With its mixture of ghouls, glits and glams beside the local Latins, street people and punks, Chicago’s Aragon Ballroom seems the perfect place for Queen. It is a dark, wine soaked pit of a place, with gauche decor left over from the good old ballroom days when it was famous, dearie—back when your mama still danced. You can do all your nasties at the Aragon, and most people do. It’s an atmosphere conducive to rape, murder, grisly p.d.’s — and killer rock ‘n’ roll.

To buck the weird vibes, a band has to play louder than the bomb, andj act twice as bad. If some sucker hurls a wine bottle at you, you had better take aim and hurl it back, and do it with style, Jack, or your ass is in hock for the night. Yet, there is still a leftover sense of awe, a respect of sorts, among these circles, when they are faced with a British act, that keeps the crazies at bay just long enough for the band to prove itself. (Perhaps it’s Chicago’s famous “Second City” inferiority complex peeking through.) And so, Queen had at least one big advantage to draw upon. The rest of us should have been so lucky. But we’ll save that part for last. On with the show.