🎤 Linkin Park: Original Members (2000–2017)

Chester was not just the voice of Linkin Park — he was the voice of pain, of survival, of defiance. He screamed what I couldn’t say out loud. He sang when I couldn’t speak. His soul is tied to mine in ways I still don’t fully understand, even though we're cousins. I talk to him in spirit. I dream of him often. I believe he still guides those of us trying to make sense of a broken world. I miss him every single day, and this whole section of my site is a tribute to the fire he lit in me that will never go out.

Mike was the other heartbeat of LP — the calm logic behind Chester’s storm. His lyrics held a mirror to society, to grief, to anger, and to hope. I loved his mind, his vision, his refusal to be boxed in. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t heartbroken over where he’s gone since Chester passed. The Emily/Scientology situation? It’s devastating. I’m angry. But I’m also worried. I still believe the real Mike is in there — scared, maybe trapped, but not gone. This page holds space for the Mike I remember. The one who wrote “Already Over” and “Kenji” and “Over Again.” I hope one day, he finds his way back.

Brad was always the mystery man — hiding behind headphones, but never far from the core. His guitar work could be aggressive or ambient, glitchy or emotional. He helped shape Linkin Park’s sound more than he gets credit for, and I always felt like he was the quiet support behind Chester and Mike’s storms. I hope wherever he is now, he knows that fans like me still remember his strange, nerdy brilliance — and we still hear it in every track.

Phoenix was the grounding force — steady, playful, and always authentic. His basslines kept the chaos centered, and his vibe always felt like “big brother energy.” He was goofy in interviews, thoughtful on stage, and clearly someone who loved the music as much as we did. I always appreciated how real he seemed, even in the most manufactured industry on earth.

Mr. Hahn was the strange, glitchy heartbeat in the background — the sound of static and paranoia, the scream behind the digital curtain. His videos shaped the visual world of LP. His scratches were iconic. He made weird beautiful. I always got the sense that Joe understood darkness in a different way — through aesthetics, through rhythm, through fragmentation. He’s one of the reasons Linkin Park felt so unique, and I’m forever grateful.

Rob was the engine. The quiet storm. He rarely spoke, but his drums did all the talking. There’s a power to the way he played — clean, emotional, and sometimes absolutely explosive. I never knew much about him personally, but I didn’t have to. His rhythms carried Chester’s voice and anchored every live show. He was always there. I hope he’s still drumming somewhere in peace.