Queen Unseen (24 page)

‘No, krone.'

‘I see, they have Swedish krona?'

‘No, no, no it's Danish krone. It's a different country, then we go to Germany where they use deutschmarks.'

‘Not dollars or pounds?'

‘No…'

‘Boy, this stuff is really confusing.'

All European money was collectively known as Local Drachma or Drinking Vouchers and any loose change was Shrapnel.

The only ‘foreign' experience our American previously had was crossing the border by bus on the west coast between Canada and the US, where we were interrogated by The Fruit Police.

‘You will surrender all apples, oranges and bananas immediately and place them in the designated bins.'

‘Yes, officer.'

‘
And
those grapes – don't you try and hide anything from us!'

I believe it was five years' hard labour in Alcatraz for secreting a pineapple.

Queen's personal crew were sometimes given the option of
fly-drive
on European tours and a nice roomy Mercedes. Crossing from Belgium into France in the middle of the night, we found ourselves stopped by French border officials. Suspicious? Possibly? A top-of-the-range white Mercedes with registration
plates from Zurich driven by me, a dishevelled, unshaven and wide-eyed mess, directly from the show in Dortmund. The passengers were Jobby, a most unhealthy-looking individual with a Canadian passport; Mr Modern, a gangly youth with a scowl, strange haircut and British passport; and finally alongside me in the front passenger seat was Angelika, my German girlfriend from Munich.

‘C'est bon,
mate? Can we
allez?
' I quip.

‘Non!'

The peak-capped French officers searched the car thoroughly, pulling all the carpets up and tapping door panels as if they were sending some sort of Gallic Morse code – or maybe honing a sense of rhythm? Nothing. Rien.

‘C'est bon
– now?'

‘Non!'

We dragged our luggage into their office under yellow lights that made our tired, drawn faces look even worse than we felt. Despite the car's paperwork, and my licence and our passports all being in order, the French still insisted on searching our luggage. They quickly zipped up my bag. A handy tip: always put your dirty laundry on top, as only the hardiest will get past the barrier of roadie's old pants and socks, jeans that can walk alone and two-tone T shirts that are a distinctly different colour under the arms from that of the body.

Searching my girlfriend's bags, they pulled her clothes roughly out, and she frowned, but, when they started handling her lingerie and intimate smalls, she let loose with an unrelenting torrent of abuse in German. We were given a dismissive shrug and waved away. Angelika growled in
her Bavarian accent about those ‘Fucking Französiche Aschlöcher!' as we sped down the autoroute to Paris. Who was I to disagree?

A Ford Granada is not quite as grand as a Mercedes and does not fit through the sliding glass entrance doors of the Dragonara Hotel in Edinburgh – no matter how hard I tried. A party was thrown after the first show on the outskirts of Edinburgh and as normal involved strippers, audience participation and copious amounts of alcohol. The highlight of the evening was seeing a member of the legal profession tied to a chair, stripped and administered with whipped cream and overweight stripper's flesh.

After quite a bit of drinking, I stupidly drove back the short distance to the Dragonara Hotel, the car's sunroof being handy for dispensing the empty champagne bottles on route. (‘There's no need to be gentle – it's a rental.')

Upon our return, as we tried to put the Granada into the lobby ‘showroom', there were screams and sounds of breaking glass from Fred's suite as he and Bill, his chubby companion from New Jersey, were having a bit of a tiff.

That was not unusual.

Drunken driving is an inexcusable offence, but fortunately we and millions of others have got away with it – thank God nobody got hurt. But there is still no justification for it at all – even in Ireland, where everybody drinks.

Ireland, the Emerald Isle, home to mystical castles, leprechauns and rented Japanese mini-vans – for the little people.

Arriving in Dublin after a delayed flight from Zurich, we had all been enjoying the craic from the free booze on board.
I approached the car rental desk and explained that I was not the person in whose name the mini-van was booked, but honestly I really was the one authorised to pick it up. This posed no problem and neither did my out-of-date Californian driver's licence or state of inebriation. I then enquired whether there was a minibar in the mini-van and what side of the road would they like me to drive on while in Ireland. No problem at all.

Show day, sober, and on our way to Slane Castle we were stopped at a roadblock by the Irish Garda. I wound down the window and the grinning policeman squeaked: ‘Mornin' to ye lads, are yus off tuh the concert?'

‘Yes.'

‘Fine, so where's the stuff, then?'

‘What?'

‘The stuuuhfff, where is it then, where d'ya have it?'

We can have some fun here.

‘Sorry – what exactly do you mean?'

‘The stuuuhff – ye know drooogghs – we're the drooogggh squad.'

‘Oh I see… the, the stuff. No, very sorry we don't have any, we are working at the show.'

We flashed our passes.

‘Ah, I see now, but are yuh shore yuh don't have any stuuuhff?'

‘No, we're sure to be sure.'

‘OK then, lads – good day to yuh all.'

With a salute we were allowed on our way. We didn't have any ‘stuff'. Only a pint or two of the black stuff.

In the 1970s, having long hair and being in a vehicle that
you probably couldn't afford was like a beacon to the British police. The brand-new rented VW minibus I was a passenger in was stopped by Somerset's finest. I panicked slightly and, before the cops approached, quickly downed the contents of a plastic container where I kept my stash. I swallowed the speed tablets but the joke ‘Dracula' blood capsules that were also in the container remained lodged in my mouth. As the police started asking the usual questions the capsules started to melt and fake blood began trickling to the corners of my mouth. Seeing this, some of my fellow passengers started to giggle, and brought me to the attention of the cop.

‘What's wrong with your mate? He looks pale – and bleeding?'

‘Uuh – just had a tooth out,' somebody replied.

I didn't sleep at all that night, and ended up in a local nurses' home, being nursed.

The tour bus was a necessity in America but regulations delayed its introduction in Europe, so in the distant days of autumn 1975 for the UK
Night At The Opera
tour, Queen and crew had a standard coach each to travel around Britain. During a day off travelling to Dundee from Newcastle, we got a surprise when the coach was flagged over to the roadside and plain-clothes police ran on shouting: ‘Drug squad! Everybody hands on your heads – now!'

They were no doubt looking for the ‘stuff'.

The undercover cops stayed on board keeping a close eye on us all as the driver was directed to the local police station.
The search of the bus resulted in the huge haul of half a joint and two small wraps of amphetamine.

During questioning, I was asked to roll my sleeves up so the cop could check for needle marks!

He said to me, ‘You
look
like you take drugs, and you may not think it, but up here [he tapped the side of his head] is a mind ticking over faster than you could comprehend.'

‘Really…?'

I had the flu.

‘We can stop your visas, you know – stop you going to the States, Japan and that.'

‘I see – very informative, can I go now?'

As I was led out of the interview room, I saw Fred in an open central area being questioned. He was in full ‘glam' kit in those days; short fox fur jacket, satin trousers, sash, black painted nails, lots of jewellery and carrying his vanity/
make-up
case.

‘Do you take drugs, Mr Mercury?'

‘Don't be so impertinent, you stupid little man,' barked Fred in response as he snapped shut his vanity case and strode out.

It's true, Fred did not take drugs – then.

I did. Like most of the crew I had some amphetamine powder with me, as this was a hard tour and a little ‘lift' was always welcome. The search by the north-east's crack squad of ‘top men' was not particularly thorough. However, we were all very curious to know why the police had mounted such a massive operation. When quizzing some of them as we were released, their reply was: ‘be careful who you travel with'. We assumed this was a reference to a runner who I'll
call simply Dan (not his real name), who had been fired from the tour. A tenuous friend of one of the crew, he didn't last long, as he became dazzled with rock's glitz and glamour. In Preston, the tour manager gave him some cash as a gesture, and his train fare back to London. Dan was not amused, ranting how he would get his own back. He did – he burgled some of our houses. However, when Dan attempted to rob Richie's home, he broke into the wrong house by mistake. BIG mistake. Richie's neighbour was a local villain who sported tattoos of spiders on his tongue – and was currently out of prison.

We never heard from Dan again…

D
an simply disappeared without a trace… South America had a reputation for people disappearing; subversive people and high-profile people who could command a large ransom, or people who did not conform. Queen: wealthy, famous and decadent rock band – good idea to go?

The 1980s saw Queen taking on bold new challenges in touring; however, South America seemed a dark and daunting destination that, although often dangled, never materialised. The money and guarantees were never as forthcoming as the enthusiasm or promises from the Latin entrepreneurs and promoters.

So, surprisingly, it was announced that, following five shows in Tokyo during February 1981,
The Game
tour would be extended to Argentina and Brazil.

Wanting to remain self-sufficient and not reliant on any local equipment, we took everything with us, including scaffolding and necessary staging, and for the world’s longest air trip from Tokyo to Buenos Aires we had at our disposal a chartered Flying Tigers 727 cargo plane. The Queen crew all flew to Buenos Aires via New York on a scheduled Pan AM flight, and were surprised to find Fred was on board; and more surprised that he was sitting in economy class. It turned out that he had stormed off an earlier flight from Tokyo on discovering it was a DC10 aircraft, a type of aircraft that had recently been involved in some major accidents. He hadn’t known he was on board a DC10 until he was comfortably relaxing in his first-class seat with a glass of something expensively bubbly. He had freaked out and refused to travel on the flight, which was delayed while his baggage was unloaded. The next available non-DC10 flight was ours, in which first class was full.

Leaving Fred to enjoy himself in The Big Apple, we flew on and, after spending an exhausting 23 hours in the air, landed on a blindingly bright Buenos Aires morning. This was our first visit to South America and nobody quite knew what to expect. But we hoped. Though not a drug-producing country, Argentina was in the general area of the coca bush and so there would surely be piles of cheap supplies? Or, as a predominantly Catholic country, would there be lots of hot and lusty suppressed señoritas willing to keep us occupied? We had received strong warnings about both. Argentina had a military Junta and the omnipresence of armed troops and security vehicles was a sharp reminder. For the sake of a bit
of toot and some hanky panky, I decided I’d prefer to keep my fingernails.

What did Argentina hitherto mean to me? Plenty of beef (which they sent ‘corned’ in tins to Britain), the Tango and that England had beaten them 1–0 (Hurst 78) in the brutal quarter-final of the 1966 World Cup at Wembley stadium, when their captain, Rattin, was sent off for foul play. The Argentine team were later branded ‘animals’ by Alf Ramsey, the England manager. They’re probably a bit excitable down here, I surmised.

Permission for Queen to play in Argentina was granted by the then President, Viola, and political motives obviously crept into play. The election was coming up and he may have been thinking about the young persons’ vote. The South American electoral process came somewhat frequently and spasmodically, and, despite bringing the first major rock shows to Argentina, Viola didn’t last very long.

Buenos Aires was a city familiarly European in style and with its wide avenues and cafes was reminiscent of Madrid or Barcelona. We spent a couple of days recovering from jet lag and acclimatising to the heat and humidity by exploring the adjacent neighbourhood. After being released by the authorities for taking photos in the harbour area and warned not to wear tight shorts downtown (another detainable offence), we got the go-ahead that the gear was now cleared; some type of import bond, fee or non-returnable sum having been paid to the
right
people.

The crew were driven to a far corner of the Ezeiza airfield where the lonely figure of the Flying Tigers cargo plane stood, the isolated area containing the single aeroplane
creating the atmosphere of a hijack situation. Under a blazing hot sun, the pallets of gear were slowly unloaded and transferred into sea containers on flat-bed trucks. You don’t usually take sunblock to load trucks and I was becoming rapidly hotter and redder – the discovery of spent live ammunition shells that littered the concrete plain raising my colour and pulse even further.

All the shows in Argentina were in football stadiums that had been built for the 1978 World Cup, the opening show in Buenos Aires being at the Velez Sarsfield stadium. The enthusiastic local crew could not really believe that the shows would be allowed to go ahead, convinced that things would be cancelled at the last moment. Broken promises were something we would get used to. The catalogue of errors that happened on the two South American tours is thicker than an encyclopaedia, just suffice to say that the term ‘no problem’ is no longer something I take seriously. Corruption, lying and broken assurances were mandatory. For the crew, working, travelling and living conditions were grim, but despite all the setbacks the shows were a huge success, the world’s press witnessing the energy-packed opening night in Buenos Aires.

Gerry Stickells, who had visibly aged during this period, was asked by a journalist from the British tabloid press how he felt after this pioneering show. He replied, ‘After the countless months of negotiations, organisational and logistical problems, inadequate facilities and resources, the “local” factor plus the ever-nagging possibility of “the surprise element”, that, overall, it was A HUGE RELIEF.’

The unimpressed hack replied, ‘So what do I write for people to read back in England? “Queen’s tour manager says
that the first ever major rock show in Buenos Aires felt like having a piss”?’

We all knew that due to the local amenities things would not run as we were used to, and Queen themselves, of course (who were used to being pampered in five-star luxury), did not expect some of the ‘differences’. They always travelled to and from shows in limousines. Not in Buenos Aires, where the answer was a fleet of old Ford Falcons, family-sized sedans that had seen better days.

After the first show, the band and their personal entourage were crammed into these cars, and set off for a reception in honour of their appearance. The Falcons had to cut a swathe through the thousands of fans, who then raced after the motorcade in enthusiastic pursuit. Pulling free of the crowd, the drivers kept in an orderly line through the city before turning into a gas station. Furious band assistants were informed through interpreters that the cars needed to fill up with petrol or they would run out very soon! Meanwhile, the pursuing fans had caught up and engulfed the entire gas station, enthusiastically banging on the car bodies. Fred in particular was ‘not amused’, so this situation was resolved by the cars being accompanied in future by gun-toting police on motorcycles and the band secreted inside military armoured vehicles.

After a small drinks party following the final Buenos Aires show, I was accompanied to the Hotel Principado by a BA Belle (no, not a stewardess from British Airways – that’s another story).

I knew there were difficulties getting girls up to our rooms, and keys were never allowed to leave the hotel. So, while some of the other crew were occupying the attention of the front-desk staff, I grabbed my key from behind the small reception area.

Having plucked Margarita, my companion, from around the corner, we slipped into the lift and hurriedly ran to my room where I urgently snapped the door shut. Once inside, I proceeded to get us a well-earned drink. Immediately, the phone rang – it was the front desk enquiring about my guest.

I denied all knowledge on the phone, feigned fatigue and, with the parting words of: ‘
No comprende, senor
,’ I hung up.

As I began to build Anglo-Argo relations, there was a staccato knocking at the door. The ‘knocker’ would not be ignored, so, as the young lady hid in the bathroom, I reluctantly opened up. Despite my protests, the hotel guy insisted I had a girl in the room. Now, I had worked hard to get this far so I was not going to give up easily; besides, accommodating women had not been in abundance in the land of pampas and bolas. And my bolas needed pampering. The guy ignored me and shouted into the room in Spanish. He repeated his words, this time with more urgency, and the girl came into view, opening her handbag as she walked to the door. She then presented the hotel representative with her ID card. I was now getting nervous, as you do when people around you are talking in raised voices, in a language you do not understand and, to top it, in a military Junta!

It transpired that the hotel clerk was purely a zealous implementer of the house rules and all guests must be registered regardless, and identification shown. I signed some
form (anything to get rid of him so I could get on with the business in hand), which turned out to be an agreement to pay the extra pesos for double occupancy of the room! I would leave that paperwork for our promoter Senor Capalbo to sort out. We were leaving town the next day.

Grateful for the fact that the secret police would not be pulling my fingernails out or administering electric therapy treatment, I relaxed. I was also thankful that no extension of the Vatican would be giving me a ‘Spanish inquisition’ over my liaison with this Catholic girl, who I noticed bore no crucifixes or rosaries. When she knelt down it wasn’t to pray. It was me who was calling for God – in English. I spoke only a few words and short phrases in Spanish, which mostly consisted of the ones required to order alcohol and breakfast, find the lavatory or praise a central midfield footballer.

Margarita: a potent Latin American drink. She was – as was her friend, Christina, who had ended up with another of the crew. We imagined they might be a little tearful as we left Buenos Aires the next morning.

‘Don’t cry for me Marge and Tina.’ Boom-boom!

The next venue in Argentina was Mar del Plata, a coastal resort that, with its genteel elegance and faded European architecture, resembled a Latin version of Brighton. Our hotel, The Provincial, was situated on the sea front and was reminiscent of the grand hotels of the 1930s with sweeping Art Deco staircases that led to a first-floor open area that boasted a string quartet playing in a circular parquet dance floor. People sat at small tables taking tea and coffee under
the glass-domed roof. Very pre-war Berlin, very homely. Lots of Schmidts and Vons in the local telephone directory.

By now we were adjusting to the different working conditions and the inexperienced local crews of mainly young guys who helped with the physical loading, unloading and moving of the gear. They would not turn up after the show to load out for two reasons – the first being they had not been paid as promised, and, secondly, some of them only did the work in order to see the show. When Queen went off stage, so did they.

Note in the itinerary: ‘For members of the crew wishing to lose weight, consumption of the local water is recommended.’

There was an ever, underlying panic as to when you might get struck down. In the backstage stadium washrooms, somebody did not quite make it and the incident became known the ‘Mar del Plata Splatter’.

Next came Rosario, where post-show the curious audience were slow to leave the pitch area, innocently inquisitive of what was happening on the stage as we began breaking down the gear. The military police formed a line the width of the pitch and with snarling Alsatian dogs on leads they moved in a united wave towards the crowd. They left.

This was 1981, the year before the Falklands conflict. After that show in Rosario, I swapped a baseball cap adorned with ‘I love New York’, which had been thrown on stage during an earlier US tour, for a young soldier’s green army cap with brass insignia on the front. He was acting as a security guard as we loaded the truck, and he and I made the exchange over a bottle of Coca-Cola. Inside the cap was the guy’s name and address written in blue biro. I thought 
about him that next year and occasionally since. Where was he when the conflict was happening? Did he survive? If so, how did he feel about the British now?

Our ‘Boys Own’ adventure moved on to Brazil and the exciting prospect of Rio de Janeiro, but still the dates in the itinerary remained TBA: to be advised/arranged or, usually, to be avoided. Our flight from Buenos Aires to Rio was the most frightening I have ever encountered, as we flew into and through a tropical storm that tossed the DC10 (yes, them again!) around like it was paper. The plane continued to oscillate in altitude and my stomach was somewhere in my throat, then like a tidal wave the aircraft was tossed up again, as a rush burst to the top of my head and squeezed tight. It was pitch black outside and the flashes of lightning that splintered the darkness had me seriously thinking this was it – time was up, we were off to the great gig in the sky.

‘
The scheduled aircraft that crashed in the jungle en route from Buenos Aires to Rio de Janeiro is believed to have had several Britons on board
,’ the solemn tones of a BBC newsreader echoed in my head.

There was no warning as the storm took hold and shook hard, just to remind you who was in charge. Fingers were welded to rosaries and armrests, and spilled hot coffee caused no pain. Hands furiously made the sign of the cross and personal phrases were muttered. I joined in: ‘Now listen, I know I’ve not been to church for a while, but you know how it is, but I did go
regularly
to Sunday School. I even got a book for good attendance – honest – you can ask my mum.’ 

It must have worked because the storm passed and we landed in Rio safely.

The night bus ride to our hotel meant it was difficult to see the landscape that we had long imagined made up this exotic and sensuous strip of land between the mountains and the ocean. Despite peering closely through the windows, with one eye cupped to cut the reflection, Rio was not revealing herself. The following morning, however, the Rio stage was open as I pulled back the curtains that followed the curve of our circular hotel. Straight ahead was a lush mountain and with my neck craned I could see the seafront and beach. We were in the Hotel Nacional on Gavea beach, south of the main strip of Copacabana, Ipanema and Le Blond.