XX-XX-1977 – A Day at the Races – Circus

Queen: Spirited, Impeccable, Silly
by Wesley Strick

Okay, so they’re effete, flaky, fey. And proud. So, what? This (sort-of) sequel (self-produced) to A Night at the Operareeks of arch naivete. Freddie Mercury warbles with lunatic ebullience. There’s cracked innocence and frisky excess here.

And just enough rock & roll to keep the kids horny. A crunge of pseudo-Celtic metal called “White Man.” A daffy, dumb-dumb, Hooploid “Tie Your Mother Down.” Perfect for the stage show.

Enough already. Mercury’s got four new ones. As always, his constructions provide Queen’s flashiest and most dubious moments. At last, the singer has achieved vocal chops of breathless effervescence. Which means he sounds like Marilyn Monroe in Bus Stop or Sarah Bernhardt with emphysema.

Mercury’s production effects have a crude, Busby Berkeley opulence. Freddie Mercury is to rock & roll what Carmen Miranda was to tropical fruit. His “You Take My Breath Away” is either exquisitely lovelorn or monumentally vapid, depending on the humidity. Who cares? It’s all moisture and barometric pressure.

“The Millionaire Waltz,” A Day at the Races’s would-be “Bohemian Rhapsody,” moves swiftly from the intricate to the awkward. Soon, it collapses under the weight of an unsound conceit, auto-annihilating like the best of Western culture.

The single, “Somebody to Love,” rollicks in 3/4 time, propelled by a drolly exuberant choral arrangement. “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” apes Paul McCartney’s cutesy music-hall camp: references range from the sublime “Martha My Dear” to the ridiculous, vaudevillian “Honeypie.” For hardcore cultists, there’s a two-bar “Rock-a-bye Baby” steal. A spirited and impeccable Freddie Valentino send-up.

Brian May adorns throughout with lovely crypto-classical, chicken-squawk guitar. His songwriting gifts are conventional, but not inconsiderable. “Teo Torriate (Let Us Cling Together)” is a precious, Nipponese-inflected “Auld Lang Syne.” May’s “Long Away” is Races’s strongest and least tricked-up track. It’s a haunting Beatles/Byrds amalgam, all shimmering electric 12-strings and aching harmony. Never smart-ass or strickly for laughs, “Long Away” – unlike most of Races – feels real.

But, hey. Let’s not fault Mercury’s fabrications for shrewd indulgence. Ostentation is the man’s strategy, and Queen albums beg to be judged by their pomp. Grandeur is the other side of pretension. And Freddie Mercury is abrasive – but oh so knowing. These Limey lads are effete, flaky, and fey, but they’re not blase. With A Day at the Races, they’ve deserted art-rock entirely. They’re silly now. And wondrously shameless. Rule Britannia!