Queen Unseen (27 page)

The enforced break was very handy for the rest of Queen to fly by private Lear jet to enjoy the lush Indian Ocean island of Mauritius.

During the final show, we had a brief ‘pie fight’ on stage, utilising whipped cream, other dairy products and Spike, Queen’s hired back-up musician. Spike was a keyboard player who also played rhythm guitar on ‘Hammer To Fall’, and was described by somebody in the audience as ‘Who’s that fat roadie who comes on stage and plays guitar?’

An insult to roadies if you ask me.

In the black-out before the encore, one of the band assistants
came up to me screaming: ‘Get all that cream and shit cleaned off the stage – Fred is going mad, he keeps slipping and is panicking he will do his knee in again.’

Fred’s voice was fixed but the Mercurial knee ligaments, damaged during some horseplay in a club in Munich before the tour, were still a subject for concern.

Didn’t stop him playing tennis at Sun City though. He was good at that as well. Freddie Mercury was good at pretty much everything he decided to do.

There were several bars in the Sun City complex, and we drank heavily and for free at the bar in the exclusive Club Prive where the high rollers gambled. All drinks and food in here were gratis and, though we were not gambling, our temporary status of being interesting by association allowed us access. We struck up a good rapport with all the barmen and gave them passes for the shows. But it was access denied on an Access All Areas pass if you were a black barman. Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing too many black people in the audience. Were there any at all, I wonder.

We drank heavily each and every night and would stagger back to our rooms; scaling a wire mesh fence to halve the journey. Occasionally, we were accompanied by some female companions from Birmingham working as croupiers and dealers in the casino. The girls were blessed with conical hairdos that took an entire can of spray to keep them vertical and, combined with strong make-up, their work-issue shiny casino gowns and metallic accessories, it gave them the look of characters from a 1970s
Star Trek
episode. This was
compounded by thick Brummie accents, an extremely alien tongue in warp factor seven.

Seeing them trying to scale the wire fence in their tight evening dresses was hilarious – and impossible. They simply discarded them and clambered over in their underwear and high heels. The sight of an attractive young woman in an indignant pose as she straddles a mesh fence in a skimpy
G-string
and bra as the blood-red African sun is breaking over the hill was a moving and poetic moment.

To relieve some of the tedium on days off, we took to having early-evening ten-pin bowling sessions with the exception of wardrobe master Tony Williams. Welsh Tony who liked a drink would turn into Mr Hyde, who conveniently forgot what had happened the night before. It was Mr Hyde, not Tony Williams, who was attempting to bowl at an alley in a hotel in Holland some weeks before, and, when his attempt at a strike went directly into the gutter at the side of the lane, Tony, not happy with his effort, punched the neighbouring wall – breaking his hand. After surgery and pinning, he was forced to drink and work with his other hand, so the crew had to thread needles for Shirley, as Fred called Tony, when doing his wardrobe maintenance.

Spending an overnight safari in the game park that surrounded Sun City was great fun, Collie and me setting up the British camp among the fixed site by borrowing Fred’s stage Union Jack flag from the wardrobe case to flutter above our tent.

I woke in the middle of the night to hear all the squeaks, 
coos, squawks and scary noises you heard in Tarzan movies. But Collie
certainly
didn’t look like Jane – his leopard skin underpants excepted, and even by the romantic light from the oil lamp.

Now there are many dangerous things lurking out in the bush but the most lethal of all, and a proven killer according to our guide, was a stationary threat: rhino shit!

Apparently, the rhinos like to relieve themselves on the tracks running through the bush and this considerable deposit turns rock hard very quickly under the baking-hot African sun. Safari jeeps come hurtling down these tracks, hit the deadly camouflaged piles, causing vehicles to turn over. That ain’t in the insurance policy, even in the disclaimer small print: ‘Loss of life, limb or eye due to rhino shit’.

We were then taken into pens of large cats – small lions, followed by big cheetah that had all been given research code numbers except for one who was called Nigel! I kept at a good distance, as they were a bit frisky those rascals, I can tell you!

There were other forms of healthy, sporting
entertainment
on offer: several swimming pools, tennis courts and a golf course. The Americans in the crew were always keen and some would take their clubs around on tour, stashed in the equipment cases. The golf course itself had a major handicap: SNAKES. There were many types slithering around the rough and bunkers and in particular spitting cobras.

These tricky little reptiles were infamous around Sun City and had claimed several victims. So bearing the warnings in mind, Joe Trovato, Queen’s American lighting designer, set 
off with some of his fellow countrymen to play a round. Unfortunately, Joe had been up most of the previous evening getting hammered in the bar and was feeling very, very delicate indeed.

The Queen Crew Open arrived at the first tee, where by now Joe was greener than the surrounding fairway. Taking a club from his black caddy, he stepped up to tee off. Swinging the club high he brought it forward with great effort and this physiological reaction caused his imbalanced, depleted body to immediately throw up and shit itself simultaneously. Joe had now turned from sickly green, to as white as a sheet and bright red with embarrassment – the correct national colours for somebody of Italian descent. He was wrapped in a towel by the trusty caddy and escorted back to his room.

None of Queen played golf, neither did us Brits in the crew, so Collie and I escaped from Sun City to have a look around the local area. John Deacon let us borrow the car allocated for him to be driven the few yards from his villa to the stage door of the Super Bowl arena. We set off southward in this top-of-the-range BMW for Rustenberg, the nearest town on the road to Jo’burg.

Though we were probably in no real danger in Rustenberg, the vibe was not right and we cut short our excursion, driving back to the white sanctity of Fort Sun City. But I was no longer white – I was turning lobster red from underestimating the African sun. Topped off by streaks of hair colour (fashionable at the time) that were bleached blond, yellow, red and blue I began to resemble a parrot. Pretty Polly– Pretty Polly – Pretty Peter. My job was something I could now do 
virtually parrot fashion, for a handful of seeds tossed in my feed bowl.

Thankfully, none of us were serious gamblers as there were many ways to lose your handful of seeds in the Sun City casino or on the avenues of slot machines that promised ‘More Rand In Your Hand’. The South African unit of currency was restricted at the time and not at all easily exchanged. Deals for Queen shows were almost exclusively done in US dollars, but the promoters would have to supply local currency for petty cash expenses. So what to do with all the spare and almost worthless per diem you had at the end of our Sun City trip?

Spend it all? But on what? Even the airport duty free wanted the Yankee Dollar, Pound Sterling or Deutschmark. Gold Krugerrands or diamonds bought from the major South African jewellers, who had a large presence in Sun City, were the popular choices of trinkets to take home and keep the girlfriend happy – or put away for a rainy day. The best deal for diamonds, though, was from the independent ‘Mr X’ (I just can’t remember his name and I’m sure he’s glad about that).

Mr X was a contact of the house crew at Sun City, coming up to shows from Johannesburg and dealing direct with visiting bands and crews wanting to buy loose diamonds. Prior to a show, Mr X arrived and was ushered backstage into the tuning room. This special room was often used for doing deals with local suppliers of illicit goods and, though it was an area used to having rocks of
cocaine laid out, the rocks Mr X had were size-for-size far more valuable.

The individual who shuffled in looked most unlike a diamond dealer in his ‘train spotter’s’ anorak, shapeless trousers and slip-on shoes. A dishevelled middle-aged man with a bad case of greasy comb-over, who looked like he would offer sweets to youngsters outside the school gates. Over his shoulder was a cheap imitation-leather airline bag which he unzipped, and pulled out reams of folded tissue paper stuffed with diamonds of all levels of the four Cs: carat, colour, clarity and cut.

He seemed nervous, but we assured him he was perfectly safe as he was on hallowed territory in the tuning room. The deals were done and much more favourably than at the other jewellers, who Mr X did not speak too kindly of. Nor did certain wealthy people when having their purchases valued for insurance back in England…

The tuning room was a very special place and only very few select people were invited in and signs posted outside warned off any posers, liggers, agents, lawyers and such like. You might be important enough to fleetingly get into Queen’s dressing room but never into the tuning room, unless invited by one of Queen’s personal crew. It was our den and secret hideaway.

‘Can you come and check the power in the tuning room?’ loosely translated to: ‘let’s go and have a toot’. Also known as attitude application check.

The tuning room trunk was a small flight case that housed the guitar strobe tuners, compact Fender Champ amp, voltage transformers and an inflatable airbed. The case was
fitted with specially made, secure allen key locks and was also used to store any valuables during the day or overnight. As it was one of the first things to go into the truck at load out, the trunk was used to transfer plastic bags of currency on occasions when carrying large amounts of cash around or through customs was risky, not strictly allowed or impractical. The airbed was pumped up and laid out for the sole use of John Deacon, who believed strongly in the recuperative powers of rest and sleep at the right time. It was also a calm haven for him, away from the dramas of the dressing room. As I was John’s roadie, he let me use the air bed too; providing I gave him details afterwards…

I also used the tuning room to chill out, service and clean John’s and Fred’s guitars and change their strings. A new set of strings would be stretched in every three or four shows, about the same interval that most of the crew changed their socks. The tuning room was a place I could hide away and hone my own guitar skills and try to sound impressive to people passing the closed door. Maybe there’s a musician inside? No, most definitely not. But a solid electric guitar is a very seductive toy, a powerful, dangerous and tempting icon to hold in your hands. It can make a bigger noise than you can – instantly. It’s great! The volume control on an electric guitar is the extension of your pent-up expression.

Shame I can’t really play.

The tuning room was a good place to entertain or smuggle girls into, while we found passes for them. Fortunately, I didn’t try to serenade them with my guitar playing or they may have left, backstage pass or not. Queen tour passes and their use of the female form were always a talking point from the
Jazz
tour
onwards; with a fat-bottomed naked girl on a bicycle, to the final
Magic
tour with another girl’s bottom on a stool, with animated characters of the band dancing underneath, which portrayed the deep message of filling stadiums by ‘putting bums on seats’.

Spare laminated passes, and those issued to unknown personnel prior to the tour, were put in the name of John Doe or Jane Doe, the names given by police departments in the US for unidentified dead bodies.
The Works
tour that took in Sun City spawned revolutionary aluminium passes and luggage tags, the metal in keeping with the industrial feel of the stage set. The passes featured a rotating spanking machine administering a few whacks to a young female construction worker, and the inscription on the side instructed: ‘use this edge’. What for? Tour passes had evolved from just having long hair and saying: ‘It’s OK, mate – I’m with the band’ into a
high-security
operation of varying levels of authorisation.

However, soon I wouldn’t need a pass to access my working life any more. Decisions had been made. I’d had a look at another glossy career brochure.

Always read the small print. 

T
here are four seasons, four corners of the earth, four horsemen of the apocalypse and four musicians in Queen. I’d been there, seen ’em all and done it – and got several T-shirts.

Musicians will tell you there are four beats in a bar – and I had done plenty of beats in many bars. Maybe too many.

It was time to go, time to move on.

Prior to
The Works
European tour, which had merged into the Sun City trip, I decided I’d had enough of living the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle – I wanted a proper job. Sort of.

My decision to leave Queen was formulated over a period of time and there was no particular incident or reason that prompted me to give up a life of rock ’n’ roll. Despite having a top job with one of the world’s biggest bands, I wanted something else to stimulate and satisfy myself, and that was
not to work for another band, irrespective of the generous offers I received.

This was Maggie Thatcher’s 1980s when there was supposedly ‘loads of money’ around, but the financial rewards of working for Queen were certainly no reason to stay on, as they had a reputation within the industry for not paying their people the highest rates. Around the time of the recording of
The Works
album in 1984, I knew that I was becoming mentally and physically fried as I was working harder than ever. Loyalty can sometimes become a frailty, and, as there was no real opportunity or desire to further myself within the Queen organisation, I decided the time was right to leave and I would go out while at the top of my profession.

I was also becoming disillusioned with the changing music industry and had reached the point where I felt strongly that I needed change in order to satisfy my inner self.

For a long time I knew I wanted to become a photographer, it’s what I really loved doing, what excited and inspired me. However, I would still be jumping into unknown territory and would have to rely on my limited knowledge of the photography world, a bit of talent, a lot of belief and the experience, professionalism and resilience I had accumulated in the music business.

Being head of the crew for Queen gave me confidence in my abilities and the belief that I could go on and do other things, and succeed. Although it was just a job to me, later on I realised what an important position I held and how good I was at my job. But I also knew my limitations.

I gave notice and left the fulltime payroll as an employee 
of Queen Productions Ltd in January 1985, having just turned 30. I had always made a promise to myself to get out of the music business before I was 30 and more or less kept that.

My decision to leave Queen was filtered through during tour rehearsals in Munich. I had previously discussed it with the few people I trusted and respected; the others found out by default.

I really wanted to tell Fred personally but surprisingly it was hard. Sometimes, despite our close relationship, Fred was very difficult to approach or to get him alone at the right moment. The situation to do it never quite arose. He was never on his own, in the right mood or in the right place.

‘Fred, can I have a word?’

‘Later, dear, later.’

I think he was trying to avoid the issue, as, despite being a strong-willed, bold man who would take on any challenge, Fred occasionally dismissed certain things and pushed them aside, hoping they would go away.

‘Later, dear, later’ never materialised, but it became quite clear he knew I was leaving, and that I knew he knew – but nothing was said. He had asked Gerry Stickells why I wanted to leave and Gerry gave him the simple answer: ‘that I now wanted to be a photographer not a roadie’.

Then unexpectedly during a lull in rehearsals Fred said to me quite formally in a clipped voice, ‘So, you’re leaving then?’

‘Yes – I am,’ I nodded with stoic sincerity.

‘Right.’ He nodded and smiled back at me.

No more was said.

He knew I would be as dedicated as I ever was until I 
left – in fact, during that
Works
tour I took on even more responsibilities and worked harder than on any other Queen tour.

If I had left Queen to work for another band, Fred would never have forgiven me, but because I was going into the ‘arts’ I was sure he could understand.

Roger was quite shocked at my decision to leave, but after we had a chat he also understood my reasons. Before I got the chance to tell Brian, somebody else had and he rushed up to me in the Sugar Shack, quite upset and asking me to stay, promising to ‘put things right’. It was too late, I’d made my mind up, and money was no longer an issue. John already knew, as we had talked about it together several times.

He was also in a period of change. In 1984, John grew his hair again into a wild bush. He began smoking cigarettes at the age of 33 and went missing from recording, only telling me where he was going. He confided in me and seemed fed up. John never tried to convince me to stay as he understood why I wanted to leave and I felt he somehow wanted it to be him.

I don’t think John was ever quite the same again after that period.

I want to break free.

The terms of my leaving were that I had agreed to do Rock In Rio, and the final leg of the
Works
tour in New Zealand, Australia and Japan the following April and May of 1985 on a freelance basis, as I was now starting to set up my new photography career. After the end of that Japanese tour in 
Osaka, I thought that was it, I would never crawl under a piano or inside a dirty truck again. Wrong.

No sooner had I got back to my shared rented studio, and was working hard to get my new career moving, than I got a call that the band were to take part in something called Live Aid.

Queen had not immediately agreed, but once they decided to take part it was business as usual. As this one-off gig in London would not take a lot of time from the focus of my new career, I agreed to help out. Queen rehearsals were at the Shaw Theatre in London’s Euston Road and in true Queen professional manner the key touring personnel were brought in from the USA.

A ‘blip’ involving Fred’s Steinway piano reminded me he could still be a difficult sod when he chose to. I may have officially left Queen, but he still wanted to keep me on my toes. As usual, we got over it, and for the next few days Queen worked out the 20-minute set that has become rock history. I purchased large white plastic clocks that were placed around the stage so the band could monitor themselves as the countdown started. With so much material to choose from, it was generally thought that it would be a constant battle within the band as to which songs would be performed, but it actually fell into place quite quickly, and, though other combinations were tried, the final set was reached unanimously – and without too many tantrums. It included three of Fred’s songs, three of Brian’s and one of Roger’s. John? The guy who wrote their biggest-selling single and several others? John very rarely made a fuss – he went with the flow. 

This was not going to be a Queen show and there was no huge lighting rig, smoke, pyrotechnics or intro tape for them to open with and wow the audience. The obvious choice for a rock band would be to start with an up-tempo, bash your head, stamp your feet tune. No.

Queen were introduced by Mel Smith and Griff Rhys Jones at Live Aid, seconds after we had finally finished checking the gear. As the welcoming applause for the band faded, Fred sat at his grand piano and started to play ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

It was brilliant. The whole audience knew the song, and, after the initial roar of recognition, sang along to the section chosen from Queen’s most well-known creation. The crowd who had been there for over seven hours were at the point of needing a lift. Queen gave it to them and were magnificent. They were also the loudest! Sound engineer Trip Khalaf had set the limiters on the PA system – which he unleashed for Queen’s performance. If you can’t blind ’em – deafen ’em! Fred showed the entire world why he was simply the greatest showman of the time and had the audience in his hand. The mood, energy and spirit that day was truly wonderful and it was the first and by far the best of the big charity shows. It captured everything at the right time. After Live Aid, these charity shows became something of a bandwagon, with a jostle for position, market value and TV ratings. However, the egos of the many stars present that July day did not clash and Fred offered the unprecedented act of allowing his piano to be used by another artist – Phil Collins. The directive of only
20-minute
sets for every artist had been laid down strongly, as the running schedule to coincide with TV was precise. The 
revolving circular stage was divided into three equal sections of ‘pie’, which allowed one band to set up as another broke down their equipment, while the third was performing.

This worked very efficiently, and as our gear was whisked away and sectioned for loading I watched The Who play. In front of centre stage was a traffic-light system, of green, amber and red lamps for the performers to monitor. The first light illuminated, to tell the band that they had five minutes left, the second light signalled two minutes remained, so finish your song ASAP, and the red was ‘your time is up get off or we will pull the plug on you’.

As I watched the band who made instrument damage and abuse an art form, I saw the red light was flashing constantly. The stage managers and promoters’ people were getting twitchy – it would be a brave man who cut the power on The Who.

Signals had been made to the singer, Mr Roger Daltrey, who responded in his own unique style, by kicking all the lights and smashing them before finishing the song.

I found myself smiling and caught sight of Bob Geldof behind me, doing Pete Townshend-style leaps with ‘windmill’ arm movements as he played air guitar.

The spirit of rock ’n’ roll was truly there that day, and humanity too. As the whole cast of musicians sang ‘Feed The World’, it was a truly unbelievable sight and atmosphere – I feel privileged to have been there, and it remains one of the most memorable days of my life. I often get comments that I was ‘spotted’ on Queen’s part of Live Aid – and more
less-flattering
comments about my cut-off denim shorts! ‘It was a very hot day,’ I reply in my defence. 

Queen, too, were hot and overwhelmed with the day, giving them renewed belief and desire. I believe there was a real possibility that the band could have broken up around that time, they had become tired and somewhat jaded; their fall in popularity in America had affected them a lot and they needed something to rekindle that drive and belief in their talent. They didn’t need to worry – they were the best band on the day and stole the show and surprised a lot of non-Queen fans too. The band clearly appreciated the contribution by all their crew, who were under a lot of pressure, and as always did their job professionally. We were given framed awards with a photo of the band on stage at Wembley and an etched metal plate underneath:

After my minor supporting contribution to rock history, I kept in touch with most of the Queen organisation and did some photographic commissions for the band. Then in the following early spring I was asked by Billy Squier’s management if I would help out Billy, who was going to be recording in London.

Mmmm – that ‘rock stuff’ again?

However, as it was not full-time and there was some 
flexibility that let me carry on trying to establish myself as a photographer, I agreed. My business set-up costs had been high and income was still very low. The regular fee would be welcome and the fact that I got on well with Billy was also very important in my decision.

At around the same time I was asked if I would do the forthcoming Queen
Magic
tour and, after some thought and on the advice of one or two friends, I decided against it. This was received with surprise as it had been simply taken for granted I would accept. I explained that I had spent a lot of time building things up for my new business and, although I was not yet reaping the rewards, a break from this dedication would upset the momentum and I could miss out on any important jobs or new clients that came in.

And, most importantly, I was now a photographer and no longer a roadie.

It was a wrench to decline as I had good friends who would be on the tour and the rock lifestyle had been a part of me for over 12 years, and traces still lingered in my bloodstream – I was not out of de-tox just yet.

I went round to Fred’s house to see him personally and explain. He immediately said, ‘It’s the money, isn’t it? Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out.’

When I explained it was not about money, he understood but was still disappointed.

‘Well then, you must come to rehearsals and brief the new people,’ he insisted.

In addition to being a very successful rock star, Billy was a cultured American and appreciated the finer things that London had to offer. Billy knew Fred well, but had
not yet visited Garden Lodge, the home Fred had worked long to create.

A couple of evenings, running into mornings, were spent at Garden Lodge as Billy played Fred some of his new songs. Fred, being Fred, told Billy what he thought and what could possibly be done. Billy was delighted to get the input and, though Fred insisted, ‘They’re your songs, dear – not mine,’ it was arranged for Fred to come to Sarm Studios, where Queen had recorded so much early work, and sing on two tracks that he particularly liked: ‘Love Is The Hero’ and ‘Heart Of Mine’, which Fred changed the title of to ‘Lady With A Tenor Sax’. Billy was bursting with delight as he held the greatest respect for Fred. I was now seeing Fred and the people around him quite often, and poignantly got the nod that he was far from comfortable that I would not be on the upcoming
Magic
tour. There were also rumours that for personal reasons he was not going to do the tour at all.