184. Queen and Adam Lambert
The O2 Arena
12 December 2017
A rare alignment of celestial bodies occurred this evening: my wife and I actually went to a gig together. Normally, our musical tastes exist on different planets, but tonight, our Venn diagrams briefly met, forming the slimmest of crescents labelled Queen (ish).
Technically, it was two members of Queen, the ones still alive, or at least still interested, joined by Adam Lambert, former American Idol runner-up and full-time peacock. After their brief experiment fronting the band with Paul Rodgers, this new incarnation promised a return to the theatrical madness Freddie once turned into an art form.
And deliver it did. Lambert strutted onstage like a man fired from a glitter cannon at close range; all leather, eyeliner and feathered collar, shedding plumage like an outraged raven. Within minutes, he was belting out the hits at full gale force: “Somebody to Love,” “Killer Queen,” “Don’t Stop Me Now.” Sixty thousand people screamed every lyric back at him, word-perfect.
To be clear, Queen were never a rock band in the strict sense. They were an opera, a musical, a glorious overstatement in platform heels. And Lambert, flamboyant, fearless, and utterly unbothered, clearly got the memo. He wasn’t trying to be Freddie, but he was channelling him.
Late into their roller derby set of classic Queen songs came the emotional gut punch: the lights dimmed, the screen flickered, and a holographic Freddie appeared, leading the crowd in the classic “Ay-oh” call-and-response. Sixty thousand throats shouted it back, half joyful, half broken. It was cheesy, moving, and oddly perfect.
And then, just as the first thunderous stomp of “We Will Rock You” kicked in both our phones started vibrating. The babysitter.
One of our puppies, Ziggy, named for obvious reasons, had taken a tumble down the stairs and was in distress. Cue full parental panic mode. We bolted out of Wembley at speed, sprinting past confused Queen fans mid-air guitar. Within minutes, we were in the car, rock anthems fading behind us as we raced toward the 24-hour vet. Ziggy, it turned out, had suffered an epileptic fit. The little trooper recovered fully, but we missed the encore; no “We Are the Champions,” no confetti, no triumphant finale. The show did go on, just not for us.
Still, for one glorious, glittering hour, Queen, or what’s left of them, gave us spectacle, sentiment, and sheer camp magnificence. And honestly, I think Freddie would have approved