The air hung thick with anticipation, scented with candle wax and something ancient. It wasn’t just a concert; it was an immersion. Queens of the Stone Age transformed the Royal Albert Hall into a gothic sanctuary, complete with a disconcerting, yet captivating, detail – a meat cleaver casually held by Josh Homme.
This performance wasn’t born from a whim. It was a direct extension of their recent EP, *Alive from the Catacombs*, inspired by the labyrinthine ossuaries beneath Paris. Homme has spoken of being humbled by the sheer weight of history contained within those walls of skulls, a place where countless lives had played out their stories.
He’d even made a silent vow to the skeletal remains, a promise to live fully and fiercely. That commitment resonated throughout the night as Homme acknowledged life’s inherent chaos, declaring it a “difficult cornucopia of s*” – yet embracing it with defiant energy.
The show unfolded in three distinct acts, a carefully curated journey through their discography. While some favorites were absent, the setlist pulsed with the raw power of *Songs for the Deaf* and the hypnotic intensity of “Mosquito Song,” elevated by the unexpected richness of added strings and brass.
This wasn’t my first encounter with their captivating live presence. I vividly remember a pivotal moment at Glastonbury, abandoning the historic set by Elton John to witness QOTSA ignite the Other Stage. It was rumored to be a farewell, a final bow after decades of musical legacy.
As fireworks illuminated the sky for “Rocket Man,” I found myself engulfed in a swirling mosh pit, surrounded by a collective euphoria. Tears flowed freely, a testament to the shared experience of choosing something different, something raw and real. It felt like forging our own alternative history.
Homme, with a playful smirk, acknowledged the larger crowd at the Pyramid Stage, quipping, “My name is Elton John.” But in that moment, everyone who’d chosen the smaller stage felt like a winner, part of something uniquely special. And now, two and a half years later, Queens of the Stone Age surpassed even that electric Glastonbury night.
Homme’s charisma was undeniable, a magnetic force that permeated every inch of the hall. He wasn’t confined to the stage; he haunted the pit, scaled the gallery, and even engaged in playful banter with security, declaring he needed “affection, not protection.”
The Albert Hall, steeped in tradition, couldn’t contain the band’s rebellious spirit. Playful jeers echoed through the auditorium, requests for simple chords met with a swift, and colorful, correction: “It’s D major, ahole.”
Last night, Queens of the Stone Age reaffirmed their status as true rock icons. The performance culminated in an extravagant rendition of “Long Slow Goodbye,” leaving the audience breathless as the mystery organist finally turned around – revealing none other than the brilliantly eccentric Matt Berry.
