Queen: A Day At The Races

THE OFFICE outside has been a-buzzing of late with the latest report concerning the whole punk conspiracy – the to-ings, and fro-ings, of the Sex Pistols' current situation versus the general British Public and their phoney morality – suddenly everyone feeling as if something at last is going to happen, that the frazzled rock hierarchy might just be toppled and me in here – the reviewing room that is – listening to an album that the Great British Public will in a matter of days be clutching cherishingly to the old communal breast, an album that is destined to go gold-platinum – what's the limit – an album that is so vacuously effete, such a grotesque parody of all the musical forms it relentlessly preens over, that listening to it throughout this entire day has left me totally depressed.