Mercury: An Intimate Biography of Freddie Mercury (22 page)

“We were all a bit mystified as to how he was going to link all these pieces,” said Brian.

The song brought to life a host of obscure classical characters: Scaramouche, a clown from the
commedia dell’arte
; astronomer Galileo; Figaro, the principal character in Beaumarchais’s
The Barber of Seville
, and
The Marriage of Figaro
, from which operas by Paisiello, Rossini, and Mozart had been composed; Beelzebub: identified in the Christian New Testament as Satan, Prince of Demons, but in Arabic as “Lord of the Flies,” or “Lord of the heavenly dwelling.” Also in Arabic, the word
bismillah
,” which is a noun from a phrase in the Qur’an: “
bismi llahi r-rahmani r-rahiim
,” meaning “in the name of God, most gracious, most merciful.”

I once put to Freddie, at a party in his hotel suite in Budapest in 1986, my own theory regarding these figures from “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Scaramouche had to be Freddie himself, didn’t he? His return to the tearful-clown theme in his songwriting (Pagliacci in “It’s a Hard Life”) gave us a clue. Galileo Galilei the sixteenth-century astronomer, mathematician, physicist, and father of modern science stood for scholarly Brian, surely. Beelzebub was clearly Roger, Queen’s wildest party animal, with “a devil put aside” for his pal. I was pushing it with an ironic reference to John, “the shy one,” whom I saw as Figaro—not the operatic character, but the tuxedo kitten from Disney’s 1940 animated feature film
Pinocchio
. Well, Freddie did love his cats. Maybe not . . . but as Freddie said, all theories are allowed. He had never given away
anything about the meaning of “Bo Rap,” telling even his DJ chum Kenny Everett that it was “random rhyming nonsense.” So why would he come clean to me? I never expected him to. He stared at me for a moment before responding with a Mona Lisa smile.

That seemingly endless recording process took its toll on all concerned—not least, thanks to the layering and overlaying of endless vocals, on the actual tape.

“People think it’s this legendary story,” said Brian, “but you could hold the tape up to the light and see through it . . . every time Freddie added another ‘Galileo,’ we lost something.”

At Sarm East and Scorpio Studios in London, a feast of overdubbing began. This was not without incident, as friend and former artist Robert Lee recalls.

“I had just started recording as part of Levinsky/Sinclair [a duo signed to Tony Stratton-Smith’s Charisma, familiar from
The Kenny Everett Show
],” says Lee, who now edits the Who’s official website.

“Freddie was friendly with a flatmate of mine, and we used to go antique shopping of a Friday morning in Portobello. I remember he always had impeccable taste: I still have two Chinese prints he insisted I buy when I was looking for a present for my mum . . . I nicked them back after she passed away.

“John Sinclair—now a rabbi living in Jerusalem—owned Sarm Studios at the end of Brick Lane. His sister Jill was there, bless her.” (She has since suffered a tragic accident.)

“Queen were in, mixing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ Roy Thomas Baker at the helm. Freddie and co. at the desk. It was a twenty-four-track mega-mix, involving slave reels [bearing submixes of tracks from a master reel, to record overdubs against], premixes, and rehearsals for the mix. So many faders had to be precisely cued, it was really tricky. They spent hours and hours trying to get it right, never quite succeeding. And then, miracle, this was the one. Everything was going perfectly. They were getting through it, nearly at the end. Everyone was tense with adrenaline, but very happy. And then, suddenly, the lights went out . . .
and in walks Jill, proudly carrying a huge cake aglow with candles, and she was singing ‘Happy Birthday, dear Freddie, Happy Birthday to you!’ and they had to start all over again . . .”

“Is this the real life . . . is this just Battersea,” sings Allan James with a smile. “ ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ was parodied from day one: the sincerest form of flattery. Queen changed everything with a six-minute single.”

“The recording was a sheer work of art,” says Searchers bass player Frank Allen, “over and above what most other outfits were offering at the time. The way they layered their pieces at a time when we had only reached twenty-four analog track machines, a lot back then but remarkably modest and limiting now, was so impressive, and of course culminated in their tour de force, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ Even now it is mind-boggling how they achieved it. Every new layer of harmony meant a degeneration of sound quality, and the gap between brilliance and disaster was alarmingly narrow. They came away with brilliance in spades.”

*   *   *

It was not obvious at the time how much Freddie Mercury and Elton John had in common. Little did they know, in 1975, that Elton would be one of the last to hold Freddie’s hand as he lay dying sixteen years later.

They had first met, briefly, in the late sixties, when Freddie saw the then-little-known singing pianist perform at the famous Crawdaddy Club in Richmond, Surrey. The club was known around the world for hosting top American blues acts and for its support of the Rolling Stones. Launched by filmmaker Giorgio Gomelsky at the end of 1962, it was originally located at the Station Hotel opposite Richmond railway station. It later moved to the local athletic ground to accommodate more fans. The Crawdaddy had staged early shows by Eric Clapton with the Yardbirds, Led Zeppelin, and Rod Stewart, and was precisely the kind of venue to which Freddie aspired. That was something to dream about when he started sitting as a naked life model in his college’s art evening class for a tenner a week.

To those on intimate terms with both Elton and Freddie, there were uncanny similarities. Both, in boyhood, had been devoted to their mothers. Both had been reclusive, sensitive children who had taken piano lessons from an early age. Both had changed their names—Elton from Reginald Kenneth Dwight to Elton Hercules John; like Freddie, he had picked the name of a mythological Roman god. Elton’s road to stardom had also been long, winding, and obstacle-strewn. Each had been at odds with his looks, and had developed an outlandish style—in Elton’s case eccentric spectacles, platform boots, feathered and fringed outfits—to disguise his self-perceived ugliness. Each was confused to say the least about his sexuality.

James Saez, a musician, producer, and engineer in Los Angeles who has worked with Madonna, Led Zeppelin, Radiohead, and Red Hot Chili Peppers, believes that sexuality was the key to both Elton’s and Freddie’s artistry.

“Was there any bigger struggle than being a homosexual in the seventies and trying to expose yourself without, well, exposing yourself?” wonders James.

“It seems pretty plausible that Elton created a whole persona for himself, which was full of costumes and theatrics, in order to handle this dilemma and still open himself up. I would assume that ‘Farrokh’ was dealing with similar struggles. The thing that always cut me about him was that as strong and charismatically flamboyant as Freddie looked, he still somehow seemed really fragile and almost innocent.”

For Elton, as for Freddie, there had been girlfriends, and what looked to the outside world like conventional romance. German recording engineer Renate Blauel is said to remain heartbroken by the failure of her brief marriage to Elton in 1984. He has been openly gay since 1988, and entered a civil partnership with filmmaker David Furnish in 2005; they have a son, Zachary Jackson Levon Furnish-John, born to a surrogate mother on Christmas Day 2010.

Freddie’s and Elton’s personalities developed in parallel, and they grew to depend on each other’s friendship.

“Elton’s a good old cookie, isn’t he?” remarked Freddie. “I love him to death and I think he’s fabulous. To me, he’s like one of those last Hollywood actresses of any worth. He has been a pioneer in rock ’n’ roll. The first time I met him he was wonderful, one of those people you can instantly get on with. He said he liked ‘Killer Queen,’ and anyone who says that goes in my white book. My black book is bursting at the seams!”

But a more tragic dimension to their similarities would soon emerge. As one psychoanalyst would say of Elton in
Tantrums & Tiaras
, the TV documentary produced by David Furnish, “He was born an addict. He is a totally obsessive-compulsive person. If it hadn’t been alcohol, it would have been drugs. If it hadn’t been drugs, it would have been food. If it hadn’t been food, it would have been relationships. And if it hadn’t been relationships, it would have been shopping. And you know what, I think he’s got all five.” It was a verdict with which Elton himself did not disagree. As a result of his courage in allowing these views to be aired, the singer experienced an enormous upsurge in public support. It was a virtual mirror image of the person Freddie became in the mid-eighties, when fame and all its diversions took their toll.

In 1975, the most significant thing the pair had in common was a feisty Scot named John Reid.

The twenty-six-year-old Paisley-born impresario, a power-hungry mogul controlling a business worth £40 million, had arrived via a circuitous route. Having worked in a men’s outfitter’s, his first job in the music business was as a record plugger. Socially ambitious, Reid had risen through the ranks, cultivated high-profile friendships, and was Elton’s live-in lover for around five years, becoming his manager when Reid was still only twenty-one. Reid was another man who dithered over his sexuality: by 1976 he had switched sides, if only briefly, and was engaged to teenaged Sarah Forbes, a publicist from his own Rocket Records office. Sarah is the daughter of film director Bryan Forbes and actress Nanette Newman. She did survive the fallout, and went on to marry actor John Standing (aka Sir John Ronald Leon Standing, fourth
Baronet of Bletchley Park). Reid’s business relationship with Elton survived for twenty-eight years, but ended acrimoniously. In 2000, Elton began a multimillion-pound High Court battle against Reid, claiming mishandling of business affairs.

Also in 1975, Elton teamed up with a second Scot carving a name for himself: Rod Stewart. Both had worked with Long John Baldry, and had agreed to coproduce an album designed to revive Baldry’s flagging career. It was during sessions for this LP that they hit upon the old theatrical custom of calling themselves by women’s names. Elton was dubbed Sharon Cavendish, a name which he would use routinely on tour. Rod was Phyllis, after the comedian Phyllis Diller. Baldry became Ada, and John Reid was Beryl, in homage to British actress Beryl Reid. When Freddie found out, he had to join in, and became Melina, after Greek actress Melina Mercouri. Cliff Richard, because of the vast number of framed records he’d been awarded down the decades, was Silvia Disc. Neil Sedaka, for similar reasons, was Golda Disc. Freddie would one day employ an entire entourage known by female names. His PA was Phoebe (Peter Freestone), his former lover turned chef was Liza (Joe Fanelli), and his personal manager Paul Prenter was Trixie. Nor were friends and band members immune: Brian was Maggie, as in Rod’s hit “Maggie May.” Roger was Liz, for Elizabeth Taylor. David Nutter, brother of famous tailor Tommy Nutter, was Dawn, and Mick Jagger’s assistant and Freddie’s long-standing friend, Tony King, became Joy. Mary Austin, taking things the other way, was Steve, as in TV’s
The Six Million Dollar Man
, Steve Austin. Did she mind?

“Nobody was
allowed
to mind!” laughed Phoebe. “You knew that someone was accepted if they got ‘a name.’ John Deacon never had one, curiously. Perhaps because he was so shy.”

With Elton in self-imposed semiretirement after an arduous six-year global slog, John Reid, now running Elton’s own label, Rocket Records, as well as managing the star, was keen to expand his empire. He jumped, inevitably, at the chance of managing Queen. Although the band had other possible managers in their sights—Led Zeppelin’s Peter
Grant, the Who’s tour manager Peter Rudge, and 10cc’s Harvey Lisberg among them—a process of elimination led to Reid getting the gig. It was not what anyone would have called ideal, despite the fact that Reid’s first, impressive move was to raise the £100,000 necessary for the band to pay off Trident. He did this simply by going to EMI for an advance against future publishing royalties.

*   *   *

Elton denounced it to their mutual manager as a surefire flop. EMI and the industry in general voiced misgivings. Radio stations wondered what the hell they were supposed to do with a six-minute single. Even bassist John Deacon expressed his fears, albeit in private, that to release “Bohemian Rhapsody” would prove the greatest error of judgment of Queen’s career. For a song that was to enter the annals of music history as
the
all-time rock classic, it had the shakiest of starts. Even those who recognized its magnificence immediately were reluctant to go on record, so dramatic was the departure of “Bohemian Rhapsody” from any previous accepted convention of rock.

Who knew what really ignited Freddie’s imagination and inspired him to create this song? Soaring and decadent, brimming with thinly disguised personal agony and ecstasy, it is an impossible blend of baroque and ballad, of music hall and monster rock. Its incongruous elements are held together by a string of cacophonic guitar-grindings, classical piano sequences, sweeping orchestral arrangements and rich, multifaceted chorales, all dubbed, overdubbed, and overdubbed again to the point that, depending on one’s mood, it can be unbearable to listen to. There can be few rock fans on the planet who don’t know it by heart.

“Even though it was the most amazing piece of work, revolutionary and incredible, I’m so bored with it now,” admits BBC Radio 2 producer Phil Swern.

“It comes up with alarming regularity on playlists, and it is pretty well played to death. Still, no one could deny what an outstandingly clever piece of work it is. Nearly six minutes long, and it broke every rule. What comes close? Always the Beatles: ‘A Day in the Life’ (the
final track on their 1967 album
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
, 5:03 minutes). Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’ (8:02 minutes, and the most requested song on FM radio shows in the States, although it was never released as a single there). And ‘MacArthur Park’ (7:21 minutes) by Jimmy Webb and recorded by Richard Harris.”