Corey Taylor
– CMF2
Corey Taylor comes out swinging like he’s trying to punch every box anyone ever tried to stick him in. CMF2 isn’t just the sequel to CMFT—it’s the sound of a man finally shredding the script, lighting the pieces on fire, and playing guitar over the flames. He’s got Slipknot’s scars, Stone Sour’s heart, and enough personality to fill a jukebox twice over. This is Taylor without the mask, but still with a mouth full of nails and a heart that bruises easy.
The album veers between moods like a muscle car fishtailing on black ice. One track has the stomp and swagger of bar-fight rock, the next slips into introspective balladry that would make mid-’90s alt-radio blush. It’s schizophrenic in the best way: honest, restless, and unable to sit still for even a chorus. Taylor’s voice—still one of the most recognizable screams-and-honey combos in modern rock—goes from raspy brawler to crooning philosopher without warning. And somehow, it works. Not always cleanly. But always human.
CMF2 is less about cohesion and more about catharsis. Taylor sounds like he’s playing every track like it might be the last thing he gets to say. There’s swagger, sure. There’s also doubt, nostalgia, rage, and a little humor bleeding in through the cracks. You don’t get the sense he’s trying to make a perfect record. You get the sense he’s trying to make a real one.
Choice Tracks
Post Traumatic Blues
This one hits like a lead pipe to the ribs. A pounding, furious anthem that grapples with mental wreckage in real time. Taylor doesn’t pull punches—he documents the war inside his head with riff-streaked honesty. The chorus swells without going soft, and the guitars roar like they’re chewing through concrete.
Talk Sick
A sleazy, snarling strut of a song that feels like it could soundtrack a barroom knife fight or a Quentin Tarantino dance scene. Taylor sounds unhinged in the best way, throwing venom through the mic with a grin on his face. It’s catchy, yes, but never clean.
Breath of Fresh Smoke
Here’s the left hook you don’t see coming. Acoustic, hazy, and strangely tender, it’s a wistful nod to youth and loss that proves Taylor doesn’t need distortion to hit hard. There’s pain buried in this one, but also peace—like watching the sun go down on a place you’ll never visit again.
We Are the Rest
A rebel chant disguised as a radio-rock grenade. Anthemic without feeling forced. It’s got a punk snarl under the surface, with Taylor throwing his voice over the barricades like he’s rallying the outcasts and the left-behinds.
Corey Taylor’s CMF2 isn’t trying to redefine anything—it’s trying to say everything. Loud, raw, melodic, messy. It’s a middle finger, a diary entry, and a love letter, all scrawled in the same ink. It doesn’t always stay in the lines, but damn if it doesn’t feel alive.