The promise of that kind of interaction with fans was exciting. I remember the Prodigy bulletin board and being fascinated to see there was a Nine Inch Nails room.

Or people would find out where you live and send you a letter and you’d read something that clearly came from an insane person. When we first started off, our interaction with our audience would be someone recognizing you at a record store and saying, “I’m not a fan, but my so-and-so is.” Okay, fuck you. I sort of think I was kind of a trailblazer when it comes to getting trolled, so I’m very familiar with the rage that seems to fuel the Trump voter or the angry internet commenter. I’m sure this is both simplistic and naïvely idealistic, but I can’t help but think there are a lot of alienated people out there who might be better served by the kind of catharsis Nine Inch Nails was offering in 1994 than by whatever itch is getting scratched by being an online troll. I don’t think what we were tapping into was at all similar to the absurdity of whatever Gamergate represents, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I was thinking if we can take music that embraces and toughens up the sound of electronics, brings the aggression of Throbbing Gristle and hard rock, and also instills an honest lyric - we might have something. From my perspective, I was doing what Morrissey and Robert Smith had done, which was expressing a sense of “I don’t fucking fit in anywhere.” It was never about any larger cultural sense of oppression or disenfranchisement. I never thought about Nine Inch Nails in that context. Have you noticed a change in how those feelings get expressed culturally? There’s a toxicity and meanness in the air now that I don’t think was there when you one were, for lack of a better term, a poster boy for alienation. “These are my last few moments of life,” he says as the conversation begins, “let’s make the most of it.”įor a long time, you were one of the real avatars of white male angst and anger. Or maybe he’s just a little antsy in anticipation of the impending live shows. (He’s also become an Oscar-winning film composer, in partnership with his NIN bandmate Atticus Ross.) It does seem, though, that returning to the music that made him famous has put Reznor in an expansive - and pugnacious - mood.

Of late, this paragon of musical and emotional extremism has become a respected voice on the promise and failure of streaming music, and works closely with Apple Music on the tech giant’s efforts in that realm. Those efforts represent the first new Nine Inch Nails recordings since 2013’s Hesitation Marks, but with Reznor, silence is never a sign of inactivity. He’s here with Nine Inch Nails, the musical project he’s led since 1988, to prepare for a spate of summer festival appearances, including one at New York’s Panorama, in support of the band’s new Add Violence EP, the second in a planned trio of releases all connected by the same cryptic story line. “I get anxious about long interviews,” says Trent Reznor, smiling shyly from a leather couch at an empty hotel bar in Bakersfield, California, “but it’s nice to have a break from rehearsing the set and feeling suicidal about how much more work we have to do.” Sipping from an early-morning black coffee, Reznor is dressed in heavy boots, green cargo shorts, and a black T-shirt.

Trent rexnor on masterwriter