Queen Unseen (25 page)

Rio immediately had its glamorous edge dulled by the security needs; our hotel keys were issued with no stylish tag or the hotel’s name, just a plain key stamped with a coded number and a chain to wear around the neck. Shame, a Rio hotel key tag would have been a great souvenir to attach to the keys of the Ford transit. Strict instructions were given to us: do not take anything, anything at all to the beach. Life was good here (for us) but local life was a cheap commodity, and the further back you travelled from the beach towards the mountains, the poorer it became, to a point at which cars do not stop at traffic lights for fear of attack.

The beaches were great but I never found the mythical ‘girl from Ipanema’ – or even any of her mates.

Q. What do a bunch of English and American guys do in one of the most exciting and naturally beautiful cities in the world?

A. They go to an English pub. 

Most evenings we would take a taxi ride in a VW Beetle, where the front passenger seat had been removed in order for passengers to climb in the back. Having settled the fare in advance, during one taxi trip ‘down the pub’ somebody sneezed, causing the driver to look over his shoulder and grin proudly, showing his five teeth – of which three were black – as he chuckled: ‘Aaaah, cock ah een aye?’ Yeah, mate – something like that.

The Lord Jim English pub was run by an ex-pat airline pilot, who, having decided to retire to the sun, brought a few bits with him each trip until he finally built up his collection of horse brasses, dart boards, pint pots, yards of ale, round tables, period prints and other pub paraphernalia (I doubt if he got the original red British telephone box on board as hand luggage, though).

Brazil was very welcome after expensive Argentina ($10 for a beer in 1981). In fact, it was relatively cheap and we could spend and enjoy our cash despite the galloping inflation – there were prices in shops for the morning and different ones for the afternoon.

The more imaginative of the crew, who had not blown every cent of their per diem or run any credit cards to the max, would look for souvenirs of a decent quality that were indigenous to the area and hopefully an investment. Basically, we were on the lookout for items that were cheaper than at home. We had picked up a variety on our travels. In Japan: antique kimonos and prints, pearls and electronic goods. In Australia: opals and … boomerangs. Spain was great for leather goods, France and Italy for ‘going out’ clothes, South Africa – diamonds, and the USA was tops for 
Levi jeans, American-Indian turquoise jewellery and cowboy hats. One appealing commodity Brazil offered was precious stones, but jewels were of no real interest for tour manager Gerry Stickells, who was in search of some shrunken heads! Apart from being disgusting, these ‘souvenirs’ of probably brutally murdered Indians (I don’t think many died of natural causes) were highly illegal. Gerry didn’t succeed in buying any, but I’m sure they would have looked charming in his suburban Californian home, alongside the war memorabilia, his parrot and his Jimi Hendrix gold records.

The shows in Belo Horizonte had been pulled for reasons best not to ask about, but São Paulo was definitely on. This was now to be our first Brazilian show as, meanwhile, the authorities and promoters were still debating whether to allow the Maracana in Rio to be used for a rock concert. This was a stadium, with the biggest capacity in the world, and was home to what was on par with religion in Brazil – football.

The concern was the possible damage to the hallowed playing surface; the only other major non-football activities to have taken place being a Frank Sinatra show and a gig by His Holiness the Pope. If Queen were to play, the pitch was to be completely covered to protect it, as had every surface in Argentina, with rolls of artificial grass.

The Brazilian authorities were still not convinced, so a small area of the Maracana pitch was cordoned off and the protective covering laid, where several energetic young people were hired to jump up and down on this section 
continually for two hours. After this simulation of alleged rock-concert behaviour, the resulting damage was inspected. It was then decreed that Maracana was to remain solely for the use of football.

After enjoying the splendid sights, sounds and tastes of Rio (at about $20 a gram), we took the shuttle flight to São Paulo on a plane that had curious rows of small symmetric holes down the centre of the cabin roof lining. It was explained that until recently there were straps hanging here and late passengers would stand in the aisle, as on the London Underground, and hold on during the one-hour internal flight! Health and Safety? Never heard of it…

The Morumbi stadium in São Paulo was vast, its open arena holding court to a total of 251,000 fans over two shows, making the event the biggest-ever paying audience in the world for a rock band. Queen were pleased. It was a truly awesome atmosphere as the band emerged from the dressing rooms via a tunnel that took them on to the pitch and to the bottom of the stairs to the stage. This route was normally taken by the football players to keep out of range of objects thrown by the supporters. Apart from the band’s own security, they had local help from the self-named Doctor Death and his associates. The good doctor claimed to have personally ‘taken out’ dozens of people and been rewarded for it by ‘the authorities’ and he proudly waved his powerful automatic hand gun around the dressing-room area, posing for pictures with it. He had no problem asking any of Queen for autographs.

Despite the success of the shows, the next day or two were fraught, as we now had to get the gear safely out of the 
country. Brazil had many exports – coffee, fruit and other domestic products – but these were mainly dispatched by sea and, as we were still in uncharted territory, it was decided it would be safer in the circumstances to quickly fly the gear out. The problem was finding an available cargo plane big enough to handle it. Pan Am’s cargo division heard of our situation and offered a high price, confident we had no other choice. However, the Flying Tigers came to our rescue again. Tigers had a planeload of industrial weaving machines arriving from Zurich, and as yet no return cargo. The 747 Jumbo was perfect and a good deal was negotiated to fly to New York. The entire show including the staging, scaffolding and sound system that had been sent to Argentina by sea could be accommodated, and rental time and costs reduced – perfect. Or was it? The Tigers’ 747 needed the gear to be loaded on to special pallets that could be accommodated in the tracking rails in the hold. Guess who had the only available suitable pallets? Varig, Brazils national airline, and Pan Am – who were not amused at being undercut by Tigers. I believe money changed hands during the protracted negotiation to procure the necessary pallets from both airlines. In cash.

Meanwhile, the crew heads of department were tired and very pissed off. We managed slices of sleep on top of the hard flight cases and, when the call eventually came in the breaking dawn, we set about loading pallets aided by local coffee which at its mildest can induce palpitations. The 40 tons of gear loaded, we returned to the shabby Hotel Jaragua in the late-morning light. I was a little disappointed I had been denied travel to New York on the chartered cargo 
plane. Regulations only allowed extra passengers who were US citizens. Flying on the upper deck of our own 747 with whatever we wanted could have been fun.

Despite the headaches and nightmares, but buoyed by the ground-breaking euphoria of the first tour, within six months we were on a second trip to Latin America. First to New Orleans, its Latin Quarter and rehearsals in the Civic Auditorium, before travelling on to Venezuela. Time for a Queen party on one of the wrought-iron, period balconies that overlooked Bourbon Street.

The next day, everybody had to undergo a medical and be pronounced fit and healthy for our visas to enter Venezuela. Most of us were bleary, some still jet lagged and all wondering what condition we were actually in as we did not often see the medical profession voluntarily. A local doctor set up his battered black bag in a faded, nicotine-stained dressing room, and one by one a basic check of the entire crew was done. The doctor reported that we were basically a sound bunch of young men; however, two conditions were generally consistent: slightly raised heart rate (due to sampling South American goods prior to actual arrival?) and dirty, waxy ears (due to the body’s natural resistance in blocking out loud nasty noises?).

Oil-rich Caracas was an odd, unsettling experience, a modern concrete city high up in the mountains and the first place I had seen a dead body lying in the street. The venue Queen were to play was a contemporary indoor sports arena, The Poliedro. After educating the local promoter that the
crew as well as Queen needed to eat and drink at the shows, things went surprisingly well.

The hotel we were billeted in was the Anauco Hilton, a vast tower of a construction where we shared duplex apartments. The South American curse on our digestive systems had not been lifted and the toilet in our lodgings became known as the Mud Slide. Apart from ingesting the contents of the tiny sealed plastic tubes that had come over the border from neighbouring Colombia, there was not a great deal to do. With all this spare testosterone kicking about, the wildest we managed to get was tearing all the pages from the phone books and making paper planes to launch across the multi-lane highway towards Queen’s hotel, the Caracas Hilton. From hardened rock ’n’ roll party animals to litterbugs!

Adjacent to the Caracas Hilton was a small park, where, while out strolling with Jobby, I took some photos of the old building at the entrance gates. The two of us wandered into the park and, as we saw little of interest, soon made our way back to the entrance. Blocking our path was a mob of screaming bearded, student types, carrying sticks, clubs and tree branches. I was very confused and very, very concerned, so we ran to the bottom of the park but found that the exit was blocked by more of these people – with dogs. We turned back up the slope with nowhere now to go. I was terrified as these very angry men came storming at us, convinced that we were about to be beaten senseless or probably to death.

Something logical in my mind was stirring amidst the terror: ‘Why so many of them, just to rob us?’

From sheer instinct I put my hands up in a surrender mode
and tried to say: ‘I don’t understand –
no comprende
–
no comprende
.’

The mob slowed, and, realising from my dreadful pronunciation and accent that I was not local, looked quizzically at us – pointing at my camera.

I held my hands out and tried again: ‘No – please –
musica, musica, Grupo Queen –
yes?’

A few heads nodded and the wooden weapons were lowered.

‘
Me turisto – si?
’

With this comment, I pointed at the hotel and my camera, then Jobby and I began shuffling along the line of the bedraggled bunch towards the exit, as some began laughing – making us feel very humble. Without altercation, we were allowed to pass and leave the park. I believe they thought I was some kind of journalist and possibly working for the security forces or some kind of unwelcome outside political interest. It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life, from just strolling in a park one minute to the possibility of suffering a brutal death the next.

Due to a death, the Venezuelan shows were cut short. Not mine fortunately, but the demise of the former president, Romulo Betancourt, in hospital in the USA. Considered the father of modern democracy in Venezuela, the authorities decreed that no music, dancing or entertainment was to take place, and the entire country virtually shut down to allow proper mourning. While discussions were in place as to whether Queen could finish the series of shows, all we could do was sit around in limbo as the prospect of getting out on schedule diminished.

The powers in Caracas were making no firm decisions as
to when Queen could play again, so an escape route was set and we took off for Dallas, Texas, via Miami.

The amount of time in Dallas was undetermined as the final Mexican tour arrangements were still somewhat nebulous – TBA, as we were becoming accustomed to. More problems arose getting into Mexico – a paradox as the usual problem was stopping people from Mexico getting into the USA. We were informed that we were now officially ‘assisting Mexican technicians’ and the entire crew was transferred to Laredo on the Texas/Mexico border, where we filled in the longest and most complex visa applications ever. The questions, apart from the obvious, asked for your religion, mother’s maiden name, whether you can read and write, what other languages you speak, the shape of your face and nose and your general build. We were then subjected to fingerprinting and mug shots – full face and profile.

Even after all this bureaucracy, we were told we would not all be allowed to cross the border as they only issued three of this type of group visa per day. Gerry Stickells was becoming tenser as we all checked into a Laredo hotel. This dead time was occupied by drinking or reading the Ken Follett novels that had become popular among the crew. These spy stories were fiction but the situation we were in was not.

The next day, we boarded ‘El Tigre’ the bus to take us into Pancho Villa territory, where at the border the useless promoter had again not arranged things. Time was tight. Time for bribery. The Mexican customs and immigration office was like a stereotypical scene from a Spaghetti Western
movie with its dirty, greasy floor, peeling walls and ceiling fans that whirred uncomfortably. People with large battered straw hats holding chickens and grubby children sat forlornly, while behind a counter lines of officials with stained, ill-fitting beige uniforms and twisted peaked caps passed paper around. The temperature was hot, humid and very uncomfortable.

I passed my visa form and passport, with a $100 bill slipped inside the first page to a fat customs official; a filthy handkerchief nestled under one of his many chins, which he pulled out from time to time to dab his puffy red face before replacing it into the void of his fleshy neck rolls. A grunt, a stamp in the passport and a furtive palming of the money and I was now allowed to enter Mexico. So I did.