We are the champions—my friends
And we'll keep on fighting —till the end—
We are the champions—
We are the champions,
No time for losers
'cause we are the champions — of the world —

—Freddie Mercury, "We Are the Champions"^*

It was to be the Big Event. Queen, coming off its most successful year ever, was setting out to conquer South America and wanted to make sure the whole world knew about it.

That, certainly, was no surprise. After all, this was the band that had made a career out of creating spectacles. A couple of years ago, for example, when they were launching a U.S. tour in support of their Jazz, album, Queen threw a bash in New Orleans that featured snake charmers, strippers, transvestites and a naked fat lady who smoked cigarettes in her crotch.

The real surprise was that Queen — a group with a history of hostility toward the press — had agreed to do interviews and had invited journalists from the U.S., England, Spain, France and other countries to come along for the first shows.

So here I am at Ezeiza airport, outside Buenos Aires. The place looks like a military installation. Young, peach-fuzz-faced boys who can't be more than sixteen or seventeen are stationed along the concourse that leads through customs into the baggage-claim area. They're all in uniform: big black leather shit-kicking boots that reach halfway up the calves of their legs, and regulation tan pants, shirts and helmets. And they're all armed with submachine guns.