Queen Unseen (26 page)

To relieve the boredom of waiting, Jim and I casually wandered unchallenged out of the gate of the secure area into Mexico. Having quenched ourselves with a drink and an ice cream we walked back – again unchallenged – into the ‘secure’ customs area. With all passports stamped and the whole crew onboard, we set off down the dusty road to Monterey where half an hour into the journey was another checkpoint, and money once again changed hands. The planned multiple shows in Monterey were reduced to a single one because, despite huge demand, the supermarkets, who were selling the desired tickets, had not printed enough in time!

The show in the Estadio Universitario soccer stadium went off well except for the unexpected arrival of a support act, which surprised us, as there was no official support act at any South American show. However, here, standing at the
bottom of the stairs to the stage in full national costume and complete with trumpets and drums, was a Mexican Mariachi band. They protested that they had paid a lot of money to play at the show – but to whom?

There were many other incidents of people paying other ‘people’ for exclusive interviews, photo and film rights. Somebody was taking the piss, and the pesos. The promoters were elusive and the overall promoter who resided in the USA would greet any challenge to him over the many problems incurred with wide-eyed incredulity and claims that you had insulted his mother, before theatrically storming off to sulk.

After the Monterey show, the satisfied crowd swarmed quickly off the field and over the moat that separates the pitch and the fans at soccer games in these parts. The ramp that had been constructed by our staging crew collapsed and there was a nasty accident as people fell into the dry concrete canal. Fortunately, the worst injury suffered was a broken leg, but US lawyers are not the only predators to swoop on an injury compensation case. The authorities locked the gates to the stadium and refused to let Queen or any of us depart.

Eventually, after promises had been made, agreements signed and doubtless money had again changed hands, the band were given leave to return to the hotel, but none of the gear or trucks were allowed to depart and the armed guards positioned at the gates ensured this. This stalling tactic was no doubt to get further money to exchange hands and ‘sorry, no pesos’ – only good old US greenback dollar bills, preferably in large denominations. By now we had become cynical and mistrusting of the people we were dealing with 
and also the validity of this exercise. When we eventually left for Mexico City, a serious siege mentality had been established: us against the rest, in this land of Latin lunacy.

On arriving in Mexico City, there was no transport to take the crew on a two-hour journey from the airport to our ‘resort’ hotel in Puebla. Our hotel, The Hotel Los Sauces, became the Hotel Lost Causes. It had been built for the influx during the 1968 Olympic Games that were held in Mexico and hardly used since. The swimming-pool water was ink black with a translucent scum atop. Each day the staff added barrels of chemicals until it eventually cleared, and was declared by them to be ‘perfect for bathing’. The crew spent a ‘tequila evening’ prior to this and our mounting frustrations were expelled by light scrapping and the throwing of bodies into this dip. The plumbing arrangements in the bathroom had the diversionary planning of when the toilet was flushed it bubbled back up through the floor of the shower before making its way to the coast.

We still had ‘tummy trouble’ from the water or from eating the ‘chihuahua’ burgers containing unidentified small bones in the hotel restaurant.

A young American lighting guy had met a very attractive Mexican girl: ‘I woood liike to-go tooo Amerrr-eeeca.’

(I bet you would, love – along with most of your country.) He took her. Green card heaven. He was young, he was romantic, his brains were below his belt.

Theft was always a constant worry in Latin America, so we had 24-hour security for the stage and dressing-room areas. 
Despite this, overnight the guitar trunks were locked and chained to a lighting pod which was hoisted in the air, the chain motor then disconnected and the hand control unit taken back to the hotel in our hired vehicle – which was unique. The VW minibus had only three gears and no reverse, and was also fitted with a disabling device, this being a 1/4-inch jack plug which I was used to plugging into guitars. However, this plug had to be inserted behind the steering column in order to start the motor and unplugged to turn it off. If the key was turned to start the engine and you had forgotten to fit the plug, you received a nasty electric shock!

The Puebla shows were truly shocking – a touring experience never to be repeated. On the first day, enormous pressure built up from the huge crowd that had been queuing for hours and eventually broke down the stadium gates. Along with genuine ticket holders, many thousands of others charged into a space where the capacity was dangerously exceeded. There was clearly a lot of tequila consumed as the punters were in very high spirits. When the show started, all Queen’s musical and theatrical efforts were received well, as the audience was awash with cassette players held aloft. Starved of live rock music, it appeared everybody was intent on recording the show.

Then for no apparent reason things turned ugly as objects started to be thrown on stage, not gifts but shoes, a gesture of appreciation? Never a pair, only single shoes. At the end of the show, the owners were making a huge fuss at the front of the stage, and asking for their shoes back! However, when a few bottles rained on stage, it became a concern and, once 
the hundreds of cassette players had drained their batteries, these were taken out and also aimed at the stage. Fred had started shouting to the band as he sang to ‘keep moving’ as he dodged the missiles.

At some point in the show, while crouched in my usual position by the piano, I heard a dull thud on the stage carpet to my immediate right and felt something hit my arm. This turned out to be an old metal bolt that was about six inches long and looked like it had been pulled from a railway sleeper – nice! The band escaped unscathed but, in the dressing room afterwards, all hell broke loose. They were enraged, refusing to play any more shows and were off home. Gerry, as always in his role as ‘Senor Vaselino’, had to grease the wheels of diplomacy, so pointed out that we had a show the next day and then time off before more shows here in Puebla. If Queen did not play the following night, then it could be very difficult to leave the country and the equipment most definitely would not, plus the small matter of the possibility of the audience rioting.

Queen agreed to do one more show but demanded reassurances on their safety. Measures were put in place that the audience would be allowed in much earlier and at a slow pace, every single person entering would be searched for missiles and all cassette players would have the batteries confiscated as well as alcohol. This seemed a reasonable compromise, so, on the final chord of the show, the crew would start breaking down and get out and away ASAP. This was despite everybody being weak from various digestive disorders and no edible food being supplied for us at the stadium anyway. It would all be done on adrenaline as
everybody was ‘desperado’ to leave. The battery police did their job in relieving the punters’ cassette players of power and projectiles but, upon entering the stadium, other police were seen selling the same batteries back at high prices!

After going through the protracted motions of a second show, the gear finally made it out, accompanied by armed guards in the trucks, and I took a flight to Los Angeles with John Deacon. He wanted a break there and I had to sit tight, before sorting out the gear to be split between LA and the required studio pieces to be sent to Munich. While sitting around a Beverly Hills rooftop pool with George Harrison, John recounted the horror stories of our Mexican trip. George responded thoughtfully with the Beatles’ experiences in the Philippines where they literally feared for their lives as they were physically assaulted trying to leave the country.

When I got word that the gear had crossed safely back into the USA, I flew to Dallas to arrange shipping, and then on to Frankfurt. I drove to Munich, cleared the gear, got it delivered to Musicland and waited for the band, who arrived a few days later. When Queen returned to Munich to carry on recording
Hot Space
, the mood was mixed. It was a great relief to get out of Mexico and fortunately all the gear was safe and sound, but this experience had cost a phenomenal amount of money – a seven-figure sum. Why did it go wrong? And who was to blame?

The excuses were slippery and elusive. Queen had not conquered the entire continent as planned and poignant reminders were dotted around the studio walls in the form of pictures of items equal to the amount of money lost: jet aeroplanes, large country mansions, ocean-going yachts, top
football players, etc., all featured, along with handwritten notes about the loss. Queen could easily afford it, but understandably didn’t like it.

The third trip to South America was for the Rock In Rio festival. Since Queen had paved the way in Latin America, it had now opened up for other acts and was no longer the risk bands and management once feared. The festival in January 1985 was spread over a week buffered by two weekends, when Queen would headline. They were still the
biggest-drawing
act in Brazil.

We left a grey England that had just caught a fierce onslaught of winter weather and heavy snow for the comfort and sunshine of Rio. Our Varig night flight arrived next morning in a bright and warm Rio de Janeiro, and we left the airport surrounded by bustling photographers, journalists and news crews. Queen were not yet in Rio, so I had no idea what these people wanted, until I saw myself on the cover of the national
Jornal Do Brasil
newspaper the next day. They thought I was John Deacon. John Deacon, major rock star arriving for a mammoth concert pushing his own baggage trolley, then loading it into a VW van? There was a photo of me on the cover and another inside in a ‘Rock In Rio’ section that said the bassist looked very calm as he collected his baggage and passed through the multitude…

The Brazilians’ organisation of rock shows had improved dramatically since we had first visited, and the venue was a permanent outdoor site to the south of the city. The Queen show, as expected, was greeted with wild enthusiasm by the
warm and expressive Brazilians. I was all set for some relaxation before the next show when Gerry asked me if I would help out with a problem.

‘Mmmmmmm, what kind of problem?’

It transpired that the guitar roadie for George Benson had left, been sacked, shot or something, and would I look after things guitar oriented on stage for the two shows George was performing? Money was mentioned: US dollars in reasonably large denominations. OK then. It was not too demanding as there was little gear and it was quite refreshing after the deafening show I was used to. George’s shows ran very smoothly and there was none of the tension and angst I felt during a Queen performance, only a broken guitar string to deal with. I did turn down the kind invitation to go to the backstage meeting George held after the show, as the ‘meeting’ was a Jehovah’s Witness gathering! Each to his own, but why oh why do these people always knock on your door
very
early on a Sunday morning? When I’m having a lie-in or suffering a hangover?

Following the second Queen show, I was asked another favour. Would I stay behind for a few days and wait for the tapes and video of the show that had been recorded locally, and personally courier them back to London? Yes. This seemed a reasonable favour; sunny Rio and a move to the Sheraton Hotel, with its private beach, a couple of days extra per diem and cheap charlie, versus cold miserable grey London. The only snag being I would have to spend the milestone of my 30th birthday in Rio. Well, it could always be used to drop into the conversation at dinner parties in the future. Later, back at the hotel bar after my birthday dinner
at a beach restaurant, I tried picking up some Argentine girls but drew a blank. I couldn’t understand it, had I lost my touch as I hit 30? Maybe they were lesbians? Yes, that’s it –
definitely
lesbians, or was it too soon after the Falklands?

The only compensation was having one or two of the powerful local caipirinhas with my mate Robert ‘Plug’ Usher, roadie to Angus Young, the vertically challenged guitarist of AC/DC.

Brazil – where the nuts come from.

A
fter groundbreaking adventures in South America, what record-buying land was next in line for the marauding, all-conquering Queen touring machine? Russia was occasionally muted in hushed conversations, but these were the early 1980s and still Iron Curtain days. The Iron Lady herself was at her peak in the UK as apartheid kept its grip in South Africa and Nelson Mandela still languished behind iron bars in Robben Island prison.

‘Guaranteed sell out! Cast iron certainty!’

We went to South Africa.

The year was 1984: Big Brother was watching. And he’s a committee member of the Musicians Union.

Mineral-rich South Africa regularly presented Queen a huge cache of award discs in precious metals indigenous to the country; so, after some practical, political and moral
discussion, a slot was booked to do eleven shows in the ‘mixed audience’ Sun City Super Bowl Arena. All sold out immediately and could have been doubled, which pleased the band very much. Being big and popular always pleased Queen. Didn’t please everybody though.

After a successful European tour culminating in heavy partying in Vienna, I find myself with the other heads of department in the dim, dank, stark cargo area of Frankfurt airport. I’ve hardly slept for two days, I’m sweaty and dirty and I ache. My jeans badly need a laundrette.

And so do I, a wash and spin cycle at 60 degrees. Then drip dry. I certainly feel like I’ve been hung out to dry.

The glamour of rock ’n’ roll is given a sharp jolt of contrast when you spend countless hours in vast, cold and miserable airport hangars, surrounded by ton after ton of heavy equipment and mountains of other goods bound for all corners of the earth. International? Yes. Exotic and exciting? No. There is nothing to eat or drink, except disgusting tea or coffee from a vending machine 15 minutes’ walk away. Smoking is banned, and any attempt to doze while you wait for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn has to be grabbed on top of the dirty, hard and uneven flight cases; but the combined stale smell, fumes and drone of the airport thwarted any attempt at rest.

When the go-ahead from customs was given, a forced surge of adrenaline gave to fast frenetic activity to load the gear on to palettes as fast as possible, check everything is secure and in the correct positions – and get the hell out of
there. During these moments in my music business career I often considered other forms of employment. These laborious and depressingly horrible times were not in the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle brochure I’d seen.

Did Fred have any idea what I went through during these times? No. As a perfectionist, he simply expected professionalism from everybody involved, and that the known comfort of a 60x40-feet stage universe would appear wherever Queen did. Whether by magic or blood, sweat and tears.

Loading complete, we managed a quick bite of airport fodder, a fond farewell stein of German beer, then flew out on the next Lufthansa plane to Johannesburg.

I awoke from that altered state of sleeping on aeroplanes where you discover your neck has shrunk, your mouth is afraid to open and your hair aches to gaze out of the window I was hunched against. I saw we were on the ground – this must be Nairobi? Refuelling? My first view of Africa is bare and bland and nothing like the enticing upmarket holiday brochure.

After landing in Johannesburg later that morning, we walked down the aircraft steps on to the burning black tarmac of Jan Smuts airport to be greeted by searing temperature and, through the heat haze in the distance, armoured cars and a heavy military presence. Oh dear! Had they heard about Queen, our parties and general hedonistic behaviour? I’ve heard they’re a bit hard-line down here – are we in for a spot of bother?

As we approached the terminal building of Jan Smuts, I was tired, a bit lagged and thought that Jan Smuts must be 
the name of some local rude girl. In the arrivals hall I saw signs printed with the word ‘Slag’ and got very confused – what was going on? Afrikaans was not a language I was familiar with, but where did these girls hang out? More importantly, did they want passes to the show?

After being processed by the delightful South African immigration people, we were met by a promoter’s aide and taken to an airport hotel to wait for our call back to customs to clear our gear from the charter plane.

As usual, the call didn’t come until the middle of the night, when we were asleep in bed. That ain’t in the brochure either.

Having satisfied the customs officer in his smart crisp white shorts and shirt, emblazoned with gold insignia of rank, that everything was in order – and by the way, did he have any friends or family who would like to see the show? We commenced loading the gear into sea containers mounted on flat-bed trucks.

I was assigned a team of loaders by a stocky guy from the transport company who had left the East Midlands of England for the ‘good life’ in South Africa – complete with swimming pool, barbecue, personal handgun and electrified razor wire security fence. He clearly revelled in his new wealth and power and told me how the blacks who made up my loading team were ‘as fit as a fiddle, with not an ounce of fat on them’.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but when the bigot pointed towards me as he shouted at the loaders: ‘You do whatever the boss tells you,’ I was truly stunned. Tentatively rallying these guys, we started to get the flight cases into the container by forklift. The loading team were 
very wary of me, but, when they saw me clamber inside the container with my shirt off and getting sweaty and grubby, they looked totally bemused. Why would the white man do the physical, menial, dirty work?

I called out from the back of the container to the guys below, telling them which cases I wanted and in what order. I then went inside to start stacking and rolling them into position.

We got to the row of Brian’s Vox AC30 amplifiers, ready for the second stack to be put on top. I told the guy who was with me what we were going to do, so he took one side of the case, me the other and I nodded to him to ‘go’. As I lifted my side up and over, he didn’t lift his side correctly and the heavy case came crashing down on to the wooden floor as I jumped nimbly out of the way. This was not unusual and I was used to it. When you are loading a truck every night with different loaders who speak different languages, the adrenaline is flowing and you are under pressure to get it packed ASAP, misunderstandings occur.

This black guy leapt back, pressing himself against the wall of the container and looking at me wide-eyed, with horror on his face. I assumed he thought that he would be given a mouthful of abuse or even physically punished for his mistake.

It was a very unnerving incident, so I assured him everything was OK, not to worry and just carry on loading. With a bit of patience, we soon got it all done, and relaxing briefly at the back of the full container I offered the loaders a round of my duty-free Bensons to smoke, which they took with nervous gratitude. 

This very obvious two-tier system was a new and sharply unpleasant experience for me and I felt very uncomfortable being seen as some kind of ‘master’ among these people, who had the misfortune to have been born into a disgraceful regime.

I was not at all politically motivated or even very interested, as I lived my entire life in the insular unreal world of rock ’n’ roll. But there was something very wrong about all of this.

When all the containers were loaded we were driven, as dawn broke, over the stunning scenery of the Transvaal to Sun City and a welcome bed.

When you have had little sleep, are exhausted and have just done a long European tour, you are entitled to get a little light-headed and allow your mind to play a few tricks, but was it a mirage or reality as we pulled into Sun City after the three-hour drive north? Sun City entertainment centre is in the independent state of Bophuthatswana in the republic of Southern Africa. There are no borders, just a small wooden sign on the roadside informing you are ‘now entering’ – just like crossing from county to county.

This Las Vegas in the bush was a bizarre place to stumble on and I expected to see signs billing Tom Jones or Liberace strung across the armed security-guarded entrance. This was the dramatic land of Rorkes Drift where the battle of 1879 took place and inspired the film
Zulu
, which made a star of the young Michael Caine. The true battle took place on 23 January, which happens to be my birthday.

Not a lot of people know that!

Would the conquering British rock band have any bother 
with the locals some 105 years later? Well, all the bother had started long before – back home.

Not black Zulus but blacklisted. When Queen announced their upcoming Sun City plans to the press, they were roundly condemned. And because of the apartheid system in operation in South Africa, it was deemed to be supporting the regime to go and play in the country at all, even if Sun City was supposedly a ‘mixed audience’ venue. There was also a perverse counter theory thrown into the ring that playing in Sun City was not
really
playing in South Africa, so what was all the fuss about? Sounds like a lawyer to me?

Queen were never a political band and always strived to give people a good product, be it a recording, video or live show. They were constantly looking to new and challenging territories to play and conquer. An imperialist Queen?

Making money was never the primary issue with these tours and the show was never sacrificed just to make a quick buck. As always with Queen, quality came first. Along with being the biggest.

Because they made no secret of their plans, Queen became a scapegoat for many other well-known British and American acts who had played Sun City while keeping a low profile, gone in through the back door and taken the large pot of money just the same. Paradoxically, this included major black acts.

South Africa for me? I really fancied seeing wild lions, elephants, rhinos and crocs. Go on safari – just like in the brochure.

The Sun City
Works
shows were all planned carefully around weekends so as to maximise the captive audience travelling from the faraway South African cities, and who were buying the concert tickets, to also stay in the hotel, eat in the restaurants, drink in the bars, gamble in the casinos and buy all the merchandise and souvenirs, etc. As the show was so well rehearsed and fresh from the European tour, it was autopilot for band and crew, with Queen’s performance and the overall spectacle getting rave reviews. I personally believe that this
Works
tour had the best stage set, lighting rig and sound of all Queen tours. The crew was one of the best and tightest ever, plus the band had put together a great combination of songs for the set, which they were playing particularly well.

Fred’s battle cry before the tour was to: ‘Give them the works’. Actually it was ‘Give them the FUCKING works’. But you never quite knew what you would get with the Freddie Mercury glossy brochure. It kept you on your toes. And him.

All was running smoothly until a couple of shows in when Fred was struggling badly with his voice from the very first song. He looked in great pain and the hot drinks of honey and lemon I gave him every night would be useless with the severity of the strain. After a few songs, he looked over at me, shook his head, mouthed: ‘No, no I can’t go on,’ and paced stridently towards the stage right exit.

The rest of the band stopped playing and were ushered off as the audience started to become, understandably, a little disgruntled.

Gradually, the house lights came up, and a nervous promoter addressed the humming crowd, explaining that regrettably Freddie was in considerable pain and unable to carry on. A further announcement would be made on radio and in the press, and all tickets should be retained as they would be honoured for any rescheduled shows. This explanation was followed by a few boos, whistles and moans but everybody took it reasonably well and left in an orderly manner.

A medical specialist had been immediately summoned from Johannesburg and was on his way by private jet. Fred had never needed that before and there was great concern.

After being eventually allowed into the dressing room to see the patient, there he was in his robe, bouncing around, drinking and chattering away! Fred was enthusing that Queen must make amends by playing a huge show at the national Ellis Park outdoor stadium in Johannesburg. What? This seemed like the normal Fred, upbeat after a good show and a couple of vodkas. Incorrect prognosis; the doctor had administered some type of powerful cortisone injection which gave immediate temporary relief. The steroid took away the pain and inflammation but the inherent problem was bad. Total rest and special climatic conditions in his suite plus further treatment were needed before Fred could sing again.

Voice problems were not new, but this time the problem was extreme and severely aggravated by the dust that blew off the desert and bush. It affects most singers, we were told later. Fred’s good friend Elton John as well.

That wasn’t in the brochure we got, and after Fred received
the information I couldn’t print the language he used in any brochure. While recuperating in his suite, which was filled with humidifiers and climatic control devices to aid recovery of his voice, Fred invited me over for a drink. He was spending some of his convalescence listening to music and was raving about Prince and the recently released
Purple Rain
album. He loved the image Prince had created and thought he was as commercial as Michael Jackson, but with the sexy and edgy appeal of Jimi Hendrix.

He likened some of Prince’s lyrics to Hendrix, citing the song ‘When Doves Cry’. ‘“Dig if you will the picture” – God, I wish I’d written that line – it’s fucking great!’

Watch the voice, Fred …

Due to his strong resolve, Fred recovered well and was able to complete the remaining shows. He rarely took direct advice from any people: a doctor telling him to cut down on his drinking because of damaging his liver? Little chance. A doctor who advised on the future of his wonderful gift of singing? Yes.