Music

QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE: ROYAL ALBERT HELL

Last night, Queens of the Stone Age turned London’s most elegant venue into a blood-red cathedral of chaos. Under the domed ceiling of the Royal Albert Hall, Josh Homme and crew didn’t just play a show—they staged a cinematic fever dream that fused theater, rock, and ritual into one perfectly unhinged night.

The lights dropped. A single bulb flickered. Homme appeared, cigarette glow barely cutting through the dark, and with a slow grin said it all: this wasn’t your typical desert-rock sermon. The first act bled through stripped-back renditions and eerie strings, turning Kalopsia and Long Slow Goodbye into gothic hymns. It was delicate, tense, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl—in the best way.

Then came the switch. Act two detonated with a sequence that twisted Someone’s in the Wolf into A Song for the Deaf—a roar that shook every Victorian panel in the room. Homme prowled the aisles like a preacher gone rogue, glass of wine in hand, a cleaver resting on his piano. At one point, he smirked: “I don’t need protection, I need affection.” The crowd howled back.

By the time the encore hit—Matt Berry ripping organ chords from the rafters—the whole place felt baptized in distortion. It wasn’t just a concert; it was performance art wrapped in sweat, smoke, and swagger.

For a band two decades deep, QOTSA proved they’re still the most unpredictable act in rock. They don’t just play songs anymore—they build worlds, tear them down, and laugh while the walls burn.