Miscellaneous - Queens of the Stone Age Vs Black Label Society

  by Jeff Thiessen

published: 13 / 2 / 2010

intro

Jeff Thiessen examines the arguments both for and against stoner rock bands Queens of the Stone Age and Black Label Society

I’ve been struggling with a hypothetical scenario quite a bit recently, so I’m going to share it here in the hope I can gain some perspective on a quandary that will have no impact on my life either way: If given the option, would I be a die-hard Queens of the Stone Age or Black Label Society fan? This is a very difficult choice. In case you’re wondering why in god’s name I would ponder such a thing, it’s because their loyal fan-bases have it very, very good, although in significantly different ways. Before I elaborate on this, I should specify I am a follower of neither, but that sure doesn’t stop me from desperately craving to be part of their respective clubs. Conformity has never been high on my list of priorities in life, but I’ve always wanted to say yes to the cool kids when they ask me if I’m hip to the thunder stylings of either of those two behemoths. Never could though, but that’s not due to a lack of effort, instead probably attributed to my unfortunate disposition in life that delegates me to drunkenly stumbling home and extolling the virtues of Aphex Twin and Pere Ubu, to name a couple. Certainly a fulfilling existence, but also without question, a solitary one. Let’s start with Queens of the Stone Age. God, do their followers have it easy. First of all, it must be stated I have never actually met a die-hard Queens fan. I’m not saying they’re not out there, and I’ve definitely met some folks who know their catalogue pretty thoroughly, but usually when they say something like “Queens are fucking awesome man”, it’s generally delivered very casually with an unruffled drawl that would stand in stark opposition to how a fan of a group like Mastadon might say such a thing, for example. In all likelihood, you’d have to be on amber alert for either an impromptu saliva onslaught brought on by their unparalleled gusto, or possibly a battery of flying shards of glass as a direct result of them bottling themselves as they exclaimed those words. But what they lack in unified absolutes, they make up for in universal solidarity. I’m not exaggerating when I say I have never met one single person who actively dislikes Queens (at most, indifference on the sign of favour), and I’ve met a ridiculous amount who can’t say enough good things about their music, even if it’s usually delegated to generic sound-bites. Based on my personal experiences, I’m almost at a point where I expect nearly every person I meet, to have at least the entirety of ‘Rated R’ on their ipod, and I just don’t understand this. Ironically though, it’s my lack of ability to accurately point out the shortcomings of Queens that also serves as my most frustrating counterpoint to their insane level of contemporary success. By this I mean, I definitely do not like Queens of the Stone Age, but I can never figure out an effective way truly tear them down like I generally can with other bands I feel are universally overrated. I have a few small quips I guess: too many of the tunes ultimately follow the same formula, Homme’s lyrics don’t mean jackshit, there isn’t a shred of subtlety found on a single song in their entire discography....but I also could very easily say all these things about the Jesus and Mary Chain, who happen to be one half-step away from a permanent fixture on my stereo. Apparently I’m not the only one who has trouble articulating why I think Queens sucks goat-scrotum, because I’ve never heard anybody else go that route either, despite their music being a party-staple at nearly every booze-filled gathering I attended in my college years. I am certainly not suggesting that I’m the only person who finds their music incredibly dull. Instead I am implying that Queens of the Stone Age may be a physical, tangible rock n’ roll representation of a cosmic black hole, albeit one with a galactic bouncer. Critical and commercial praise are accepted without question, and spewed all over western terrain, while any sort of criticism, no matter how valid or constructive it might be, is thrust into the great unknown, never to be acknowledged or heard from again. Queens of the Stone Age, and their fans, live in a dream inside a record machine, and I want in. Unfortunately I’m self-aware, so I’ll forever be on the outside, looking in. If Queens thrives on watertight word-of-mouth, a world that is public viewing but not held to any of the same standards we’re accustomed to, Black Label Society host their own fucking Zion on a day-to-day basis. I very rarely hear anybody talk about these guys, but I’m still extremely jealous of anyone who fancies themselves a devout Black Label fan. With Queens, my peculiar hatred/admiration of their life form has been festering in my brain for quite some time. With Mr. Wylde’s flagship, it was, however, a much more sudden realization. About a year or ago, they strolled through my neck of the woods to play a sold-out show. I really had no interest in going at all, as I was always of the opinion their music was the unofficial anthem of backwoods, misanthropic, lumberjacks-with-a-bigger brain than most other timber slinger headbangers. As you’ve probably figured out by now, I did end up attending this show, due to my brother being a pretty big Dope fan (Yeah, he’s the one), and they happened to be opening for Black Label. The specifics of the Dope portion of the show are unimportant (even compared to say, the minutia of renewing one’s driver’s license, for example). What is important here is I got my first glimpse of Black Label Fans, in all their distilled and solidified glory. Looking around, it was like I was in a fucking army barracks the day after peace talks had been announced. But instead of camo, it was black t-shirts and jackets, all complete with Black Label insignia; and instead of everyone cheering the imminent trip home, the Black Label show hosted a euphoric joy because finally all these misfits were home. It wasn’t just how every single person in attendance seemed to dress in uniform, although that was daunting in itself (I was wearing a Primal Scream tee, which basically translated into I might as well have been wearing a goddamn Abba turtleneck). There was also the communal wave that washed over every nook and crevice in the packed venue, something I had never seen to such effect at any gig in my life. I mean sure, every show has their moments where everyone feels sorta connected to each other, even if it’s just the crude nostalgia of a particular ballad or some shit, but at the Black Label experience, it wasn’t some fleeting thing, nor was it some hazy vibe everyone thinks they feel at a similar time. Here, there was no guessing; perhaps it was a ‘you had to be there thing’, but everything was worn (read: spilled) on each person’s sleeve, and by looking around, it was clear I wasn’t the only one acutely aware of this, even if the vast majority of attendees were totally three sheets to the wind. People randomly helped each other. They borrowed each other’s cell-phones. People would go up to random strangers and strike up half-hour conversations. No fighting. Exhausted, sweaty middle-age married couples stuck around for as long as possible after the show before being kicked out by venue security. Hell, I even saw one hulking 6’5 bearded beast buy some snotty nosed eighteen year-old a beer. I know this, because I was behind them, so I was also hip to the fact that they had no prior relation before their bonding moment in the lager line. All the more remarkable when you consider exorbitant prices of the drinks being offered, and the limited scope of their conversation. They just talked about Black Label Society, but that’s precisely my point. That’s the only connection anybody at the show had with each other, but it proved to be one that crossed all borders and blurred all lines. It was a very ho-hum night for me, as like I said, their music is pretty lame to me, but for those two hours, I was likely the only one not consumed by a spirit and energy that carried them blissfully through the performance, and ultimately sent them barrelling into the night with joy in their hearts, and freedom in the soul. The world was truly their oyster that night, and, as a result, I had never felt so lonely while being so surrounded at the same time. My only solace is that I felt no pang of any emotion whatsoever, when Wylde closed off the set with a completely laughable ballad, while every biker and hoochie seemed to sober up just long enough to shed a tear or two for the duration of the absurdly tacky and melodramatic offering Wylde seemed to think was ok for a Black Label concert. In my opinion it wasn’t, but pretty sure my opinion doesn’t hold a lot of water when it comes to objective analysis of Black Label Society, because to the locals I’m just some shitheel passing through who will never understand their dynamic/saving grace mantra that infiltrates every second of every day in their euphoric village: there is nothing outside Pleasantville. So there you have it. On the one hand, being a Queens fan means never having to defend your affection, and by that token, having no real threat of your love of them being snatched away by one simple, yet innocent harmful observation. In the name of wholly secure sustainability that shows no sign of ever faltering, Queens would be a terrific band to admire on a day-to-day level that could easily stretch until your dying days. But on the other side of the coin, who needs routine validation when you have the keys to the promised land? You can make legitimate cases for both, but as for me, I’m tired of trying to figure out why I’m not one of the chosen ones. Instead, all I have to fall back on are my declarations of inferiority that seem to always fall on deaf ears: Queens music sucks, Josh Homme is an overgrown frat-boy who will never create anything truly memorable, and Black Label Society would be nothing without that killer logo of theirs. Or maybe I just have to give them both another chance.

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