Queens of the Stone Age: Mean Fiddler, London

THERE ARE people everywhere. Crowded at the front of the stage, clogging the bar, hanging on the stair rails, queuing for the toilets. The room is the temperature of a clay oven, the audience is glazed with sweat, condensation shivers down the walls. The venue is oversold and the sightlines are shocking: downstairs it's the grill of the mixing desk or the back of someone's head; upstairs it's three-deep at the viewing balcony or the back of someone's head. It's like being on the Victoria Line at rush hour, with all the lights out and the heaters on. People are cheering a full 15 minutes before tonight's band takes to the stage.