding away in his garage to a global icon is the stuff of metal legend. Now, as whispers turn to roars, Netflix has unveiled plans for a riveting documentary poised to immortalize his legacy, blending archival fury with intimate revelations. This isn’t just a film; it’s a resurrection of the man who made hearts race and eardrums bleed.Des Moines in the ’80s and ’90s was no cradle of rock stardom—it was a gritty, cornfield-fringed Midwest town where dreams of rebellion simmered under fluorescent lights. Joey grew up in this unassuming backdrop, the son of a funeral home director and a schoolteacher, surrounded by the quiet hum of everyday life. But music was his escape hatch. At age eight, after watching his parents’ friends jam in the basement, he begged for a drum set. What started as innocent banging on pots and pans evolved into an obsession, fueled by the seismic riffs of Black Sabbath, the thrash precision of Metallica, and the unrelenting assault of Slayer. By his teens, Joey was already a force, his sticks blurring into a whirlwind that hinted at the prodigy within.Joey’s first forays into the local scene were raw and relentless. He formed his initial band, Modifidious, in the early ’90s—a death metal outfit that scraped together gigs in dingy basements and VFW halls. It was here, amid the sweat-soaked chaos of Iowa’s underground, that he honed his signature style: lightning-fast blast beats, intricate polyrhythms, and a foot technique that could double as a weapon. But Modifinous was just a proving ground. Joey’s real education came from working the night shift at Sinclair’s garage, where he’d sneak in cassette decks to blast his demos. It was during these oil-stained hours that fate knocked—through a mutual friend, he crossed paths with Paul Gray, a bassist with visions of something darker, more visceral.Enter Slipknot: the nine-headed hydra of aggression that Joey helped birth in 1995. The band started as the Pale Ones, a loose collective of Des Moines misfits channeling their rage into something primal. Joey suggested the name “Slipknot” after one of their early tracks—a nod to the noose-tight grip of their sound. As #1, he wasn’t just the drummer; he was the heartbeat, the architect of mayhem. With custom Pearl kits rigged for speed and Shawn “Clown” Crahan’s percussive insanity complementing his assault, Joey co-wrote foundational tracks like “(sic)” and “Eyeless.” Their self-titled debut album in 1999 wasn’t a release—it was an explosion, selling over 5 million copies worldwide and catapulting these masked marauders from anonymity to arena conquerors.The road to Slipknot’s debut was paved with blood, sweat, and shattered eardrums. Joey’s relentless drive pushed the band through lineup flux and financial hell, demoing in stolen hours and playing to crowds of dozens. When Roadrunner Records finally signed them, it felt like vindication. Recording sessions in a Malibu mansion turned into war zones: Joey tracking drums in a single take, his double-bass pedals thundering like artillery. The album’s raw production—courtesy of Ross Robinson—captured Slipknot’s essence: nine anonymous warriors in boiler-room jumpsuits and horror-show masks, venting societal spleen through sonic terrorism. Joey’s fills on “Wait and Bleed” became anthems, turning radio airwaves into mosh pits.Joey Jordison’s drumming wasn’t mere percussion; it was percussion as performance art. Clocking speeds that earned him the moniker “The Fastest Drummer in Metal History,” he blended black metal’s ferocity with hardcore’s groove, creating rhythms that felt alive, almost sentient. On stage, he’d leap atop his kit like a possessed acrobat, sticks a blur amid pyrotechnics and crowd dives. Offstage, he was the band’s quiet storm—meticulous in mixing sessions, innovative in production. His influence rippled beyond Slipknot: filling in for Lars Ulrich at Download Festival 2004, where he shredded “Battery” with Metallica, or subbing for System of a Down’s John Dolmayan on Halloween 2001. Joey didn’t guest; he dominated.Yet, for all his ferocity, Joey was a multi-instrumentalist with a punk heart. In 2002, amid Slipknot’s Iowa tour blaze, he birthed the Murderdolls—a horror-punk supergroup where he swapped sticks for strings as guitarist. Recruiting Wednesday 13 and enlisting Tripp Eisen, the band channeled Misfits-esque theatrics with glam-metal swagger. Their debut, Beyond the Valley of the Murderdolls, moved 100,000 units, spawning hits like “Dead Hearts on Parade.” It was Joey’s outlet for melody amid Slipknot’s brutality, proving his versatility. Later, he revived The Rejects as a side hustle, but Murderdolls became his glam-goth playground, touring arenas with a chainsaw-wielding flair that echoed his masked roots.Awards and accolades rained down like confetti at a funeral riot. In 2006, Slipknot snagged a Grammy for Best Metal Performance with “Before I Forget,” Joey’s intricate grooves the unsung hero. Rhythm magazine crowned him the greatest drummer of the past 25 years in 2010, beating out icons like Neil Peart. Loudwire readers echoed the sentiment in 2013, dubbing him the world’s top metal skin-beater. Metal Hammer’s Golden God Award in 2016 was a lifetime nod, but Joey waved it off humbly: “This is bigger than a Grammy—it’s from you people who keep me alive.” His shelves groaned under Modern Drummer covers and Revolver Golden Gods trophies, yet he remained the Iowa kid, forever chasing the next beat.But glory’s shadow hid storms. In 2013, Joey’s world fractured. Diagnosed with acute transverse myelitis—a rare spinal inflammation that left him unable to walk or play—he fought through grueling rehab. Then came the bombshell: Slipknot announced his “departure for personal reasons.” Joey fired back, claiming he was blindsided and axed. The split stung like a betrayal, fracturing the family’s facade. Undeterred, he founded Scar the Martyr that year, channeling pain into a self-titled album of progressive metal fury. Tracks like “The Black Sun” screamed resilience, but the toll was evident—tours canceled, nights lost to therapy. Joey’s fire dimmed, but never extinguished.Post-Slipknot, Joey rebuilt like a phoenix in greasepaint. He launched VIMIC in 2016, a nu-metal revival blending his Slipknot DNA with fresh blood, dropping Open Your Omen. Sinsaenum, his death metal black-ops with Sean Z. of DragonForce, unleashed Repulsion for Humanity in 2017—a guttural exorcism. Murderdolls roared back for festivals, and guest spots with Rob Zombie and Ministry kept his legend churning. By 2021, Joey was touring Europe with Sin from Sinsaenum, sticks flying as if the myelitis had been a bad dream. He spoke openly of his battles, inspiring fans with tales of trembling legs turning to thunder. Joey wasn’t surviving; he was thriving, a testament to metal’s unkillable spirit.Tragedy struck on July 26, 2021, when Joey Jordison passed away peacefully in his sleep at 46, in his Osage, Iowa home. The cause: complications from the transverse myelitis that had ravaged him years prior. His family issued a gut-wrenching statement: “Joey’s death has left us with empty hearts and feelings of indescribable sorrow.” The metal world froze—Corey Taylor choked back tears on stage, Shawn Crahan called him “the most fierce human,” and Lars Ulrich mourned a “hero of the day.” Tributes flooded from Fred Durst to Dave Lombardo, painting Joey as more than a drummer: a quick-witted gentle giant, a family man who loved fiercely. His ashes were scattered in secret, but his echo lingers in every double-kick.Joey’s death ripped open old wounds for Slipknot, coming four years after Paul Gray’s overdose. The band dedicated their 2022 album The End, So Far to him, with tracks like “The Dying Song” aching with unspoken regret. Fans rioted online, demanding reconciliation that would never come. Memorial shows erupted—Korn’s Jonathan Davis dedicating sets, Trivium’s Matt Heafy declaring Joey changed heavy music forever. Documentaries like Left Behind 2 and fan compilations surged, stitching together interviews where Joey’s laugh cut through the static. His estate released unseen footage in 2025, blistering drum solos that remind us: Joey didn’t fade; he forged eternity.Enter Netflix, the streaming behemoth with a knack for unmasking icons. On November 12, 2025—just weeks ago—they announced Slipknot: The Last Fury, a no-holds-barred documentary that promises to peel back the boiler suits on the band’s two-decade saga. Directed by an unnamed visionary with access to private vaults, it dives into the Des Moines dirt where nine outsiders became gods. But Joey is the emotional core: tributes woven from rare interviews, home videos of him teaching his niece beats, and studio sessions where his laughter pierced the rage. Netflix’s presser hails it as “more than music— a psychological and emotional experience,” blending brutality with the brotherhood’s scars.What makes The Last Fury a must-watch? It’s Netflix’s signature realism: think Miss Americana meets Some Kind of Monster. Expect exclusive clips of Joey’s 2004 Metallica fill-in, his Murderdolls chainsaw antics, and heartfelt sit-downs with Corey Taylor reflecting on the 2013 split. The film balances fury—pyro-laced Ozzfest footage—with vulnerability, exploring Joey’s myelitis battle and the “family shaped by tragedy.” Archival gold includes Paul Gray’s final jams with Joey, underscoring losses that forged Slipknot’s steel. Producers tease “moving tributes” that humanize #1, revealing the considered soul beneath the mask who out-partied Roadrunner United but cherished quiet fan chats.Filming wrapped in secrecy, with Clown and Sid Wilson on board as talking heads. Rumors swirl of surprise guests: Wednesday 13 spilling Murderdolls lore, or Lars Ulrich recounting that Download save. Netflix’s timeline eyes a 2026 premiere, timed for Slipknot’s Knotfest revival—perfect synergy to reignite the maggots. Early buzz positions it as “one of the most intense rock docs ever,” with a trailer drop teased for New Year’s. For Joey superfans, it’s catharsis; for newcomers, a gateway to why Slipknot (and Jordison) mattered. In an era of polished biopics, The Last Fury vows grit—no gloss, just the unfiltered pulse.Joey Jordison’s legacy isn’t confined to drumheads or documentaries—it’s in the kids in Iowa garages mimicking his fills, the mosh pits that still chant his name. He co-wrote anthems that soundtracked generations’ angst, from Iowa’s despair to Vol. 3’s catharsis. His speed influenced a wave of drummers—Joey Haas of VIMIC carries the torch, while pros like Matt Halpern cite him as godfather. Beyond metal, Joey’s story of overcoming myelitis inspires resilience narratives in docs like Rising from the Rails. He was punk’s heart in metal’s body, proving fury and finesse coexist. As The Last Fury looms, it cements him not as a fallen star, but an eternal blaze.Netflix’s gamble on The Last Fury could redefine rock docs, thrusting Slipknot’s underbelly into living rooms worldwide. In a post-Joey void, it risks reopening rifts—will the band address the firing? Will fans forgive the fractures? Yet, that’s the beauty: unvarnished truth, much like Joey’s playing. Streaming giants have flirted with metal before (Metallica: Some Kind of Monster), but this feels personal, a love letter to the kid who named the beast. If it captures even a fraction of his spirit—the wit, the warmth amid the wail—it’ll be monumental. Joey deserved no less; metal demands no more.As the credits roll on Joey’s chapter, one truth endures: he was Slipknot’s spark, the rhythm in their roar. From Des Moines dives to Netflix screens, his beats pulse on, reminding us that true legends don’t die—they detonate. Tune in for The Last Fury, raise your horns for #1, and let the fury live forever. In the words of a man who lived them: We. Are. Not. Your. Kind. But Joey? He was ours.
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