Like the Champions that they are, they strode onto the stage. Stars, then asteroids, then planets flew past their heads and out into the auditorium in a sound and light show almost anachronistic in its bombast. Kerpow! Kersmash! Its Queen (and Paul Rodgers). The intergalactic theme of the opening made us wonder if even time travel was possible. Things promised to Rock. We prepared ourselves to Rock. Could Rock transport us back to a time and place when stadia the world over shuddered to the raw axe-power of Queen?
In anticipation, in the audience, heart palpitations were audible before the start. Not because half the congregation were over-weight and over fifty but because we were all wondering the same thing: Will it be any good?
The first number was just what the doctor ordered. 'Hammer to Fall', a Brian May banker, all riff and no messing. And for the first few songs I felt that if i squinted, I could see the twin towers of Wembley Stadium and Queen in their full eighties pomp.
Oh, but the Cosmos is a dark and dangerous place and with the words 'Here's a little acoustic number' so began a hellishly disappointing tail-spin into the worst excesses of stadium rock tedium. For the middle part of the evening, Queen went missing up their own arses and for that (considering the cost of a ticket) they should be soundly thrashed.
Let's be clear about this - Queen were preaching to the converted. No-one here was a sceptic. Everyone believed. Or like me, at least wanted to. With little to prove to an audience of fans, Queen could have decided to put on a show to entertain themselves and still everyone would have cheered. And that's almost what they did for part of the gig. And they nearly lost the crowd in doing it, too. In the quieter moments, you could just hear the sounds of seats tipping back up on their hinges increasing numbers of us decided that this might be a good moment to get another pint.
But who would dare deny Brian May and Roger Taylor any excess they desired? No one else on the team is going to be brave enough to say "Brian, you know that ten minute guitar solo that's essentially you just wanking yourself off? Do you think its necessary?"
A word now on Mr Paul Rodgers. He cut a moderately folorn figure on stage at times, despite striking some authentic rock god poses and hurling his mic stand into the air (and catching it) on several occasions. He's a stout little guy without a tenth of his predecessor's charisma but in hitting all the notes in all the songs he won over the crowd. By the end of things, we'd become accustomed to his voice. The little guy did good.
For the last third of the gig common sense returned and the back catalogue was put to work to entertain the fans.
There was a beautifully judged version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' that was generally touching and a fun rendition of 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love' was as light-hearted as any of its eighties live performances. Footage of those concerts shows a band happy to have a laugh at their own expense, revelling the bombast whilst poking fun at themselves.
In the end, that's my single and fairly moderate quibble. The bombast of old was there but the tongue in cheek attitude that's necessary to puncture that particular hot air balloon was missing. And what does it matter? It was exhilarating to see these guys on stage. When Freddie died, I never thought I would. In the end, it wasn't Rock which overcame me. It was sheer Love.
