Review Summary: Portrait of the artist as a dumb c#nt
Due to Josh Homme getting an ouchie on his knee or something, Like Clockwork became such a painful moment of release for the artist, that it was formally declared a masterpiece by all the people everywhere far and wide. And so when the Queens of the Stone Age headed back into the studio, the first thing they did was check Josh Homme’s entire body for further ouchies. When no such ouchies were discovered, former Prussian Lord and current gothic pedophile Troy Van Leuweiiejbejhgbehbasfjfgkh looked at Josh Homme and asked:
“Fun times now?”
"Yes,” said Josh Homme. “Fun times indeed.”
And here we have it. Villains. Fun times.
Upon first listen, it’s easy to confuse Villains for a bad album. That confusion is understandable, as the two are virtually indistinguishable. But have some faith and patience, Sputniker. Because Villains is not as fun as it appears on the surface. It is in fact the gnarled, contorted face of a whole different kind of pain, one that Like Clockwork could only dream to be.
The crisis of Villains is less tangible and much more subtle. When a man gets old enough to become afraid of death, he goes out and buys a flash sports car, puts his hair a stupid way, gets some tight pants going, abandons his family, and starts dating a girl who looks like the custodian of a Swedish whorehouse. Like his forefather before him, and his forefather before him. It has been this way for centuries. It is all we know. But what does a man do when he gets old enough to become afraid of death and he’s already got all those things? That is the dilemma of Villains.
Extravagance becomes Villains. Josh Homme feels so extravagant in fact that he hired a drummer to drum drums on the album, and then didn’t use any drums on the album at all, it seems. Money down the drain, you say? Could have used that money to buy more leather clothes and hair putty, you say? Why are you doing this to us, you say?!
Now much has been said about Josh Homme’s lyrics. Like esoteric poems pulled from the deepest bowels of a fevered bungalow of his mind, they may sound like randomized nonsense, but are in fact packed with secret meaning. It’s like when a man looks you in the eye and says “I’m a gluten-intolerant all-organic vegan.” What he probably thinks he’s saying is “I’m an intelligent modern man who pays attention to nutrition and what I put in my body, and I am supportive of both animal rights and the artisanal farming industry.” However what he’s really saying is “Hi, I’m a giant pain in the asshole at dinner parties. Never invite me.” And I never will, Brian. I never will.
Villains is unlike anything in the Queens of the Stone Age cannon. No one yells Cocaine here because that’s no way for radio darlings to behave. You now do it in secret, in nice restaurants, in the toilets, off the toilet paper dispenser, like classy folk. And when they say Better Living Through Chemistry, they’re mostly talking about blood thinners, cholesterol capsules, rheumatoid medication and anti-depressants.
Now listen, I like to have fun too. I once went to prison on false charges, where I polished rocks into chess-pieces, hung up posters of 50’s film stars, got routinely raped, and even opened a library, before breaking the hell out of there, while a distinguished older black man narrated my life story. So I know fun when I see it. And this album, my friend, is no sort of fun I ever want to know.
So there we have it. An album of groovy disco chutney. A flash sports car with Rogaine and Viagra stashed in the glove compartment. The artist formerly known as rock musician. This is where we find ourselves. But don’t despair, munchkins. Strap on your dancing sandals and your weekend culottes, and shake your flabby bumcheeks to this 50-year old man, tossing his freckled ginger man-titties around like they’re the Devil’s maracas.
