Eager to see the “bio-flick” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” after seeing the film’s trailer advertised both online and television, Paul and I settled into our plush seats at the Tryon Theatre, a tub of popcorn between us and a plastic cup containing my obligatory prosecco in the drink holder.

By the way, boys and girls, it’s ever so nice to see a film in a smaller theater that allows such indulgences. Also, because everyone knows everyone else in a town of 2,000, no one dares to annoy others by texting on a glowing phone or chatting during a film for fear of being called out: “Ed! Hush! We can hear you all the way up here on the balcony!”

The film was magnificent.

The performance by Rami Malek as Freddie Mercury was nothing short of astonishing. There was never a moment in the film when I didn’t think I was actually watching the flamboyant late vocalist of the legendary band, Queen. Every movement, every nuance, the ability to convey a myriad of feelings even when there was no dialogue, marked his talent.

And as the heart pounding percussion and driving base lines heralded the beginning of yet another one of their string of hits, my eyes swept over the audience surrounding us and I was slightly surprised to see rather a sea of bifocals and greying heads as well as shining bald pates.

And bemused, frankly, to see those heads begin to nod in time to the intro of “Another One Bites The Dust.” An entire theater of Baby Boomers getting down with the music they embraced in the 70s and 80s. Adorable.

And then, as in that moment of horror when you try to take a photo of your dog on your bed with your phone, only to hit “reverse camera” by mistake and see a close up of your aging face in the worst lighting possible, I realized I was one of those people. Tapping my foot and bopping my head…

There are certain moments that sneak up on you in life that make you realize you’re no different from anyone else, that the great equalizer known as Father Time is claiming you, not so much with a whisper, but more of a cuff across the back of the head. Your Christmas card list grows smaller as friends and family have passed away…no one asks if your parents are still alive…young people asked if you voted for Truman (that would be a “no,” you little b*******)

And then there you are, sitting with your AARP Homies, changing position from time to time to give your new hip or stiff back a break as you watch Bohemian Rhapsody and trying not to be insulted when the few teens in the crowd giggle during particular scenes showing music being recorded on reel-to-reel instead of digital software.

But giggle away, you fans of Drake and The Weekend and Sia. No films will chronicle their careers in 30 years, as they have the musicians that mastered their instruments and had the strength of vocals that never needed in-studio tweaking to bring them on key.

Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, Roger Daltrey, Zeppelin, Lennon and McCartney, The Stones…

Oh yes, we might be old, but we saw the best concerts, hands down.