It’s not what one would expect from a rock concert; nearly everyone is dressed in formal attire, with a bewildering number of handlebar mustaches on display. The crowd smells like red wine and expensive perfume, a preferable alternative to BO. But this is not a typical rock concert. This show is Queens of the Stone Age, as part of their inventive Catacombs Tour, taking place on Oct. 8 in the Boch Center Wang Theatre in downtown Boston. 

The main hall is magnificent. There are marble columns in every direction and golden chandeliers dangle from a ceiling painted with angels. If it weren’t for the enormous banner advertising Snapple Tea and Polar Seltzer—“proud sponsors of the Boch Center”—it could be mistaken for the Sistine Chapel. 

Within seconds of stepping inside the actual theatre, the crowd is engulfed in a calm fog, with jazz music floating from the speakers. It’s like falling into a past life, far away from the blaring city beyond the walls. Every inch of the theatre seems meticulously crafted; even the exit signs have a fancier font than usual. 

Seats fill slowly, the main act still an hour away. But the lights soon dim and a single spotlight appears on stage. The opener is Paris Jackson, the daughter of a moderately famous artist named Michael. She walks across the enormous stage with a lone acoustic guitar. Paris sits down and stares out at the audience.

“Thanks for coming early,” she says. “It’s my job to lube you up.” She immediately follows this with a slow, heartbreaking ballad. 

Her self-deprecating humor between songs endears the audience. There are far fewer people on their phones now—other than insufferable journalists typing notes. When she finishes her set, the lights return, and half the crowd stretches their legs.

The entire theatre simmers with anticipation. A long line has formed for last-minute snacks. In the men’s room, a guy points at another guy’s shirt and says, “Pearl Jam. Nice.” There is no response. Back in the seats, three grown men debate the best Tarantino movie. “He was dialed in for Django,” one of them says. There is no response. The tension is clearly rising.

Without warning, the sound of crickets fills the room. The lights dim once more. A low booming synth pulses through the air; the crickets multiply. Now it’s a rush of sounds: gears turning, muffled voices, a ringing bell. 

From the middle of the aisle, a man in a sharp black suit stomps towards the stage with a chair held above his head. He climbs a few steps, sets the chair down, then turns to face the eager crowd. The man is Josh Homme, founder and lead singer of Queens of the Stone Age. 

Homme starts crooning with only the sound of soft piano behind him. The wide red curtain opens slightly and a few band members spill out. A haunting violin joins the song. The crowd is deadly still, eyes glued to the stage. 

The band plays “Kalopsia,” a track off their 2013 album “…Like Clockwork.” Yet, as the song picks up, the familiar tune starts to morph into a new enchanting arrangement. Homme struts with a microphone in one hand and a swinging lantern in the other. A cello plays the notes of the song’s lead guitar riff. Each band member acts as a hypnotist, slowly pulling the crowd into a trance. 

The curtain lifts, unveiling an entire orchestra. The performers are doused in dark red lights, with Homme standing in the center of them all. With each song, they manage to transcend the original, guiding the melodies to unimaginable heights. Each note by the roaring brass section reverberates in the chest. 

Homme throws a handful of glitter into the crowd. In the next moment, he quiets the band and prompts the audience to sing along with him. 

The band plays an electrifying version of “You Got a Killer Scene There, Man…” from their 2005 album “Lullabies To Paralyze.” His voice is paradoxically soothing and manic, sinister and playful in the same breath. 

Someone in the crowd screams “I love you!” Homme answers: “I love you too… probably not as much.”

By the time Queens of the Stone Age finish their final song, the theatre is breathless. They take their bows, and the crowd erupts in ear-splitting applause. Someone in the front row hands Homme a bouquet of flowers—a gesture he seems genuinely moved by. He dances with the flowers, sings a final song a cappella, and disappears from the stage.