Them Crooked Vultures

Dave Grohl promised that this hook up with Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme and John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin “wouldn’t suck” – and he’s proved true to his word. Kicking off in a clatter of furious percussion from the ex-Nirvana man, Them Crooked Vultures is a marriage forged in heavy rock heaven: Grohl brings the pounding stick-work, Jones the metal overlord imperiousness whilst Homme delivers some of his finest vocals and guitar work since QOTSA’s career best Songs For the Deaf.
And yet there’s the lingering suspicion that this is one of those records that was more fun to make (it was put together at Homme’s Desert Sessions studio in Nevada) than it is to listen to. Thematically, the Vultures – as they undoubtedly would like to be referred to – veer all over the place, dealing in lite-funk one moment, sleazy blues jams the next without ever settling into a definitive style. It’s as if all three have been seized by an attention deficit disorder – no sooner have they slipped into a groove than they’re throwing off the shackles and attempting something else. You want to grab them by the lapels (very slowly and respectfully in the case of the brickshithouse-proportioned Homme) and say ‘dudes, stop trying so hard to impress everybody’.
Ultimately it’s hard to tell exactly what Them Crooked Vultures is supposed to be. Is it a tossed off-side project? An attempt by the participants to open a fresh chapter in their careers? An excuse to kick back with their buddies and indulge their love of full-fat riffs? At various moments, it sounds like all of the above – and even if the quality of the song-writing is consistently high, the sense that Messrs Homme, Grohl and Jones don’t quite know what they are getting themselves into, takes the shine off. They are at such pains not to sound like their regular bands that it starts to feel like they are running away from themselves.
That being the case, in places, there’s lots here to cheer about. The nihilistic industrial tumult of ‘Mind Eraser, No Chaser’ is brain-blastingly OTT (a recommendation); ‘Scumbag Blues’ is a stoner dirge that incorporates a clarinet solo and somehow gets away with it (plus, who knew Grohl has such a fantastic falsetto?). Sometimes the identity crisis even breeds genuinely experimental music: ‘Elephant’ jackknifes from proto-punk stomper to psychedelic bliss-out. File under: engaging curio.