Freddie Mercury: The Biography (11 page)

Since his days fronting Ibex, Mercury had harboured a passion for dramatic stage lighting, an interest shared by the other
three members of the band. Now that resources were less tight, they could indulge this to better effect. Proud of their new
and specially designed lighting rig, they had had it transported, along with the rest of their equipment, to Melbourne. Because
the apparatus was complicated to use, they also took over their own crew to operate it, something that, unfortunately, upset
the local technicians. On arrival Queen had sensed a general air of resentment that an unknown British band had been chosen
to headline in preference to their own Aussie groups, and this grievance was aggravated by the imported lighting-rig operators.

Already concerned that May’s arm would be too weak to last a performance, Mercury himself developed an ear infection. The
antibiotics prescribed him were so strong that he began to feel increasingly drowsy as the day progressed. As they waited
for darkness to begin to fall, so that the light show would be most effective, he found it hard to psyche himself up for the
show. Out front the audience began a slow handclap, and as Queen prepared to go on, the show’s compère didn’t help when he
introduced Queen as ‘stuck-up pommies’. As soon as Mercury launched into the first number, he was immediately disoriented
when he realised his ear infection made it impossible to hear himself sing. Conscious of the huge disappointment this show
was becoming, the rig gave out just when it was dark enough for the lights to be seen at their best. Sabotage was suspected.

Far from buckling under the strain, Mercury pushed himself to the limits to perform. Brian May battled valiantly with an extremely
painful arm, and John Deacon and Roger Taylor focused on the music. By the end of the performance their effort had paid off,
as the crowd’s hostility evaporated, and they demanded an encore. Queen were more than happy to oblige, until the compère
took the stage and manipulated the audience into calling instead for the return of one of their own bands.

Furious at the humiliation, their ordeal continued the next day when the press got in on the act and slated them. By now Mercury’s
ear infection had worsened, and he was also running a temperature. For these reasons alone, even without the worry of May’s
gangrenous arm, Queen pulled out of the second night’s performance. With the promoters’ wrath ringing in their ears, they
boarded a flight for England and went home.

It had been a costly exercise. Not only had they paid the return air fares to Australia themselves, but the tour had turned
into a damaging fiasco. So early in their career, this was bound to have been demoralising. Yet Brian May vehemently denies
this, insisting that none of them thought it disastrous. Clearly, though, they could have done without bad relations with
the Australian press adding to the hostility from the British media.

As individual music-press journalists disparaged them, the music magazines themselves published annual polls that showed the
strength of Queen’s popularity on the street. In February, for example,
NME
readers placed Queen second to Leo Sayer as the Most Promising Newcomer.

February saw the US release of Mercury’s first Queen single ‘Liar’, which sank without trace. Undaunted, he anticipated EMI’s
next release, again one of his own compositions, which was planned for a couple of weeks later. Although Queen hadn’t proved
big earners for the record label yet, they had acquired an ally in Ronnie Fowler, EMI’s head of promotions. Impressed with
their sound from the first spin of a white label, Fowler plugged Queen everywhere he went.

Every new group’s ambition was to appear on BBC One’s prestigious Thursday night
Top of the Pops.
Fowler received a call from its producer Robin Nash one Tuesday evening. David Bowie’s promo clip for ‘The Jean Genie’ hadn’t
arrived in time for the show, he said; did Fowler have any ideas for a replacement? Fowler, of course, suggested Queen. Unfamiliar
with the band’s work, Nash asked to hear a demo, which he fortunately liked. But, as artistes in those days mimed to special
backing tracks, the demo was useless. EMI and Queen seized their chance, when that night Fowler persuaded Who guitarist Pete
Townshend to relinquish some studio time and allow Queen to record the necessary tape. At the BBC studios the next day they
prerecorded their slot for transmission the following night.

Mercury and the band stared at the bank of televisions in an electrical shop window, all four glued to the glass. It was 21
February 1974 as they watched themselves perform ‘Seven Seas of Rhye’, a single not yet released. The song showcased Mercury’s
weakness for swirling crescendos and fantasy lyrics. It
fades incongruously at the end into a sing-a-long of the very English ditty, ‘Oh, I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’, which
Ken Testi recalls recording back in 1973: ‘I joined in on the reprise at the end of “Seven Seas of Rhye”. So did Pat McConnell
and a whole bunch of us. I seem to recall an awful lot of reverb, and Brian played the stylophone on it. But it was done in
one day, and we were all totally pissed at the time.’

Keen to capitalise on Queen’s appearance on the show, Ronnie Fowler and Jack Nelson blitzed the radio stations next day with
white labels. When EMI rush-released the single on 23 February, the combination of the TV exposure and subsequent airplay
secured Queen their first hit. By the second week of March, it had reached number ten. Their follow-up album
Queen II
should have been in the shops by now and could have benefited from the single’s success, but a spelling mistake on the sleeve
had delayed its release. Britain was limping along on a three-day working week, crippled worse by an oil crisis, and the government
had imposed restrictions on the use of electricity. All of this delayed sorting out this minor printing error.

Basking in the first flush of success, Freddie Mercury hailed it as the beginning of something big. Even so, he had no idea
of how huge they’d become. He was certainly ambitious, but so were scores of others. He once prophesied that Queen would survive
for five years, which in the days of disposable pop equalled for ever. Towards the end of their forthcoming first headlining
UK tour, he declared: ‘I’ve always thought of us as a top group.’

Preparing to go out on the road with this top group for their vital tour, Mercury felt it was inappropriate to buy his stage
wear from Kensington market or to use a helpful but amateur seamstress. Persuading Brian May to join him, he approached fashion
designer Zandra Rhodes. ‘Freddie had loved the tops I did for Marc Bolan, and what I was doing with a variety of fabrics right
then, and he came to me knowing very much what
he wanted,’ says Rhodes. ‘My workshop then was an absolute deathtrap in a brownstone building in Paddington, which had a winding
rickety staircase with a low ceiling leading to it, and I vividly recall Brian stooping forward with Freddie just behind him
as they tramped up to see me.’

After the embarrassment of stripping off before a roomful of machinists to try out various styles, Mercury opted for two particular
outfits. One, in white satin with a glorious pleated-wing effect, would become world famous. But although he had arrived fired
up with his own ideas, he was happy to be guided by the professional: ‘Even if someone has had wonderful artistic training,
it doesn’t always follow that they know best, and Freddie was always extremely appreciative of what I did, which was lovely,’
says Rhodes. ‘Queen’s look was very much part of their success and has always been important to their whole make-up in conjunction
with the music. I think, in fact, that they only toned it down when Freddie became ill and started trying to look straight.’

Excited by his two sumptuous Rhodes creations, Mercury felt vibrant as their first headlining UK tour commenced on 1 March
1974 at the Winter Gardens in Blackpool. It was hard work, especially for Brian May. One month after the Sunbury Music Festival,
his arm was still sore, something initially aggravated by the fact that Queen were playing alone, with no support band. By
the time they reached Plymouth’s Guild Hall, they were touring with Nutz, a Liverpool band who remained on the bill as support
for the rest of the dates. This tour saw the birth of the audience’s curious habit of singing ‘God Save The Queen’, while
awaiting the band’s arrival on stage. Later, Queen closed their shows with the national anthem.

With the success of ‘Seven Seas of Rhye’, everyone fixed on the launch on 8 March of
Queen II.
Its most distinguished physical feature was its innovatory white and black sides instead of the traditional A and B. The
original material on it clearly appealed
too. As they toured the country, the band discovered that the audience were often word-perfect with the lyrics. Within a fortnight
Queen II
had reached the top forty in the album charts.

From previous experience, no one seriously anticipated glowing reviews. But neither did they expect the music press to savage
them. One reviewer described their debut album as ‘a bucket of stale urine’, and it was hard to imagine going further down
than that. They were slated as lacking depth and feeling, even denounced as ‘the dregs of glam rock’. Fortunately, the critics
were once more out of step with the public, who were nightly enjoying the gigs. At the critical point of live contact between
band and audience, Queen were thriving, which was essentially what mattered most.

Keeping this in mind, Queen concentrated on perfecting their art. Each member of the band worked on his individual performance,
carving out his own particular niche, though it was clear that Mercury was the band’s dynamo. He dominated the stage, a hugely
flamboyant and captivating front man.

The band was never known as Freddie Mercury and Queen. Tony Brainsby says that Mercury never tried to lord it over the rest
of the band, and in interviews Mercury himself would correct any slip of the tongue and talk of how he enjoyed singing
‘our
songs’. Nevertheless, on stage, as he paraded and pirouetted in an electrifying performance before an audience that came
to number hundreds of thousands, he must have felt uniquely potent.

Those who knew Mercury are unanimous that he was quiet and reserved in private and among strangers. This didn’t stop his alter
ego from giving free rein to his increasingly mercurial moods, both on stage and at after-gig celebrations. Queen were halfway
through their tour when, at Stirling University, one of only two gigs they played in Scotland, a riot broke out. The pitched
battle in the hall resulted in four people being hospitalised, two with stab wounds.

With the press already tagging them with lurid headlines, they performed further south on the Isle of Man at the Palace Lido,
where they courted controversy again. In Douglas a party spun out of control, and, it was said, a hotel room was wrecked.
Their subdued return to the mainland the next day was brightened by the news that their new album had got to number seven.
Furthermore
Queen,
which had so far disappointingly underperformed, benefited from
Queen II’s
popularity and enjoyed a passable number forty-seven in the top hundred albums.

Although press accusations of inciting riots were unwelcome, there is no doubt that the coverage helped to publicise the band’s
existence. By the tour’s end, their shows were regularly sold out, and fans were becoming vocal in their adulation. Queen
were now keen to play the bigger venues, and the prestigious Rainbow Theatre in London certainly fell into this category.
Their gig there on 31 March was special, even though it was marred earlier on in the day.

Perhaps it was fatigue setting in at the end of a hectic tour or his first taste of fan adulation going to his head, but in
the afternoon Mercury began behaving like a prima donna during the sound check. It was enough to goad the normally patient
Brian May into calling him an old tart. Mercury responded by stalking off and staying away just long enough to make everyone
anxious. Calls from May over the mike got Mercury back on stage, peeved but prepared to return to work. It wouldn’t be the
last time tensions emerged among the four, but it appears that Mercury would usually emerge as the peace broker.

Their Rainbow gig, before a capacity crowd, turned out to be one of their most memorable. Sound engineer John Harris experimented
to brilliant effect with the hall’s acoustics, while Roger Taylor poured beer on top of one of his drums, so that each time
he struck it, it sent up a frothy spray. Freddie Mercury, in the Zandra Rhodes creation he called his ‘eagle
suit’, shone that night. At every opportunity he spun round, swirling his arms to show off the mass of silky knife pleats
that splayed out behind him. The sheer panache of the performance was enough to silence many of their critics in the music
press and elicited a second good review from Rosemary Horide.

Elated by the experience, the news that
Queen II,
newly released in the States, had struggled to reach number eighty-three was in no way deflating. Mercury was confident that
his stage triumphs would be repeated in America, where they were touring as support to Mott the Hoople. The US tour was due
to kick off in under a week. Apart from the odd European gig and their recent trip to Australia, they hadn’t had much opportunity
to win over an overseas audience. The American market was massive, and it was vital for Queen to make their mark. It sounded
like fun, especially with the bonus that they got on so well with Hoople. But they must have been aware that after their album’s
slack performance, they had a lot to prove from Elektra’s point of view.

Flying out on the 12th, the tour started four days later. They travelled from Denver to Kansas City, St Louis to Memphis,
initially with a muted reception at each gig. Because Queen records had done nothing in America so far, it wasn’t surprising
that the crowds didn’t recognise the songs. Their stage image, too, was not what American audiences expected, and Freddie
Mercury, pouting and posing in clingy costumes, did not fit the stereotype of heterosexual rock. The crowds took quickly to
Queen’s music, though, and what began as diffident acceptance grew warmer as each night progressed.