Queen Unseen (6 page)

I don't remember speaking to Freddie Mercury then. Daft name for a rock singer I thought. ‘Freds' were farmers, builders or the bloke playing darts in the pub. Little did I know the profound effect he would have on my life in the future. During that '73 tour the Mott crew got on nodding terms with Queen, speaking to them occasionally, but not really mixing. Roger showed some offers of acknowledgement; John was John, quiet and kept to himself. And Fred was simply Fred: even in those early days he was quite unique. He always acted like a star.

A big star.

Support acts on major tours were expected to stay rightfully in their place, but, despite not having had any success, Queen were aloof, arrogant even, and demanded a lot on that tour, upsetting several people along the way. That didn't change, incidentally. It was generally thought among the crew that Queen were a bunch of poseurs, and, though I personally liked a few of their songs, their
super-confident
, strutting singer irritated me. The consensus among the Mott entourage was Queen would
never
make
it! However, I was impressed by Queen's girlfriends: four attractive, cool-looking and funkily dressed ladies who came to some of the shows. The band wore the more expensive and impressive dresses and blouses, however.

The following year, Queen supported Mott for a short time in America, but I was spared the prancing one-gloved poseur as I was back working for David Bowie guitarist Mick Ronson on his solo UK tour. I had still not made it to America. A year later, there was a fleeting offer to work for Queen as Brian May's roadie. His man at the time had walked out and a replacement was urgently needed for a US tour. Brian's man came back, and I was offered another job with Queen doing drums and piano. Drums: like putting together big Meccano sets. Pianos: an awful lot of strings to tune. I didn't fancy it – didn't take it. Yet again: NO America.

Subsequently, after the various guises of Mott The Hoople had been exhausted, Richie, Phil and I took the offer to work for Queen, who were now starting work on their fourth album: a little collection of songs entitled
A Night at The Opera
. Queen were becoming big and wanted a crew with big experience – and a skinny 20-year-old who knew the difference between a Les Paul and Les Dawson to do bass and piano. (Bechstein? Wasn't that a German beer?)

‘He's young, he's keen – let him look after Fred.' Thanks, guys. This was the mid-'70s: flares, plenty of hair with feather cuts, stack heels and platforms, satin, velvet, tight attire, stars and glitter… and
that
video for
that
song. Bohemian Bloody Rhapsody! Made on Stage 5 at Elstree Film Studios in early November 1975 during a couple of hours' break during tour rehearsals, it was an unwelcome
diversion. We were working virtually around the clock to get the new show together and this was just an inconvenience, as we had to shift things around, stay out of camera vision, keep quiet and wait. It wasn't bad though. Came out quite well, I thought, and did Queen a bit of good, that six-minute piece of film. There were possibly other bands I would have preferred working for, but this was a defining moment in my life and career; Queen were scheduled to do a world tour, so after the drudge of touring the UK I would finally be going to AMERICA, followed by Japan and Australia.

My ambition as a young lad was to go around the world with a rock band, meet lots of girls and have a good time. Money was secondary – a bonus. Queen's ambition was to be the biggest and best band on the road – once again money was secondary. We both succeeded. I was just a
working-class
kid who got lucky, and, by working hard and being loyal, stayed reasonably lucky. I had found a way out of life in the factory and got to achieve a lot of my ambitions – and the biggest ambition of all had been to go to America. 

I
t’s big that America – very big. The United States brashly hosts and boasts the best (and sometimes worst) of many things, and, whatever they are, they’re sure to be the BIGGEST! America was and still is
the
market to crack for any aspiring rock band, and, if you don’t make it in America, you haven’t
really
made it.

New York City might be the Big Apple but, in the 1970s and 80s, all of America was a big ripe peach just waiting to be plucked. Among British rock bands there evolved a form of colonial ethos that it was somehow our historical right as polite pirates to plunder the new world, then take off with the treasure and sail home – without upsetting anybody too much.

Fred boldly wanted to be ‘Queen of America’. And in order to conquer the vast, segmented and uncrowned territory, Queen tours needed to cover all markets: the rock
’n’ roll heartlands of the Mid-West, the raucous South, the major cosmopolitan cities, east and west coastlines, and countless other towns with a horse and an arena. Due to the enormous size of the USA, tours could be several months long and particularly gruelling in winter. The dates were usually set up by a portly booking agent with a Cuban cigar and a percentage. Sitting in his ‘Bel Air’-conditioned office he would plan the tour with a Rand McNally map of the continent, a blindfold and a set of darts. To Queen he gave expensive gifts and personal items, and bought them fancy meals. To the crew – virtually zilch. He wasn’t too popular. But Queen were. Very. They became a big act in America almost immediately, just as they had in Britain. Brian’s 1974 song ‘Now I’m Here’ contained poignant words about becoming America’s new bride.

Well, I had no intention of getting married, but the honeymoon had already started.

For a roadie, going on tour in America was the icing on the cake; a reward for slogging around all the
stale-beer-carpeted
clubs and bleak halls of Britain in a tatty old van, with no food, no sleep, no help and if you were lucky – very lucky – some dodgy bird with a face like a robber’s dog – and bad teeth.

However, getting to America was not always done on merit; it was being with the right band at the right time. As is often said in rock ’n’ roll: ‘It’s who you know and blow.’

One of the great things about America is its continual sense of optimism; nothing seems impossible. If you want to do something – then just go do it, it’s all out there – if you want it. It certainly attracted me.

The US was youthful, with boundless energy and didn’t carry the baggage and stifling tradition of ‘good old England’ – and its women did not disappoint either. They were very forward and open to making new and brief friendships with people in the music industry. Yes! However, the type of band you worked for was very important to the girls they attracted, and luckily Queen were not only hugely popular but also held the type of allure and mystique that girls wanted to be around. I am eternally grateful I didn’t end up working for Cliff Richard (no disrespect, your holiness) or a folk group.

Big
girls with
big
hair, mouths, asses and appetites. This I had been assured, not by a man in a pub, but by a roadie or two who had toured the US and tasted from the top table. Now they were not going to lie to me – were they? They
were
telling the truth –
please
. They were right. And even the ugly ones had good teeth.

If you had long hair, a
cute
English accent and were with an English rock band, you had it made. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

Since I was a child I had always wanted to go to America, nowhere else attracted me, just America. I had absorbed American culture by avidly watching all the American TV shows screened in Britain and thumbed through the imported DC Super Hero comics. I enjoyed the stories of Batman and Superman but what I really liked were the little ads for one-man submarines, X-ray specs, your own ant colony and other novel things unheard of in Britain. Did they really exist? These comics held many opportunities for lucky American kids: sell 24 boxes of greeting cards and you could 
claim a Liverpool Drum Set as a prize. I truly imagined you could get anything in America as the lifestyle appeared to be so rich and glamorous; even the breakfast cereals looked far more exciting. Touring certainly was.

In early 1976, America indulged us with decent hotels, the luxury of tour buses with beds, union crews to load and unload trucks, proper catering at the shows, endless drinks in bins piled with ice that never melted, customised promoters’ T-shirts for single shows and per diems of $30 a day as your extra living expenses. All this gave me a feeling of wealth, power and wellbeing. I liked it! And I wanted more. I longed to open the door of one of those huge
walk-in
refrigerators that are mandatory in American kitchens and step inside to consume all the goodies bathed in the enticing yellow glow.

The US had the most comprehensive communications facilities with thousands of TV and radio stations, yet the majority of America remained frighteningly parochial. This would become evident as Queen toured provincial places, where the corn-fed waitress in the bar of the ubiquitous Holiday Inn, Howard Johnson’s or other chain motel would, upon hearing us talk, squeak: ‘Oh gee! Are you guys English? That’s great. Now, tell me – how’s your royal family?’

‘Fine – thank you.’

‘So you’re all from London, then you must know Mrs Jones – and is it still foggy?’

Foggy! The provincial American’s view of London was 
usually derived from daytime TV and regularly repeated old Sherlock Holmes movies.

‘Yes, madam, we are still engulfed by a pea-souper of a fog, it’s all in black and white and they still haven’t caught Jack the Ripper, you know.’

‘Really…? But I just love yer accent – it’s so neat! Would you say something for me – in British?’

I’m not Rex Harrison, love!

‘OK, here’s something in my best British accent – how about getting the beer I ordered, I’m dying of thirst!’

Inquisitive locals always approached with the same gambit: ‘Are you guys a band?’

Now, as the crew, we were getting tired of the constant implications that we might be wimpy musicians, so would reply, ‘No, we’re welders from Cincinnati.’

‘Oh really, that’s great – are you in town for some kind of convention?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’

‘No… you’re kidding me? You guys
are
English, right?’

‘Correct.’

‘You MUST be a band – the Beatles were English, you know?’

‘Really, madam, that is fascinating, actually you are right – we are a band.’

‘See, I told you I could tell. What are you guys all called?’

‘We are Harry Stomper and the Snot Gobbling Fuck Pigs From Wigan.’

‘Harry Stomper? Huh – would I know anything you’ve done?’

‘No I doubt it, we’re an underground band.’

‘Oh… well have a nice day now, won’t you.’

The penny drops…

‘Hey, you guys, you’ve been kidding me – you’re all Queen – right?’

(The Queen T-shirts, jackets, stage passes and headbands we wore being a bit of a clue.)

‘No – we
work
for Queen.’

‘Great band! I just
love
that “Stairway To Heaven” of theirs – didn’t know they were English though. OK – now tell me, that singer, Mercury is it? He’s a fag – right?’

‘No, no – it’s all an act,’ we whisper back. ‘He just has a keen interest in motorcycles. And their gangs.’

‘Yeah – figured so, he’s such a cute-looking guy in that black leather – great butt too – can I git yah another beer?’

‘Sure – and would you like to see the show tomorrow night?’

‘Wow – you bet! And I get off in an hour, and… if you’re not busy at all.’

‘No – I think I have some spare time on my hands…’

It is quite remarkable how many people never knew Fred was gay – or didn’t want to believe it. Some never will. And of course what did it matter if he was?

Somebody famous – Oscar Wilde? (He was) Or maybe Mark Twain? (Don’t know) It could have been George Bernard Shaw? (Good mates with Lawrence of Arabia…) Who knows, but it was definitely one of them – once said that America and England were countries divided by a common language.

‘Fags’ being a classic example. To us in the UK they are 
cigarettes – to Americans it means gay men. Many is the time I have asked if I could ‘have a fag’ – or requested ‘what kind of fags do you have?’

As virtually the entire crew smoked, we had to find an alternative to our normal brand of smokes when the 200 duty-free Benson and Hedges King Size ran out. Winston or Marlboro were the preferred choices, and occasionally Kool menthols. But don’t ask for 20 Winston in the USA – you’ll get a weird look from the shopkeeper.

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah – 20 Winston, or actually I’ll have 40.’

‘You got the money?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Of course?’ It was only a couple of dollars.

It then became clear that in the USA you ask for a ‘pack’ of cigarettes, not the number inside.

After an early-morning ciggie it was time for breakfast.

Having Breakfast in America (credit to Supertramp) was a sharp introduction to the stateside lifestyle. Many restaurants and coffee shops enjoyed a new-world maître d’ system where you had to ‘Wait To Be Seated’ before being called to your table by a female voice that could cut steel plate at 10 yards.

You were never ‘table for two or four’ – you were always a ‘party’.

‘Hince – party of one – this way please.’

After being seated by ‘Hi – I’m Sherri – your hostess today’ with her far-too-cheery attitude for this time of the morning, you were then engulfed in the shadow of large hair and sucked into the void of the gaping smile of: ‘HI I’M BOBBI! And I’ll be your waitress this morning – how you guys all doin’?’

‘Can’t you see I’m a bit hungover this morning?’ Just in case you forgot Bobbi’s overwhelming introduction, she’d be wearing a palpable plastic name badge on her starched uniform to remind you – from a distance of up to 50 feet. She would already have the mandatory pint glasses of iced water in hand and, as we perused the rigid laminated menus, she would rattle off the breakfast specials, literally rattle them off, through teeth braced with a scaffold of dental metal.

Amid the confusion of choice, the waitress remained, bouncing round the table like an oversized Barbie doll on speed.

‘
OK, OK – what can I get you guys?
’

‘I’ll have eggs please.’

‘How d’ya wan ’em – boiled, poached, scrambled, over easy, sunny-side-up or an omelette?’

‘Bloody hell! What a choice!’

Protracted discussions follow about whether I want my sausages as ‘patties or links’ with nine varieties of potato – and grits? Orange juice came in small, regular, medium, large or jumbo size? Then we get to the hot beverage…

‘Great – and kin I git coffee fir yuh all?’

‘No, I’d like some tea.’

‘No problem, iced or hot?’

‘Well, hot of course!’

‘Cream or lemon with that?’

‘No, milk – cold milk!’

‘You mean half and half?’

‘NO – MILK – the white liquid that comes from cows!’

‘OK, sir, I’ll see what I can do… and will that be separate checks?’ 

‘No – we’ll pay cash!’

‘You got it! Hey, you guys are a riot – you’re all a band – right?’

‘Yeah – right!’

‘And be sure you have a nice day now.’

Why would I want to have a nice day? In the Land of the Free do I not have the right to be melancholy? And a cup of American tea was a poor substitute for our national drink.

Despite the differences, food in America was very appealing for a young visitor with a not-yet-discerning palate, but industrial-strength digestive system. This was the 1970s, when a sophisticated night out back home was steak and chips at the Berni Inn. Not Texas steaks, that fell off the side of your plate, and if you ate all of the first one the second came free.

I had never seen or tasted hamburgers so good. Or big. They needed both hands to hold and came with fries, salad and familiar garnishes, plus some suspiciously long, pungent, green warty things on the side. Better leave them there!

When the US promoters offered Fred a hamburger as the band meal, he replied with his usual aplomb: ‘A hamburger? You
will
bring me a steak!’

They did.

On to dessert…

Jello is the substance in the US that we Brits call ‘jelly’, normally seen at children’s parties – and on one occasion in the tub of a Holiday Inn hotel guest bathroom. One balmy summer’s evening in 1980 in Charleston, West Virginia, a local lass, upon being invited to a crew member’s room for a nightcap or such, confided that her fantasy was to be put
naked in a bathtub of liquid cherry-flavour jello and to allow it to set around her. She also wanted sprayed whipped cream to be included in the ‘dessert’.

Not wishing to disappoint the young lady, a local cab company was rapidly called, and the driver dispatched to the local 7-Eleven store with a fistful of dollars and instructions to get a receipt…

While our cabbie was grocery shopping, the game young girl asked to be tied to a chair with some velcro straps normally used for securing cables that we just happened to have lying around.

We then called the local FM rock radio station and got directly to the DJ on air, where a conversation about our activities in the hotel was conducted – live. Being a decent bloke, he broadcast that, if any like-minded young ladies were up for some fun with the Queen crew, they should get over to the Holiday Inn.

After dispatching our perplexed cabbie with a tip and a pass for the next day’s show, we ran a hot bath to dissolve the jello. When this act of physics was accomplished, the young lady jumped in, lay down and relaxed, and we all waited for it to solidify.

Not a story my mum would be very proud of, and I’m sure she would not have been at all impressed with me on my 21st birthday, which was celebrated on US soil. On 23 January 1976, at the Holiday Inn in Waterbury Connecticut, I received ‘the key of the door’ and a whole lot more. We were in the midst of a hard east coast winter and deep, drifting snow surrounded the hotel and Palace Theatre where rehearsals for the forthcoming US tour were taking place. 
Everybody, including Queen, were staying at the Holiday Inn – the best hotel Waterbury had to offer. I’m not sure what Fred thought of it as he skipped in and out of the venue and hotel in his short fur jacket and skin-tight satin trousers. The crew wore thermals. Brian, as always in those days, wore his clogs and I saw him slipping and sliding around in them as he walked around a sporty two-seater Volvo P1800S – just like Simon Templar drove in the TV series
The Saint
. Brian had a car just like it back in London – albeit in a different colour. This car belonged to Chuck, one of the American lighting crew, and he and Brian chatted in the cold about their mutual love of this model of car.