Authors: Peter Hince
More applause.
‘This next song is one written by John Deacon.’
Fred turned and gestured to where he thought John should be. He wasn’t there. Meanwhile, I changed John’s bass for the one he would (hopefully) be using in the next song.
‘Yes, this is a song for all of you who like a bit of boogie – are you ready?’
The audience acknowledge that they are.
‘Are YOU ready!!’
The audience was but John’s wasn’t. Fred looked at me with a puzzled frown that says, ‘Where the hell is John?’ I responded by giving him the thumbs up – no idea why I did that… so he introduced the song: ‘This is “Another One Bites The Dust”!’
Roger started the beat and the band expected John’s classic bass line to kick in. It doesn’t, and there’s still no sign of John.
I have a Musicman Stingray bass guitar around my neck – and it’s live. I know this one – it’s quite easy, I had played it in sound check with Roger and Brian. But I have no discernible talent for proper playing. That doesn’t stop me.
‘That’s it – I like it – I like it!’ Fred chants.
‘Oh God!’ I groan.
‘Come on – move it move it.’
Fred again.
After those initial few bars, John returns and the bass is returned to its rightful owner.
John was relieved, but nowhere near as much as I was!
That incident certainly hardened my arteries and gave me palpitations, but staying fit on the road was taken for granted as we were all young men in what we thought to be peak condition, and, no doubt, at that age felt immortal. We thought we could take on the world and win – invariably we did. However, there were the usual colds and flu to contend with plus occupational knocks, scrapes and bruises, but the show had to go on and so did we, with adrenaline, stimulants and B12 vitamin shots. Queen themselves, although just this side of immortal, were also susceptible to ailments, and in the 1970s when we played a lot of back-to-back shows some had to be cancelled because Fred’s vocal chords and nodes were suffering badly. In ’77 John slipped in a hotel shower, smashing through the glass door – aahh! Scenes from
Psycho
. He played the last few shows of the tour with his stitched hand strapped up and painkillers running around his system. Brian’s health was a little fragile and in the early ’70s he had suffered with stomach ulcers and hepatitis.
Brian May and his good friend Eddie Van Halen partied together in 1982 when the bands found themselves in the same hotel in Portland, Oregon. The Queen band crew, who had also been invited, were challenged by the steroid monsters posing as Van Halen’s security and refused entry until identification, invitation and verification were resolved. American rock bands often go over the top, taking
themselves far too seriously, and some are escorted by as many men in suits and dark glasses as in a presidential motorcade. ‘Security’ all had walkie-talkies with ear pieces and it was comical to hear the conversations:
‘He is leaving the room, he is now approaching the elevator… the doors are open, it’s clear – we are on our way to the lobby – standby everybody.’
Give us a break!
Brian was not really the same hardened party animal as Eddie Van H, and, as a result, was in the bathroom on his knees, calling for ‘hughie’ and ‘buick’ on the great white porcelain telephone. At some point he slipped and cut his head, spilling a bit of claret. He was rescued by John ‘Tunbridge’ Wells, his minder (without walkie-talkie or even a transistor radio), who assured Brian he would not let him die.
‘A picture of health’ is hardly a phrase you would use to describe Brian ‘Jobby’ Zellis, Brian May’s roadie, as he was slight in build with wiry little legs, pasty faced and poorly looking. He turned up one day, his usual refugee-looking self and sporting tight black Max Wall ‘ballet’ trousers, and a new white leather jacket with a big stand-up collar, studs, sequins and other sparkly bits. Trip immediately nicknamed him Elvis Belsen.
Now, nobody likes injections and everybody loathes the idea of big needles injected into your bum. On the ’76 US tour, it was discovered that one of roadies from The Cate Brothers support band had contracted hepatitis, so the whole entourage had to be checked by a doctor and then get a shot. This unwelcome news was given at the Auditorium Theatre,
Chicago where, post show, we had to wait for our turn. When my number was up, I waited in the corridor outside the dressing-room-cum-temporary-surgery, as Fred came out rubbing his hip. His expression was half grin, half scowl – what was he trying to say? Inside, the doctor rummaged in his black bag and, without looking up, told me to drop my jeans and pants to my thighs and lean over the end table. As I did so I saw his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Oh my God! He was coming at me with something the size of Thunderbird One. That was the last time I ever bent over in a dressing room.
One condition that I and several others suffered from was ‘gig butt’, which is referred to in medical reference books as chaffing or nappy rash. The constant movement and sweating of a day’s toil in tight denim caused a very sore bottom crease and crotch, despite regular showering and the application of talcum powder. A simple remedy that I found worked perfectly was to smear the affected area with Vaseline petroleum jelly. I had a bad case of ‘gig butt’ after load out one night on a tour of Europe and was not looking forward to driving our hire car the eight hours or so to the next destination in that condition. I slipped off to the toilet with my jar of Vaseline, but got some very funny looks from a few of the entourage who had seen me entering the gents lavatory with a large tub of lubricant, especially as I was Fred’s roadie… In fact, because I was Fred’s roadie, many fans thought I was also gay. I quickly countered that rumour by announcing that I was certainly not gay – but my boyfriends were.
All the concerns about hearing damage caused by rock
concerts are not without substance, as my hearing has definitely been impaired by being in close proximity to the raw source on stage. There was no concept of health & safety back then and rock shows in general are not a healthy environment to be exposed to for years on end; the smoke, dry ice and pyro dust are on a par with being a chain smoker or an asbestos miner. The intense physical toll on the body and all the bumps, knocks and scrapes in extremes of temperature, combined with irregular working hours and meals, make it a tough young man’s vocation. It’s a vocation for tough young men, who drink the flight to Tokyo dry of sake and then fill their immigration forms in as The Archbishop of Canterbury. Or in a similar state upon entering Australia, when asked if they had a criminal record, reply, ‘I didn’t think you needed one any more.’ (‘Come with me please, sir. We can have a chat in my room. Are you allergic to latex rubber?’)
Among that same bunch of tough young men were the guys who complained about breaking a fingernail when loading a truck or that the rain was ruining their new satin tour jacket and that they had no mains adaptor for their hairdryer. And they had the nerve to call Fred a poof!
Touring toughens you up physically (if you work hard enough) and certainly mentally. It also protects you from the outside world and its realities. Receiving personal letters in hotels was exciting but slightly unnerving, as only the few people who held itineraries back home would know where to write. During an occasional phone call to my mum, I
discovered that my favourite uncle was ill and would not be getting better. My dad’s elder brother had been one relative I could always identify with, because he was unconventional, played the fool and didn’t take life too seriously. He was also a bit of a rascal who liked the ladies. I was naturally upset, but touring spared me hospital visits, facing family members and the reminder of what appeared inevitable. Later in the tour, I received a letter from mum telling me he had died. Again, touring spared me more grief and the unpleasantness of a funeral. Insulated by my other family, rock ’n’ roll, I avoided the intensity of personal drama and events, sometimes only seeing my family once a year.
Unless you made a huge effort to catch up, current affairs, world disasters or sporting achievements would pass by unnoticed when on the road. When Margaret Thatcher won the general election in 1979, we were on tour in Japan and I watched some of the news footage on TV in my hotel room, but it felt surreal in a strange language, with manic presenters and weird, colourful graphics accompanying the film footage. Somehow it felt unreal, but, by the time we returned to England, the Iron Lady was firmly in power.
We lived in a parallel universe on the road, genuinely not knowing what day of the week it was – but what did it matter? We didn’t get weekends off, had no other agenda to adhere to and were beholden to the tour itinerary. My life was geared to being in permanent transit and I was totally dedicated to Queen. Their career spared me many of life’s domestic worries: no wife, kids, car or even plants to water. My utility and other bills went directly to the bank for payment, my suitcases were left leaning against the wall on
one side of my bedroom, and I knew my passport number and US visa details by heart. I was always ready to leave… but I knew one day I would have to come back – to myself.
My rock career, though hard work, was relatively easy; I was footloose and fancy free, so just followed the master’s tune and my salary went into the bank every month. But looking back with the wisdom of experience, I now realise just how difficult it was for the band, balancing the pressures of fame and enormous expectancy with a home life. Families and relationships can easily take up most of your energy and devotion, so how do you cope when you just happen to be in one of the world’s biggest rock bands? Something has to give along the way. It’s often easier to make decisions when you are young with fewer responsibilities, but it is also easier to make mistakes.
Generally, I was happy doing my job and when the tour was going well – and you were pulling – the world was a marvellous place. But then along came days when you just wanted to jack it all in and do something else. A proper job. These were known as the ‘days of doom’…
O
n the road there were those occasional days when the gods conspired to make things go wrong; when all the gremlins, goblins and gollum’s cohorts are released from their evil lairs, and science and logic are ignored to bring on chaos, panic, tantrums and hardened arteries. And a very upset Mr Mercury.
The main reason for a ‘day of doom’ was equipment malfunction, but when you consider that on a Queen show there were billions of individual electrical component connections that were subjected to constant travel, battering, temperature change, vibration and intense use, then it is not really surprising that something goes wrong eventually. However, try telling Fred that, when his microphone is cracking up… Here are a few of those thankfully rare but grim times.
This was one of the coldest winters in US history, and, despite some of the ‘tough’ crew wearing tights (sparkly ones raided from Elton John’s wardrobe trunks at our Elstree warehouse) under their jeans to keep warm, it was bitter – it actually hurt to breathe – and that wasn’t because the tights were too tight. The truck carrying the Clair Brothers’ sound system and Elton John’s Steinway grand piano, which Fred was borrowing for the entire tour, was blown off the road during a blizzard en route from Canada to Chicago. This was a big tour for Queen, as they were now starting to play the big arenas and Chicago was a major city. Shows at The Stadium, being a true rock ’n’ roll venue, were covered by the press in detail, and Queen wanted to make a big impression for their first performance at the huge Chicago Stadium, home of the Chicago Blackhawks ice hockey team. This unfortunate incident could be a setback to their plans to conquer America. A sound system was scraped together, including equipment imported from a rival sound company over the border in Canada. The weather was so cold – about minus 40 degrees with the wind chill coming off the lake – that electrical cables and leads became so stiff they could not be laid out properly and risked breaking internally. The vinyl flooring that was used to cover the supplied stages and give a smooth surface was folded solid and cracking. Spirits were not high and the rented piano was not as grand as the grand Fred was used to. I had managed to fit a pick-up to amplify it from the spares I carried but, as the band were taking the stage for the show, I was still adjusting the pick-up and the piano tuner was still tuning!
To their credit, the band never complained once and Brian kindly thanked us all for our efforts during the show – which got a cheer from the crowd. To be fair, rock audiences – and US rock audiences in particular – will generally cheer anything: ‘Thanks to our crew!’ – big cheer. ‘I just farted!’ – cheer. ‘This is a great rock ’n’ roll town!’ – bigger cheer, ‘and you’re the best audience
ever!
’ – HUGE cheer.
The show was also marred by somebody throwing eggs on the stage, and Brian slipped on the slippery surface of smashed eggs on vinyl. Fred got angry and threatened not to carry on if certain ‘motherfuckers’ didn’t stop their behaviour. We carried on as always, and then loaded the gear out in
sub-zero
temperatures and cutting gales that sent a very sharp whistle up your tights. Are my seams straight in these…?
Saarbrucken was a one-off outdoor show in ’79 during recording of
The Game
album.
Queen topped the bill, and it played host to many other acts including the late Rory Gallagher (one of Fred’s all-time favourite guitarists). The set was a rejigged one from the previous
Pizza Oven
tour and was to include many specials: fireworks, a water fountain at the end of the extended central catwalk, extra pyrotechnics and, of course, the usual enormous moving lighting rig.
The show was probably doomed from the start as the crew had missed the connecting flight on the small prop plane to Saarbrucken because they were all busy perusing the wares in Dr Muller’s sex shop at Frankfurt airport.
Our bland hotel, adjacent to the Ludwigspark Stadion was a Novotel, generally known as a NO hotel. The sound check day was OK – but on show day it poured with rain most of the time, the crowd numbers were less than expected and none of the special effects worked: the fireworks, pyro or fountain. There was a total power failure during the show, and at the end of the performance the lighting rig seized, failed to move and all the lights went out. The only redeeming factor was that Roger had arrived with his hair newly streaked and dyed, but it had gone wrong and turned green. The ‘drumming parrot’ brought much amusement, particularly from Crystal who had to watch and humour his boss during the whole shambles.
Not a happy band, and not a lot of contractors’ bills paid.
The usual grand finale of Queen’s live set was a chain of pyrotechnic explosions along the front of the stage, which Fred would ‘machine gun’ using his wand mike. On this particular evening, I hit the individual switches to activate the effect but nothing happened. Fred freaked out. He had already been tense during the show as the onstage sound monitoring of his voice was not up to his high standards. The reason, partly psychological, was that the band’s favourite monitor engineer, Jim Devenney, had been booked earlier to do a Fleetwood Mac world tour along with Trip, Queen’s regular sound engineer.
Ray, Jim’s replacement, was very competent but Fred, and to a degree the others, were struggling to get the balance
right. He claimed that if he couldn’t hear himself clearly then he had to sing harder and his voice would suffer as a result. (The simple solution of asking Brian and his ‘wall of death’ guitar amplifiers to turn down was not an option – he would only turn up again.) Fred exploded. Rushing over to stage right where I had the pyro control box, he attacked it and me with his mike stand. I had never seen him like this – he was possessed!
Then during the first encore – and still very fired up – all hell broke loose as Fred smashed and wrecked anything he could find on stage, using his mike stand as a double-handed machete. Finally, he took out his wrath directly on the monitor console. Ray had jumped off stage as John threw his bass guitar at the console and Roger trashed his kit. The second encore didn’t calm Fred down either. Particularly as he had to do it without any onstage monitors – which had all been turned off.
The local union crew, who had been operating the spotlights, raved about the show, as they thought all this was part of the act! Emotions run high at rock shows and heat-of-the-moment incidents do happen, and are as quickly forgotten, but this was too much – it had gone too far.
As we surveyed the wreckage on the stage, Gerry Stickells tried to keep the peace on both sides. I was summoned to the dressing room and naturally expressed my disgust at being treated in this way, as I only took on the responsibility of firing the pyro through loyalty to the band and because I knew the timing and songs so well – I did not set the fucking things up! It was the same with the
strobe effects, drum riser lights and audience/platform lights: I operated those from a remote control. Again, not strictly my job, but yet more responsibilities I took on when asked, simply because I knew the timing so well and would get it right! Fred was not in a rational mood and wouldn’t believe some of the things he had done, and insisted I raise my shirt to show proof of any injury he had caused. When I reiterated, ‘You hit me, Fred!’ he just said, ‘Goodbye then, Ratty.’
The rest of the band groaned in disbelief at what was happening and I turned and walked out of the dressing room and back on stage to continue loading out. Ray and the sound crew had all quit in protest and it now appeared I was a free agent. Crystal said he was off as well and so did most of the rest of the crew. Brian and Roger came out to placate us, giving assurances that Fred was very sorry at what happened and to please stay, but it appeared to be too late. Why did Fred not come himself?
Gerry Stickells, ever the diplomat, told us to relax and enjoy the next couple of days off and see how we felt then. As I was loading the Queen band gear truck for what I thought would be the last time and filling my mind with other bands I might work for, Paul Prenter rushed up, as usual bright red, frothing and ranting.
‘You mustn’t leave, he needs you – you know that’ was the message he barked in my ear as a $100 bill for a gram of toot was pressed firmly in my hand.
The buses were loaded with cases of booze in an attempt to calm us down and buy us off. Predictably, we all got very drunk, stoned and fucked up on the overnight bus journey to
Hartford, Connecticut. Retching up into a stinking chemical toilet on a moving bus is not recommended or in anyway glamorous, but demons needed to be exorcised.
Hartford was a short drive from where Ray had a family beach house, so we hired a car and set off for a day of chilling. The following afternoon, all the band showed up for sound check – including Fred who at that point in Queen’s career very rarely came to sound checks. Fred’s first action on entering the arena was to go out into the middle of the floor area where Ray was working, and breaking in the new sound crew. Fred quietly gave his apologies to him and the rest of the sound crew. A rare gesture that was appreciated.
Fred did not apologise directly to me, but over the next few shows he gave me the odd wink, smile and gesture as if to say: ‘Yes, OK, I know I was out of order. Can we carry on?’ He also made the occasional remark, such as when I was preparing his onstage drinks: ‘You’re not going to poison me, are you, Ratty?’
‘No, Fred – I’ll just swap your onstage water for neat vodka and gin.’
‘That’s fine dear – I’ll look out for it.’
We got over it.
During a four-night residency with
The Works
show down under, all hell broke loose – lights failed, speakers blew, monitors cut out and the biggest and most obvious malfunction to an audience – Fred’s microphone – started to break up, distort and cut out while he sang at the piano. Oh
dear! This had never happened before. Immediately, I improvised and took his wand mike from under the piano, switched it on and held it up for him to sing into. As I balanced the mike precariously, Tony ‘Lips’ Rossi, who was in charge of onstage microphones, attempted to change the piano mike. This proved unsuccessful and, when Fred took to the stage for another song, the whole system had to be changed again. (The problem proved to be a faulty cable, extremely unusual on a static microphone.) When Fred reached the dressing room after the show, he was furious about the microphone incident, screaming, ‘And then all these roadies congregated around, pushing dozens of mikes in my face! I wouldn’t have minded if they had been cocks – but this was ridiculous!’
Mr Mercury liked to be dramatic. Melodramatic at times.
He was still fuming long after the show, so we all took off for the Chevron Club to drown our sorrows, fuelled by some poor-quality and extremely overpriced Australian cocaine.
We were to be comforted by the direct charms of the local ‘Ozzie’ girls and went back to our hotel to carry on numbing the pain. When my companion and I finally crawled back to my room from the rooftop swimming pool at about 5.00 am, she introduced me to a few indigenous phrases pertaining to the sexual union between man and woman: ‘Do you want to slime?’, ‘Have you arrived yet?’ and ‘That’s some “fat on” you got there!’ (This does not mean overweight.) Then, when in the midst of our passion she called out, ‘Oh, Ratty, me fanny’s on fire, me fanny’s
on fire!’ I was so taken aback I fell out of bed laughing and did my back in. I spent the next day being put right by the tour physiotherapist.