Eyes flick open. You've successfully re-entered the Earth's atmosphere from an intoxicated nightmare vortex. But your molested head feels as if it's trapped inside a bee-hive and it's very possible you committed a minor criminal offence during the blitzed journey home.
For the humble fan, worshipping at the alter of the greatest living, breathing and utterly mind-destroying rock'n'roll band in the world, the morning after a Queens Of The Stone Age gig is a one-off, six-monthly affair. For the band themselves, rabid behemoths incarnate, it is a daily experience. Life is light-speed fast, the high is colossal, and no quarter is relinquished. But the comedown has to be an absolute motherf*cker.
Infuriatingly, Josh Homme and Nick Oliveri seem to be grappling with such a crippling, ponderous handicap this evening. That with 2002's 'Songs For The Deaf' they unleashed a bloodthirsty wolf of an album unmatched in recent years is lore. However, freeing the beast before this London crowd tonight proves frustratingly elusive.
Curiously, all the dagger-sharp pieces appear to be in place. The band emerge, scowling, dark eyes housed in even darker minds. 'You Think I Ain't Worth A Dollar But I Feel Like A Millionaire' smashes through your temple and lands somewhere near the river Thames. On fire. 'First It Giveth' is a vicious, whiplash drum/guitar odyssey, whilst a white-light 'Feel Good Hit Of The Summer' levels the crowd in the same way as the ingestion of this winning narcotic shopping-list.
The walking slab of cement that is Mark Lanegan's destitute insult for a human being emerges from the shadows for the brutal reprises of 'A Song For The Dead', a rolling 'Go With The Flow' tosses lacklustre emotions away like garbage - "I want something good to die for" - whilst 'Hangin' Tree' is as menacing as seeing a cloaked Lanegan approaching your house at 5am.
However, only at certain times does the jigsaw take its 1000 per cent holy, unforgiving form. For the most part, the sound is too enclosed, like a shield surrounding the band, preventing the largely immobile audience from being truly eaten alive. Homme and Oliveri, bathed in red light and looking strangely naked without his 747 c*ck trailing the stage, say little and - heaven forbid - appear to be going through the motions.
'The Sky Is Fallin'' threatens an inclement shower rather than the introduction of Mars into your back garden, 'Six Shooter', despite Oliveri's magnificent swearing, refuses to explode free from the two-minute dirge and 'Another Love Song' is, tonight, exactly that.
And while there is no denying that Queens Of The Stone Age are indeed "the one your mama told you about" - as they boast on 'Ode To Clarissa' - most prospective mother-in-laws pose more of a threat than a two-dimensional, slo-mo slab of sweaty blubber, still drunk from the year before. Which, loosely speaking, is what we saw tonight. Eyes shut.
