205. Queen with Adam Lambert
The O2 Arena
14 June 2022
Last time we tried to see Queen, we didn’t even make it to “We Will Rock You”. We had to leg it out of Wembley because our small puppy, Ziggy, had had fallen down the stairs during what we would later learn was her first epileptic fit. Whilst Brian May and Adam Lambert were on stage summoning the gods of rock, me and my wife were hurrying our way back to the car park.
So, this show was unfinished business and when the lights went down, the crowd roared whilst a huge crown descends from the ceiling carrying Adam Lambert. Now, here’s the thing. There are two types of Queen fans: the “no Freddie, no Queen” purists; and the people who recognise that Freddie Mercury may be irreplaceable, but it’s great to finally have someone who can actually sing these songs live and not look like a tethered goat. We fall into the latter category.
Lambert understands the assignment. He’s not trying to be Freddie. He’s being Adam Lambert, a glam-rock peacock supreme, camp icon, wearer of outrageous outfits and a man who can hit the high notes with such force it’s like being lightly electrocuted in velvet.
He swaggered through “Don’t Stop Me Now,” smouldered through “Somebody to Love,” and fully committed to “Killer Queen” with the showmanship of a man who has access to an unlimited feather budget. Yes, he sits on a glittering chaise longue and drinks champagne mid-song, and yes, the crowd adored him. Because this is Queen. Subtlety was never invited.
Brian May, meanwhile, still bends notes like gravitational waves. He even did the solo on “Bohemian Rhapsody” standing in a moonbeam, slowly rotating, like a benevolent astrophysical wizard. Which, to be fair, he is. Roger Taylor hit the drums with that same unmistakable dad-who-can-still-bench-press-you energy. No frills, no fuss, just granite rhythm.
There was, of course, the emotional moment. A tribute to Freddie, projected and glowing, all swagger and tenderness, singing “Love of My Life” with Brian accompanying softly. The arena held its breath. Couples gripped hands. A few mascaraed adults blinked very fast. I will not admit to anything.
By the encore, the room was a stadium in miniature. A sea of fists pounding to “We Will Rock You”, the world’s only song legally required to be performed louder than Krakatoa. “We Are The Champions” turned into a communal exorcism of everything the pandemic had stolen, paused, or postponed. And then it was done. No rushing. No hurried exits. No panicked phone calls. No emergency vet.
We stepped out of the O₂ hand in hand, into the cool evening air, the post-gig buzz slowly ebbing away. As we walked back to the car, the river lights flickering in the distance, the night felt still. We found ourselves remembering the last time we’d seen this show, the hurried exit, the frantic calls, the race home to our little pup. But this time, there was no Ziggy waiting for us, no tiny cinnamon bun curled up on the sofa. We had lost her last October, and the memory hung there between us, quiet and heavy, carried softly on the Thames breeze.