Queen Unseen (18 page)

‘Don’t worry – we’ll look after you, darling,’ Crystal and I offered.

‘No! There is a sofa bed in the office – she can stay there’ Aileen interrupted protectively.

The master tape was immediately spooled on to the Studer machine and very quickly it became apparent that the tapes did not hold the right album. It was not even a Queen one – 
it was Kate Bush! So much for those highly paid record company professionals, back in London.

‘That’s not snow on top of that Swiss mountain – it’s my stash.’

‘I see – and just how many “sans” alcohol lagers have you had this evening?’

‘Not many – well, maybe a few, because I think I’ve just seen Brian water skiing out on the lake…’

It’s true. The not obviously sporty Mr May had mastered the art of being towed by a high speed boat with two bits of wood (not clogs) strapped to his feet. I was most impressed! I’d had a few tries and failed miserably – it was bloody hard.

I might have found it easier on a sloping lake!

Time to leave. It was a long drive via Italy to Super Bear Studios in the south of France – particularly with a very hungover Crystal and Geoff Workman crammed into the front of the van with me. As we wound down the hills into Nice and our meeting point on the Promenade des Anglais, we could see the rich luminescence of Monte Carlo and Monaco below. Pulling the old van up outside the posh Hotel Negresco, we felt a little out of place among the
Rolls-Royces
, Ferraris and Bentleys. Liaising with David, our studio contact, it was another hour’s drive into the hills of Berre-les-Alpes to our destination of Super Bear. The 40-foot trailer of Queen’s equipment could not negotiate the tiny winding mountain roads, so we had to decide what would be 
the minimum amount of gear needed to cover what recording remained. Many shuttles up and down the hairpin bends were required in a large Citroen van, and, after a long day in the Provençal sun, the required gear was finally up, in place and the cases stored. It wasn’t long until Roy Thomas Baker pulled a creative ‘moody’, claiming the studio room was too ‘dead’, and that he wanted the entire carpet taken up to reveal the ‘live’ marble floor underneath. All the gear had to be moved outside again, where there was little space; it was all very tight to manoeuvre and it took ages. On cue it started raining. Then –
then
the room was deemed
too
live. All change again. Producers? Piccolo? Possibly…

As time became tighter for finishing the album and the upcoming US tour grew closer, the final mixing and overdubs would be done in shifts around the clock.

One night we were treated to some special astronomical event that Roy and Brian knew all about. Most of us were keen to see it and watched through a telescope. Shortly after, there was the most tremendous electrical storm that lasted ages. Brian took inspiration and using his portable recorder put on tape some of the thunder, lightning and rain effects for his song ‘Dead On Time’.

During one late shift, while Fred was doing a lead vocal, he had taken a break to tinkle at the piano to find the key he wanted. While we waited for him in the control room, I told a raucous gay joke to Geoff, Roy and John – whose song we were working on at the time.

A sharp voice catapulted over the monitor speakers: ‘What was the punchline again, Ratty?’

Out of my sight, Roy had purposely been leaning on the 
talkback button and Fred had heard everything through his headphones. I sank below the mixing desk waiting for the earth to open and thinking: ‘That was a novel way of handing in my resignation. ’

Everybody laughed loudly, Fred grinned and we carried on.

Oh, the fine line between humour and unemployment…

T
he tax year that had begun with recording in Montreux ended with recording in Munich. Munich turned out to be a lot more fun than Montreux. A lot. The Swiss are neutral. The Germans aren’t. Taking sides tends to make life more interesting. München – I’d heard the name, but where was it? Before I began touring, I had never visited Germany or any other country for that matter. My limited knowledge of Germany and its people was gleaned as a kid from
Commando
comics and war films, where I found phrases that would be useful for travel, such as:

‘
Achtung – Englischer Spitfire! Englander Schweinhund’
and ‘
Zee war is over for you now, Tommy!’

‘Yeah! Eat lead, Fritz!’

‘-
buddaa-buddaa-buddaa
-’

When, during this period of my youth I had watched my
dad, an electrician, poking around in the back of our tiny black and white TV, he would tell me he was cleaning out all the dead Indians shot by the cowboys. Presumably there were a lot of dead German soldiers in there as well? This was the same TV, with its standing, magnifying glass screen positioned in front, that the male element of our family huddled around on 20 July 1966 to see England’s finest sporting triumph as we beat West Germany 4–2 in the World Cup final. All this partisan information only confirmed to a young mind with no notion of jingoism that England had to be a superior nation.

However, far from being a country and a race I held in suspicion – with their
Beetle
cars that made an annoying farting noise (the local district nurse drove one and I was always
very
suspicious of her and that black bag) – Germany and its people became very dear to me. When you had spent your childhood in post-war Britain with older relatives who had taken an active part in the conflict, it was easy to be tainted by the lingering mood of bitterness. Bitter? No – only ‘ein bier bitte’.

In the late 1970s and 1980s, the Olympiahalle, adjacent to the Olympic stadium in Munich, was a regular venue on the European tours of major rock bands. Everyone hoped for time off while in Munich; and it wasn’t just for the famous Beer Halls where you drink stein after stein of foaming ale, eat bratwurst, then fall over and puke! That, however, was no problem, as installed in most of the toilets there are hand rails to guide you along and then metal handles to grip as you throw up into a large basin, then 
all is easily flushed away with powerful water jets. Very efficient, very German.

During a bitterly cold 1979 Queen winter tour, everybody was in need of some serious recreation to escape from our ‘winter of discontent’. Munich came to our rescue and Queen were impressed enough with the city to spend the final six weeks of a year ‘out’ recording at Musicland Studios. The year had started with a Labour government (very high tax for high earners) and finished with Maggie Thatcher (lower tax for high earners), which suited Queen. Owned by Giorgio Moroder, the producer well known for his work with Donna Summer and other dance and disco artists, Musicland had also played host to top rock artists such as The Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Electric Light Orchestra and Rory Gallagher (who Fred adored as a guitarist – Taste, Gallagher’s late 1960s band, were one of his favourites and a big influence).

Queen had no current favoured producer or engineer as these sessions were to be experimental and a little looser than previous studio schedules, when there tended to be a fixed pattern of four of Fred’s songs, four of Brian’s, one of Roger’s and one of John’s, which were worked on exclusively until they were perfected. This was the first time Queen had gone into the studio without the pressure of a deadline, so for the Munich sessions they decided to produce themselves and use the house engineer, an experienced local guy called Mack, who had recently done a lot of studio and live work for The Electric Light Orchestra. Queen and Mack immediately hit it off well and he ended up being their co-producer. He was a Bavarian with a quiet efficiency and a great sense of humour (he knew 
and enjoyed every
Fawlty Towers
episode – including ‘that’ one). The harvest of these Musicland sessions was eventually the phenomenally successful
The Game
album.

Located in the basement of the vast characterless Arabella Hotel, close to the trendy Schwabing district, Musicland was not an impressive-looking place. Entrance was through a black reinforced-steel door on the ground floor and down a flight of industrial carpeted stairs into the basement. The Musicland Bunker was a simple place, not at all plush, but with its cheap, pine-panelled walls it had a warm, homely feel and, mixed with the atmosphere of the city, was conducive to recording some of Queen’s best material. It had one small studio room, an adjoining control room, a lounge and dining area and a tiny workshop area (a large cupboard) for the maintenance engineer. Nicknamed The Office, this was the place for secret phone calls, secret deals and all manner of other secret things. In the underground corridor outside the kitchen was a table-tennis table, where Fred would trounce all comers with one hand behind his back or using his ‘bad’ left hand, when he was being really flash.

Other forms of entertainment for the jaded were video tapes of the latest English TV programmes such as
Auf Wiedersehen,
Pet
(very apt), the Benny Hill and Kenny Everett shows, plus of course
Top Of The Pops
and other music programmes. Board games such as Monopoly, Risk and chess were also popular, but Fred would not involve himself in anything that he considered banal or inane and only concentrated on things that used his mind or direct skill and knowledge. Scrabble was a game he loved, and was exceptionally good at, having played since an early age with 
an elderly aunt. When the Scrabble board came out, it was a magnet to him and he would interfere, advising the current players or insisting we scrap the game and start a new one to include him. Whatever work he was doing was put on hold and thousands of pounds of studio time were wasted while Fred waited for the elusive seven-letter, triple-word square. ‘Lacquers’ was one word that particularly astounded him as it fell into place on the triple-word square. It came from me!

He regularly did the daily word puzzle games in the English newspapers, striking one of his stage poses of raised arm and clenched fist, when he had solved the major
nine-letter
word from the box of letters – which never took him very long. Pumped up and excited, he would then offer to arm-wrestle all comers. Sitting at the dining table, he would take on anybody who was up for the challenge. I had to let him win – I couldn’t embarrass my boss, could I …

During this period, I was really enthusiastic about photography, and I raided all my savings to buy what I had long dreamed of – a Hasselblad medium format camera. It had beautifully engineered Swedish design and was classically simple. I loved it. I practised by taking photos of the band, and I had a state-of-the-art Polaroid back for my 500 CM model. Fred was intrigued by it. He had long loved the instant process of Polaroid cameras and in the 1970s he used his SX70 wherever he went. So, I was instructed to take a Polaroid using my hi-tech camera gear of Mr Mercury and his new addition – a moustache! He had cultivated the upper-lip growth during the later 1980 Munich sessions and, although he could see the result in the mirror, he wanted a two-dimensional record. He wanted to see what the world was shortly about to see – and
what would become his 1980s trademark look. I did that for him – and he excitedly waited while the Polaroid developed. I peeled the backing paper away and showed him. He snatched  it from me and immediately stated: ‘Yes – I love it!’

He was in the minority at that time, I have to say.

During the first tax-efficient Munich sessions, I briefly went back to London to clear through customs the balance of the gear that had arrived back by sea from Japan. Having finished my professional duties, I was keen to return. Then I received a phone call.

‘Ratty?’ The chirpy office voice sounded a bit too friendly.

‘Yes…’

‘There’s something else for you to take back to Munich.’

‘What a surprise – what is it? Is it heavy? Will I have to clear it through customs?

‘It’s Freddie.’

Fred, who was also in London for a few days, had nobody to accompany him back to Munich. Would I mind? Fred never travelled alone; there was always somebody with him and always somebody in the next hotel room. Somebody to talk to – to protect him? Well, a first-class seat on British Airways was not too shabby, so I agreed.

Realistically, of course, I had no choice. Unfortunately, a problem arose due to an industrial strike at Heathrow, and all flights were severely delayed. Anxiety was in the air as Fred had used up his allotted days allowed in the UK and needed to leave. Immediately.

I dutifully made my way to Heathrow, and hung around
the British Airways desk in Terminal One until I got positive news. When I did get a go-ahead for our flight to Munich, Fred was immediately phoned and sped down the M4 from Kensington to join me. It was a sunny summer’s day in both London and Munich and a few glasses of in-flight bubbly were well received. At Munich airport, we were met by Peter, a local guy who was currently Fred’s driver, in a hired Mercedes. We cruised with a smile on our faces into the east of the city and our Hilton home. Fred was reinstalled in his grand suite and wanted to take a bath before going to the studio. I called Musicland and announced that ‘his self’ was now back and would shortly be arriving.

Fred was humming and tapping in the bath and shouting out the names of chords: ‘D – yes, and C and G – Ratty, quick – come here!’

‘Uh, you want me to come into your bathroom, Fred? I’m not sure about this.’

‘No, no! Get me a guitar! Now!’

He emerged from the bathroom wrapped in towels, still dripping, and scurried into the living room of the suite where I gave him the battered acoustic that had been installed for these impulsive creative moments. Fred strummed away for a short time with his fingers – he never used a pick or plectrum, even on stage. Seizing the urgency of the moment, Fred insisted we make a dash to Musicland where a halt was called to whatever work was in progress. He summoned the band into the studio and enthused about this new idea, which they started to work on and record immediately. The song was ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’, one of Queen’s most successful worldwide singles.

It was a privilege to have been there with him, but no matter how long I knew Fred, got to be accepted, trusted and cared for by him, you could rarely totally relax around him. Over a period of almost 20 years, we enjoyed many great social times together but there was always some kind of edge to it. Quite simply – Fred had an aura. It was always there, whether he was on stage in front of 130,000 people or picking his teeth at the breakfast table and moaning about his hangover. When he walked into a room – any room – you knew you were in the presence of somebody special. Somebody unique. Magical.

In Munich, I often witnessed Fred’s magical way of summoning creativity. When he was looking for a word, a phrase, a chord, an idea, a memory or anything that could contribute to his work, he would bow his head and hold his hands by the side of his head, his fingers spread slightly. Then he would waggle his hands and fingers slightly – as if they were vibrating. If sitting, he would put his elbows on the table and focus his eyes downward, all the time his splayed hands trembling and vibrating as if they were antennae tuning in to an unseen force. He would mutter to himself and it would not take long before he found what he was looking for and he would stand sharply and slap his hands together with a crack, usually with a loud shout of ‘YES!’

It was quite remarkable.

Despite being in the constant company of Queen, I was not immune to being impressed by fame. I have met many rock stars and celebrities but I can say that none of them held the presence that Fred radiated – and he was actually quite a private and shy person. 

Our activities in Munich required finance, a lot of finance. Studio bills went directly to Queen’s Raincloud Productions office in London, but cash was needed locally to fund other needs. Queen banked at Coutts – THE Queen’s bankers – where else? Prior to sessions in Munich, I went along to the branch of Coutts in Knightsbridge, situated across the road from Fred’s favourite corner store, Harrods, to pick up the cash expenses. I was registered as a signatory to receive monies approved by the accountants or by John Deacon, who oversaw much of the band’s fiscal arrangements. I parked the Ford Transit van around the corner from Coutts and sauntered into this historical banking establishment. There were lots of frightfully well-spoken people going in and out, so you could say that I looked a little out of place. After giving my name to the striped-tailcoated and waistcoated clerk, he took my ID and sample signature, then shuffled through a door into the back like some Dickensian figure. He reappeared with wads of deutschmarks on a silver tray, which he handed to me and asked if I required an envelope.

‘Naaah, mate, I’ll shove it all in my bag,’ I replied, as I started counting the notes.

This did not seem to impress Jeeves, and he coughed a few times. I presumed it was bad form to be so vulgar as to count money at Coutts, but I continued counting the equivalent of forty grand sterling (a lot of dosh circa 1980). It was all there.

Home in Munich was the München Hilton, situated in an 
attractive spot next to the Englischer Garten with the Isar River running alongside – a good target for items thrown from our balconies. Those round aluminium covers that you get on room service plates to keep the food warm were very good aerodynamically. The four-star hotel was regularly used by touring bands, but we literally became residents, and I must have spent around a year of my life in that hotel. We took the same rooms and suites to make us feel at home. Fred and his personal assistant Phoebe inhabited the grand top-floor presidential suite which was known as the PPP (Presidential Poof Parlour), where the regal Mr Mercury held court. The next best suite was Roger’s, which he shared with his assistant Crystal and was known as the HH (Hetero Hangout).