The King Of Queens
For the last four years or so, I’ve watched my friends “hit the road” for “tour” in support of whatever noise pollution they’ve recently released onto the universe. I went to college and they went on tour. Sometimes I joined my friends, pretending I’m in their bands. “Tour, bro!” I always say. This past weekend was no different. I loaded my air-guitar in the trunk and hit the road for Queens of The Stoneage @ The Warfield, San Francisco.
When tour duty calls, I’m there. Little guy named Mikey Shuman…yeah…that handsome bassist in QOTSA…might wanna check him out…been slaying bass in multiple bands since AOL 2.0 came out. Anyway, in true Hausfater fashion, here’s a detailed account of the show/tour ’08: San Francisco.
First thing’s first: I called Mike to make sure Troy and I wouldn’t be wearing the same jetblack designer suits to the show. It would totally be noticeable if we donned the same outfit because homie plays guitar in Queens, which means he stands on stage and everyone watches him while I pick my nose in the crowd, trying to smoke joints without getting caught. It’d totally be awkward if people caught on that we had the same penchant for expensive couture, not to mention, the same exact Boss suit. TroyBoy is class all the way; Men’s Warehouse…you’ll like the way you look. I guarantee it.
What I really did was call Zach and Jon “Beth—I slang chickens” Weston. I needed to confirm the tour. The show was the following day; in present time it was Friday evening. If we were to time it just right, we’d get there just as the band stomped on stage, Saturday night. After confirming the tour dates, I slammed down the phone and packed my tour backpack with all the essentials: spliffs, a Hollwood mogul biography, Desitin (for concert ass chaffage), Tom’s Natural Deodorant, white t-shirts, a wad of cash, cigarettes, and some clean undies. Zach had mentioned that they gang would be at my house in around an hour. I had just enough time to prepare and pack a homemade tuna “sang.” I proceeded to roll a nice spliff for the first leg of tour. Life was good.
At around 11:30 AM our tour bus (Sara’s hybrid) left Encino for rockier territory. We knew we were in for thick riffs and crunchy tones. Good thing I brought a camera to document this monumental event: Queens rocks San Francisco!
“Queens are done touring for a while after tonight, dude. Might wanna check it out,” said Jon. I mean Beth. If Jon says something like that—you know it’s true; the dude LIVES for nerd rock gossip. Buddyhead was invented for spazes like him.
Six hours, three spliffs, a Black Rebel album (Baby 81), four bags of chips, five road-sodas, and two gas/pee stops later…we finally arrived in Homowood. Some people call it San Francisco. Apparently there’s a serious jail-island there, a ton of gaylords, and Jack Kerouac wrote some pretty important book about the very same subject as to why we were traveling to San Fran. But who cares? We were on the road; Jack’s dead. We were there to rock. And I was there to pretend I played jembe in Queens of the Stoneage (I actually ended up telling this Rugby team @ The Queens after-party that I played professional Polo at the Gene Autry Equestrian Center).
We checked into the hotel—Beth’s family is pretty fuckin’ connected—we walk into any FourStar Hotel anywhere in the country, mention his last name, and BOOM!—first class service. The funny thing was that tonight, when we checked in with the concierge, the desk clerk said, “we have one rule…absolutely NO partying!”
To which Jon replied, “So, like, no going OFF?” The debauchery was about just about to begin. This poor concierge had no clue that he was giving key cards to the likes of Charlie Manson, Richard Ramirez, and Gigi Allen. We were probably gonna thrash the place. We were gonna definitely go off!
Sara, Jon, Zach, and me went upstairs, tarted-up a bit, put on killer outfits, and hit the town. We made our way to the direction of The Warfield at around 7: 30 PM. But not without stopping to get completely drunk first. What good are sick tones if you’re sober? We decided to eat a shitload of sushi and drink a boatload of Sake before getting our desert on. That’s DESERT. Not Dessert. It’s a nerdy Queens joke. Finally, at 8:45 PM, we hopped in a cab headed for The Warfield.
Shuman texted me to let us know he’d officially be onstage at 9 PM so as not to blow it. “Going on at 9,” read the LCD of my phone. “More like GOING OFF at 9,” I texted him back.
Our Hasidic cabbie dropped us off right in front of the venue at 9:04 PM. I could hear “Burn The Witch” pulsating through the walls of the Warfield. This bummed me out . We were late. I wanted my tickets! I wanted my pass! I wanted to rock! Fuck! The girls and me waited patiently behind the railing for Zach and Jon to return with our prized all-access passes/pit tickets; they somehow magically appear at every QOTSA show—like fat Mexican girls at Morrisey concerts. I slammed the ticket in my back pocket, ripped the non-adhesive off the sticker, pressed it to my knee, and I was off, lost amongst the throngs of Queens fans and San Francisco queens. I finagled my way all the way to stage left, where Shuman and Homme territorially hold it down show after show. I tried screaming at Mike…letting him know his Encino brethren were there in support. No such luck.
(Misfit Love)
I proceeded to light up one of my spliffs after “Misfit Love.” I was finally settled. Here’s where it gets a bit hazy. I remember hearing “In The Fade”, “3 &7’s”, and then “Make It Witchu” right after, but I have no clue in what order said songs were played.
Here’s what I do recall from the show, though: Josh was larger than life. For some reason, he grows about two feet on stage. His boots get bigger, his arms thicker, and his hair redder. Guy’s a fuckin’ beast—in life, onstage, on an album…he owns it. His crooning reminds me of a cross between Harry Conick Jr. and the older guy with the motorcycle you try warning your sister about.
Joey, the drummer boy, stays at a constant, sitting stationary as he bangs those drum heads into oblivion. He looks angry when he plays—but I know it’s just him killin’ it! He hones in on the tunes, focusing. He never skips a beat. In between songs Joey smiles, as friendly as can be for someone who looks so intense when in the pocket.
Dean stands behind the keyboard rig, lurching back and forth for most of the show. He’s essentially the Crispin Glover of the band. I know he might seem more INTERPOL than Queens at first glance, but I’m here to assure you…the guy is subtle desert rock until the day he dies. He may not have all of the apparent bravado as Josh. But that’s why he hangs back, asserting his position as the spine while Josh handles the theatrics with Mike, front and center.
Michael Shuman aka Mikey Shoes has grown immensely with the band since his arrival, only ninth months out. (His first shows were 40,000+ festivals, mind you). He doesn’t seem out of place, or just filling in like he’s doing a job. The man honestly takes care of business: the leg kicks, the spitting, the telepathic chord changes with Josh and Troy—it’s official—Shuman’s here to stay.
And finally, there’s Troy—who seems like a paternal figure to the rest of the gang. While Josh might be the father of Queens, Troy is definitely the weird uncle from out of town; his weird suits only assert this claim. Troy is always dressed to the nines, looking like he just left the most bitchin’ funeral in the history of death. If “The Punisher” were a real superhero, Troy would be his evil twin.
Yes, Queens rule. Their latest album, Era Vulgaris, might be their best yet. It’s definitely my favorite. It’s unrelenting, hard, sexy, metallic, and even pretty (“Suture Your Future”). Songs For The Deaf might be the staple of the band, the moment they became “Queens” and not just another weird wonder of the radio. But, I must say, Era is perfected raw. I rock out to it over and over again in my car and I’ve had it since June! This might be one of the few rock albums of the last decade that I listen to all the way through without being disappointed—not once. If you haven’t copped this album yet, you’re fuckin’ blowin’ it.
(Sick, Sick, Sick)
The boys finished out the show with “Go With The Flow” (I think, I was totally Spicolli’d by this point). The lights came up; and the band exited the stage. I found Zach and Jon. We headed backstage, doing the Wayne’s World the whole way: showing off our passes and being totally obnoxious. I started telling people “I’m with the band!” A few minutes of this and we’re ushered into line with all the other jagoffs wearing laminates. Not so VIP anymore, lemme tell ya’. Fuckin’ A!
Ten minutes passed. The line began to move. I’m ushered through a little tunnel/locker room and within moments I’m high-fiving Mike. We took a few stupid photos before Mike led us to some spare brews. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joey, just chilling on the couch, simmering in a pool of sweat, smiling and signing an autograph.
“Hey! Nice to see you,” Joey said, sticking out his hand. I shook his Zuess-like hand with pride! Joey is even cooler in person than he is onstage.
Soon I saw Troy, standing around post-show, sipping what was probably rum and coke, looking so fuckin’ fly. I decided to let him do his thing. Josh was nowhere in sight. Dean came over and asked if we’d be at the after party—“of course, dude!” He smiled and walked off; such a gentleman. We drank a few more spirits, lit up a few cigarettes, and waited for Mike to do his rockstar thing.
Twenty minutes later, Mikey comes out and tells us to meet him at some rad bar in San Fran. But he’s gotta swing by the hotel and drop off his stuff first. “Then,” he said, “were gonna party!” Woo! Yeah!
The night continued to get better and better. The cab dumped us out and we stumbled into the bar, ready to ignite. Immediately, I ordered our gang a round of Irish Car Bombs. I mean, shit, here we were in San Fran with Queens. It’s no time for Cosmos and Apple Martinis, ya dig? Zach and I got started, having a drinking contest with this Rugby player that I previously mentioned. (This is the clown who believed I was a professional Polo player). We drank our Car Bombs and The Rugby tool continued to buy rounds for Zach and himself. We did two Car Bombs apiece and headed outside for a smoke; Shuman came out to join us. We talked about what a spaz I am, how rad the show was, how long off Mike gets for the holidays, and what’s around to eat. We ditched our tobacco products and headed back into the bar. I began drinking Budweiser—keeping the party patriotic! I took my beer from the bar before doing a 360 degree spin.
(Mikey Shoes, M. Haus, Z. Diggs)
An hour passed. Zach and I headed back outside for another smoke when BAM! I almost fell onto Josh Homme, also smoking outside. In person, Josh is a huge, slaying, shredding, married, rich, sexy, rockin’ dude. But a DUDE! A dude’s dude! You know what I’m saying…”I’m not Lebowski! I’m the DUDE, man!” Yep, Josh is a man you could get a hotdog with at a ballgame…a dude you could call to beat up that guy who fucked your sister and never called again. He’s a man’s man. Anyway…the three of us got to talking and being drunk dudes just smoking on the corner.
My mom calls me SpongeBobSquareHead. Ex-girlfriends call my coiff the Brillo-Pad, and Josh Homme refers to me as “Mikey’s boy with the Helmet.” Go figure.
(Josh Homme & Matty Hausy aka “The Helmet”)
Our cigarettes were almost done, and me, being the drunken, stoned genius that I am, convinced (with ease) Josh to take a picture with me in a homoerotic embrace. “It’s for Buddyhead, dude!” That’s all I had to say. Within seconds, he had his huge arms around me, wrapped in a warm desert embrace; I stood there, bursting with joy, wishing my name were Brody. For one night in San Francisco, I, Matt “The Helmet” Hausfater, was the King of Queens.
Merry Xmas, Buddyheaders.
-M. Haus
Posted in mikey shoes, queens of the stone age, Music | 22 Comments »
