I took the day off yesterday to be with family. My nephew, Derek, and his beautiful daughter, Leila, were visiting from Boston. And my grand-kids, Emele and Jory, had just arrived home after a few weeks of visiting their grandmother in Panama City. Unless I’m overlooking someone, thirteen of us (including my new buddy, Miles − not yet born, but giving it serious consideration), had caravanned to Conner Prairie, just north of Indianapolis, yesterday evening.
We had tables near the stage, thanks to my sister, Cindy, and her husband, Andy. Everyone had a blast, grooving to the ISO with Brody Dolyniuk singing Freddie Mercury’s parts, performing the music of Queen, cranked up to proper, rock-concert volume.
The massive crowd was civil and very well-behaved until a riot broke out toward the middle of the show.
Fortunately the rebel-rousing was confined to just two tables − ours. There were no injuries (other than my niece, Kiley, being hit in the eye by a red seedless grape), and no arrests were made.
I’m pleading guilty anyway − of ignoring Queen for the last half-century. Not that I didn’t like them, more like I wasn’t paying attention. I have a perfect vinyl copy of A Night at the Opera in my collection, which I acquired at a garage sale in Buffalo, NY, back in 1996.
I’ve never once listened to it, until this past week. I put it on the turntable, cranked it up (to proper, rock-concert volume,) and was amazed at how varied and interesting the music was − not a dud on the LP. So, now I’ve added Queen to my list of favorites.