Queens of the Stone Age
– Rated R
With Rated R, Queens of the Stone Age didn’t just sharpen the blade—they spun it in slow motion, let the light catch it, then drove it clean through the bloated corpse of post-grunge radio. This is the record where Josh Homme stops pretending to play nice and starts really pulling the strings. It’s sleazy, it’s sinister, and it grooves like a fever dream in the Mojave.
Best of…
Homme layers in textures that hiss and swell, letting the bass punch while guitars twitch and sputter like malfunctioning sci-fi gadgets. There’s no allegiance to genre or decorum—just a fixation on repetition, hypnosis, and that narcotic blend of swagger and scorn. Mark Lanegan pops up like a ghost you forgot you invited, dragging the mood even lower and better for it.
And let’s not skip over the humor. Rated R is funny—mean funny, weird funny, the kind of funny that only comes after two sleepless nights and a half-bottle of cough syrup. It’s not about playing the cool rock band; it’s about lighting the whole idea on fire and dancing around the ashes in platform boots.
Choice Tracks
Feel Good Hit of the Summer
Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, marijuana, ecstasy… the roll call heard ’round the festival circuit. It’s a joke and a dare and a mission statement. Nothing feels good and everything hits.
The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret
Sleek, slinky paranoia. Homme’s falsetto croons through layers of distrust, while the guitars simmer like they’re hiding something. It’s pop with a black eye.
Better Living Through Chemistry
The longest, weirdest trip on the album. Psychedelic sludge with a purpose, it drips and throbs like a sedated heart monitor. Equal parts Sabbath and Spacemen 3.
Monsters in the Parasol
Paranoia never sounded this danceable. The riff slinks in sideways, off-kilter and woozy. It’s a bad trip at a good party—and vice versa.
In the Fade
Lanegan’s curtain call. Bleak and beautiful, like waking up in the desert with nothing but dust in your throat and last night’s regrets in your pocket. Closes the album like a slow funeral march for everything it just torched.