Queens Of The Stone Age @ ThePalace Theatre, Melbourne(03/03/2011)

Wed 9th Mar, 2011 in Gig Reviews

After a lengthy soundcheck, after water bottles have been cracked and aligned with microphone stands, after fluffy white towels are laid gently atop amps, the piped in sound of Billy Haley’s Rock Around The Clock fades and people start screaming. There is no room to think and certainly, the best spectator spots of the evening were occupied within minutes of the doors opening. A hot, humming atmosphere of testosterone fills the vessel-like venue and the electrical anticipation provides an extra crackle of excitement. As the five men who embody Queens Of The Stone Age become visible between amp stacks, the screaming heightens to a grin-inducing level. When one in particular saunters out and moves his mouth toward his microphone, the roar of those assembled to witness lifts the roof twenty centimetres and holds it there for what seems an impossible amount of time.

In town for Soundwave Festival, and traversing a set list honouring the re-release of their debut (self-titled) record, QOTSA waste no time: from the first riff of Regular John it’s clear this is going to be an unforgettable show. The wall of guitar soaks through everybody in attendance, the moshers launch like wound springs; less mobile punters roar with delight and appreciation. I immediately wish I wasn’t past my smoking-joints-in-mosh-pits-prime as the waft of weed and man-sweat brings nostalgia by the ream.

The spun spell lingers through opener Avon – the magic really glistens with Homme’s first words to the crowd as he introduces If Only as an ode to “trying to keep your feet on the ground and your head out of your ass.” There is an air of Armageddon in the music burgeoning the cylindrical-feeling room, but it is clear who the kings of this battle are. Like dreadlocked children following Mad Max, we crowd giddily as Josh’s lyric and his, Troy Van Leeuwen, Michael Shuman and Dean Fetita’s guitars whine like dogs, the audience intones as one, “You would know,” encouraging the band to driving speed.

“I never listened to Judas Priest when I was younger,” drawled the eternally cool Homme, as a precede to How To Handle A Rope. “I heard they went to court when someone committed suicide to one of their songs.” Boom tish! He laughs at drummer Joey Castillo’s comedic timing, announcing, “I wrote this one to see if anyone would commit suicide.”

I don’t contemplate the end so much as die and go to heaven with the intensity of the ensuing song, the testosterone level is palpable, the mosh pit writhes at the band’s feet like a swarming medusa skull (it is odd to see Fertita actually playing tambourine at this point). The guitarists maintain a seductively menacing tone as the man of the hour sweeps his quiff back in a moment that (not for the first time this evening) makes me think of Elvis. It’s through Mexicola, Hispanic Impressions, The Bronze and an interlude bringing to mind circus magicians from hell (or monkey grinders of the apocalypse, whatever) before the familiar refrain moves in. Homme calls a halt. We stop screaming. He calls on us to make a little noise. We resume screaming. He introduces a slow, sexy clap. We copy. We are Teenage Hand Models, encouraged by a slow burn of desert song. The anticipation for the bass line grows; that line supplies a dirty lullaby and he knows he’s right at the end of the set when he sings, “You Can’t Quit Me Baby,” before joining his fellow Queens in a march off stage. We couldn’t quit if we wanted to.

Upon returning for encore, although free from the set list determined by their first record, the mood does not shift: the classic r’n’b body of Turnin’ on the Screw elongates the hangover of the last aural slow shag. There is no better sound to my ears than boogie/blues based rock music (and this is the pinnacle) and it is a joyful sight to see tough men dancing like cheerleaders all around, hugging and kissing their mates in what is quite obviously a long-awaited moment of joy. Now winding down into what must seem “band time,” a spotlighted Homme tools about with a sprawling riff, quietly, if possible, by himself as the remaining Queens busy themselves in the shadowed recesses of the stage. As they build a sonic structure around him, an encompassing wall of sound is created, while none of the blues is lost. That bedrock remains under his falsetto as intertwining guitar lines become more and more complex.

The unified sound eventually dissipates, as smoke billows, revealing just Josh’s axe and voice, dovetailed by a bellowing audience and smashing through red mist into the full frontal blast of Burn The Witch. Rear white footlights smoulder through purple haze as a melodic crowd contribute “Wooo-ohs, woo-ooohs,” and eventually, “QOTSA” thank us through their frontman as he exclaims, “You guys are fucking awesome.” We scream. “I don’t just come to every city and say, ‘You guys are awesome.’ In fact, I go to a lot of cities and say, ‘You guys fucking suck!” Scream. “But this is my home away from home. My beautiful wife and half of my daughter are from here, you know.” We know. We roar. They roar into Go With The Flow and thousands of voices proclaim they need something good to die for as the gig they have so highly anticipated meets and exceeds every one of their hopes for it.

A short break for the band is entertained and Josh drawls into the mic, “Who’s got a cigarette?” A lit one is promptly handed to him from the mosh pit and he draws upon it, promising, “I’ll have sex with you in the carpark later.” Everyone who didn’t hand him a cigarette moans in jealous humour. With that, QOTSA thump behind the words, “Nicotine, Valium, Vidodin, marijuana, ecstasy and alcohol…” the group I am proud to be a part of it finds a new level of appreciation to draw from. People everywhere drop their drinks, leave the bar, push people over to sprint to their friends. Homme encourages an a capella chorus, which we do until the third refrain before he realises he’s one of the most sober here and re-commences his tracking vocal. Again, the assembled chant until he calls for pause. Silence. He croons, “Breakfast of champiooonnns…” and everyone loses their shit. It’s borderline anarchy as A Song For The Dead closes the show – but I’m already racing to the car park to pretend it was me who gave Josh Homme that cigarette.