How an ancient place of death made Josh Homme feel alive

Josh Homme sips a Modelo the other night as he sits amid the vibey greenery behind Brain Dead Studios on Fairfax Avenue. Inside the movie theater, a small crowd including several of Homme's friends and family members is watching 'Alive in the Catacombs,' a black-and-white short film that documents an acoustic gig Homme's rock band, Queens of the Stone Age, played last July in the Paris Catacombs, where the remains of an estimated 6 million people are stored beneath the streets of the French capital. Back here on the patio, the 52-year-old singer and guitarist is musing about how audiences are likely to react.
'I'm so proud of the film because it's either 'I hate it' or 'Holy s—, that was intense,'' he says. 'It's nothing in between.'
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The inspiration for 'Alive in the Catacombs,' which comes accompanied by a behind-the-scenes documentary (and a five-song EP due Friday), stretches back two decades to a trip to Paris when a long line stymied Homme's attempt to visit the historical site. Yet he sees a certain poetry in the fact that the show — with radically stripped-down renditions of tunes like 'Villains of Circumstance' and 'Suture Up Your Future' — came together only as he found himself in a health crisis that forced Queens to postpone the remaining dates of its 2024 tour. With Homme having recovered from cancer, the band will return to the road this week for its first shows in nearly a year.
How arduous was it to convince the Parisian officials to let you shoot in the catacombs?
It was a f— nightmare. There's a national attitude that's pervasive in France where you ask a question and the first reaction is, 'Ask him over there.' The runaround, as we would call it. We received the runaround for many years.
Are you attracted to spooky spots in general?
I love when music is scary. I recall hearing the Doors as a young boy and being like, 'Whoa.' And they're so consistently terrifying — I've always been obsessed with that. My vision of Queens, when it's perfect, is: There's a hill with the sun behind it, and this crippled army of minstrels comes over the horizon. The townspeople go, 'S—, grab the kids.' When we sound like that, we're at our best.
What's a place in L.A. that might be comparable to the catacombs?
There are some Steinbeck-y hobo hotels. And in the right light the Hollywood Forever cemetery has a certain ominous beauty. But that feels too simple. I grew up working on a tree farm, and there's something about the uniformity of a tree farm that I find terrifying. Further out, the oil fields of Kern County are like dinosaur relics — scabs on the surface of the earth.
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Seems reasonable to ask why someone in such perilous physical shape would want to spend time in a place defined by death.
Having worked on this for the better part of 20 years, the chances that when it finally occurs, I would be dealing with the very issue that is why it exists — I mean, the chances are almost zero. That plays into my romantic side, and I don't see the value in running hypotheticals about why it's happening. I'd rather hold it close and say, 'I'm supposed to be here,' accept that and feel empowered by it. There were a lot of people who love me that were saying I shouldn't do this. And I respect that. But it does ignore the point — like, how many signs do you need?
I saw the behind-the-scenes film —
I watched it once, and I can never watch it again. I see how medicated I was. I know that vulnerable is the way to go, but I don't do a lot of sorting through things in hindsight — it makes me uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable with the documentary.
Why put it out?
Because that's what this is. I was uncomfortable in the catacombs too.
Read more: A timeline of Sly Stone's career in 10 essential songs
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You don't play guitar in the movie. Did it feel natural for you to sing without holding one?
It didn't in earlier years, but now it's as natural as anything else. I'm sort of slowly falling out of love with the guitar. I'll just use any instrument. I don't play them all well, but it doesn't really matter — it's whatever will get the idea across.
Who were some of your models for the kind of singing you're doing?
I've always loved [Jim] Morrison and his poetry. Sometimes the music isn't great in the Doors, but it's all in support of someone that I do believe is a true poet. The words are the strongest part of that band.
Your crooning made me want to hear you do an album of standards.
I was talking about this with my old man today. He's like, 'You're not gonna retire,' and I was like, 'Oh, yes, I am — I'm going to Melvyn's in Palm Springs to be like [sings], 'Fly me to the moon…''
You grew up in Palm Desert. This might be an underappreciated aspect of your lineage.
KDES 104.7, baby. The DJ would be like, 'Are you by the pool? Well, you should be.' Very Robert Evans.
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Are there Queens songs you knew wouldn't work in the catacombs?
We didn't think of it that way. The people in there, they didn't choose to be there, so what would they want to hear? I chose things about family, acceptance, the difficulties in life and the way you feel the moment they're revealed — and the way you feel the moment they're over. My first thought was: How do I emotionally get on my knees and do the very best I can to present something that these people have been longing for? It felt very religious.
Do you believe in God?
I believe in God, but God is everything I can't understand.
Do you think there's an afterlife?
I believe there's a return to something. Is it like, 'Oh my God, Rodney Dangerfield!'? That's not what I believe. But the energy that keeps you and I alive, it can't simply disappear. You must just go home to the big ball somewhere.
Last time you and I spoke, you told me you you'd learned to pursue your art with less of the reckless abandon of your youth. I wondered how that figured into your decision to call off shows last year after Paris.
By the time we walked down the steps into the catacombs, we all knew in the band that it was over. The morning we were supposed to play Venice [a few days before the Paris gig], I just couldn't take it anymore, so I was like, 'Take me to the hospital.' But I realized there was nothing that could happen for me there. I said, 'Bathroom?' and I had them pull the car up and we left.
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Does that seem irresponsible in retrospect?
No, because they didn't know what was going on and they didn't have the ability to know. I was like, 'I made a mistake — I should have just kept going.' We went to the next show in Milan because Paris was so close. You work on something for all these years, and now you can almost see it. You're gonna turn around because it's hard? You can't go two more hours? My old man says, 'Quitting on yourself is hardest the first time, and it's easy every time after that.'
Whoa.
Is that wrong? That's the guy that brought me up, and he's proud to be here tonight. So did I make a mistake or not? I'm not sure what I would have done if I'd walked away.
You've been reluctant to get too specific about your illness.
It doesn't matter. Who cares? It was hard and it was dangerous. Big f— deal.
Queens is about to get back onstage.
We're gonna finish what we started. I thought I was gonna be out of commission for 18 months or two years — that's what I was told.
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How'd you take that?
I wasn't looking for high-fives. But it ended up being seven months. I've changed so many things, and I feel so good.
Are you writing songs?
Lots. The great part about these physically or mentally dangerous situations is that now I feel super-alive and ready to go. I spent a lot of months bedridden, and now that I'm not, I'm very much like a rodeo bull. Not the rider — the bull. When you open that gate, I will destroy.
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This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.

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