Muse
– Drones
With Drones, Muse ditches the glitter of symphonic sprawl and plunges headfirst into raw, mechanized fury. Gone are the sprawling cosmic vistas of The Resistance or The 2nd Law. What remains is leaner, louder, and more pissed off. It’s a concept record, sure, but not the bloated, overwrought variety. This is Muse sharpening their knives instead of polishing their lasers.
Best of…
Matt Bellamy wields his guitar like a weapon again, and that’s no small thing. The riffs hit hard, strafing the listener with militarized precision. There’s rage, paranoia, and a little Queen-drama tucked between the cracks. The rhythm section—Dominic Howard on drums and Chris Wolstenholme on bass—punches with the urgency of a band that’s done trying to be clever and just wants to blow holes in the wall.
The album follows a narrative arc—drone to deserter, machine to man—but never lets its concept crowd the actual songs. Bellamy howls like a man staring into an Orwellian abyss, but he also knows when to hold back, when to let a melody bleed. It’s not subtle. It’s not supposed to be. Drones is Muse returning to their core sound with a sneer, not a smile. It’s clunky in spots and wild in others, but it’s alive, and that’s what counts.
Choice Tracks
Psycho
This is Muse at their most stripped-down and belligerent. The guitar riff chugs with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Bellamy’s sneering vocal delivery borders on parody—and that’s half the fun. Dumb, loud, and effective.
Dead Inside
The opener’s cold synth pulse is pure dystopia, but the hook is pure Muse melodrama. It’s sterile and seductive, like dancing in an abandoned server farm while your heart breaks in binary.
Reapers
Six-plus minutes of guitar gymnastics and sheer velocity. Bellamy shreds like he’s trying to make the strings beg for mercy. It’s the spiritual lovechild of Rage Against the Machine and Iron Maiden, with a GPS locked on chaos.
The Handler
The black sheep in all the best ways—slow, brooding, and haunting. Bellamy’s falsetto spirals over a bassline that creeps like something crawling up your spine. Gothic and grand without ever losing its bite.
Drones
A cappella Gregorian chant as a closer? Sure, why not. It’s haunting, strange, and a quiet comedown from the war-machine bombast. A ghostly farewell from a band that just spent 40 minutes stomping across the battlefield.