Queens Of The Stone Age

The impressive Belgian support act Millionaire have been over for nigh on twenty minutes and there’s still no sign of QOTSA. The stage crew are tweaking with the equipment and fumbling with the lights and the house, jam packed with a cross section of the Queen’s decidedly diverse fanbase, is becoming antsy.

So we wait. And wait.

Then, lo, there’s a shuffle of feet moving down the back stairs. Lights flick on, sound kicks in, and the sonic sadism of the Queens Of The Stone Age is unleashed upon the crowd: the new drummer, filling the space vacated by the magnificent Dave Grohl, moves like the mercury man in Terminator 2, the keyboard player peers out from beneath his floppy fringe, Nick Olivieri beats the low end into oblivion at the side of the stage and Josh Homme, guitar in hand, poses God-like in the centre. Opening with an amphetamine-esque version of ‘Feelgood Hit Of The Summer’, the quartet storm through a set laced with such gems as ‘No One Knows’, ‘The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret’ and the beautiful ‘Hanging Tree’, for which they were joined on stage by the irreverent Mark Lanegan, every inflection perfectly orchestrated with master craftsmanship. The screens hanging from the ceiling denote the appropriate time for listening, applause, and worship, with glowing images of an ear, hands, and Jesus H Christ (complete with a crown of thorns) appearing at the appropriate intervals. When you’re one of the most important rock bands in the world, such blatant Spinal Tap-isms are allowed, nay, encouraged.