Freddie Mercury: The Biography

by Laura Jackson

  With Queen’s heavy touring commitments, specific periods had to be timetabled in to allow them to get down to song-writing. Mercury spent most of the summer with the other band members at the Super Bear Studios in Nice for this purpose. His contribution to News of the World had been his least major to date, but this time he produced almost half of the thirteen tracks – the most controversial of which was ‘Bicycle Race’. The annual Tour de France passed through the French Riviera when Queen were there, and the inspiration for the number had come from Mercury’s appreciation of scores of hard-bodied young cyclists. He watched them race, crouched low over their handlebars and poured into Lycra. The song was to back Brian May’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’. Together these tracks would provoke a small storm of outrage.

  With more extravagant budgets for their video promos, the temptation was to be even more risqué. Promoting ‘Bicycle Race’ and ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ gave them the ideal opportunity to indulge themselves. Deciding to stage a girls’ bicycle race, Queen hired Wimbledon Stadium, sixty-five models and Steve Wood as director. There was one important detail: the girls were all naked. It was all seen as a cheeky prank by those involved – except for Halfords, the company that supplied the bikes. They were prepared to accept back the cycles afterwards, but refused to do the same with the saddles. Queen had to pay for sixty-five new leather seats.

  When the record was released on 13 October 1978, the sight of a naked rear on its sleeve caused an outcry. Accusations of sexism were thrown at the band, and NME ran an unflattering photo of Mercury, with the caption FAT BOTTOMED QUEEN. According to Brian May, they received no complaints from fans, but certain chain stores refused to carry what they considered to be a semi-pornographic poster. Later copies of the single were sold wrapped, the cover model now modestly clad in a superimposed pair of briefs.

  Impatient at the pious uproar, Queen quit Britain soon after for another US/Canadian tour. By now they were almost as famous for the salacious entertainment laid on at their after-gig parties as for their music. At one of Mercury’s private gatherings, an army of dwarfs ran around with bowls shoulder-high containing thousands of pounds worth of the finest cocaine for his guests. Certainly the goings-on at Queen’s Halloween bash in New Orleans made the newspapers coast to coast in America – and beyond – and went down in Queen folklore as one of their most infamous. Parties often lasted days, but this time they had a gig in Miami on 3 November, and so made do with a twelve-hour orgy of excess. This featured such exotica as a nude model served up hidden in a huge salver of raw liver, semi-naked girls dancing in bamboo cages suspended from the ceiling, as well as female mud wrestlers and topless waitresses, all for the delectation of the most bizarre cocktail of people imaginable.

  Publicist Tony Brainsby had clashed with Mercury in 1975 for his presence on a Wings tour, instead of going on the road with Queen. After a three-year absence, he was back to handle the band’s PR, and he remembers this particular party well: ‘It was a pretty wild night. I took a party of press over. We flew from London to New Orleans, partied for twelve hours solid and staggered back to the airport, still not having been to bed. They’d hired a huge hotel ballroom, which had been made to look like a swamp. There were trees, masses of hanging creepy vines, dry-ice smoke pumping everywhere and snakes, not to mention strippers. All in all, a first-class party!

  ‘I don’t recall seeing Freddie take coke that night. Mind you, he was discreet that way, and, anyway, in those days, rightly or wrongly, doing cocaine wasn’t really seen as taking drugs. It was more a trendy thing to do.’

  What Brainsby did see Mercury do was to sign his autograph for a stripper in an unusual place: ‘I’ve got a photograph of Freddie signing his name on a stripper’s botty as she slightly bends over a table.’

  Continuing to indulge his fad for PVC, in shiny black trousers, a short-sleeved checked shirt and braces, Mercury may not have wanted to be seen taking drugs that night, when he circulated as the life and soul of the party. But, afterwards, it could have been a different story, as Brainsby recalls. ‘Freddie would regularly go straight off to a club to hang out, and God knows what he got up to then,’ he says.

  This party had doubled as pre-launch publicity for Jazz, their forthcoming album, which was released in Britain on 10 November. Meanwhile, the tour went on. Regardless of the outrage at home, Queen had included a free graphic poster of the nude bike race with the album. Like the British shops, though, American stores considered it pornographic and banned its inclusion in Stateside copies. Probably stung by this, during the band’s two-night stint at Madison Square Garden, several naked ladies on bikes were arranged to join them on the New York stage. During ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ they circled Mercury, defiantly ringing their bells. The continuing controversy did them no harm. Jazz went to number two in the charts, and Queen received the Gold Ticket award in recognition of their performance before more than 100,000 fans at the Garden.

  Flying home for Christmas, Mercury barely had time to touch base before he rejoined Queen in January for yet another European tour. The treadmill of recording and touring was beginning to get to him. Nevertheless he was cheered to learn when they reached Brussels for their gig at the Forest Nationale that, back home, the new single ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ had received two very good reviews.

  Fatigue was setting in. Throughout Holland, Switzerland, Yugoslavia and Spain, with two return trips to Germany, they gigged nightly to enthusiastic fans, some of whom were fanatical enough to trail the band. When Queen reached Paris for the last three nights at the Pavilion de Paris, Mercury recognised faces that stared up at him from the front row. On the final night, he barked, ‘Fuck sake! Are you lot here again?’ But he was delighted by their devotion and proudly dubbed them ‘the Royal Family’.

  On occasions, as their personal manager, Pete Brown envied the fans. At least Mercury showed them his appreciation of their loyalty. Brown was experiencing problems with the band again. ‘Wherever Queen went,’ he explains, ‘it was my job to make sure that the style and size of their accommodation was exactly equal. Their idea was that that way no one would have anything better than the other, but trying to put theory into practice was often near impossible.

  ‘I tried my best, but that European tour, it didn’t matter what I did, it wasn’t right, and I’m sure it was a record that I managed to upset all four at the same time.

  ‘My problem was that I could never develop a thick skin against it. It hurt me a lot sometimes, but I don’t regret it. We had some good times.’ Just as when Pete Brown forgave Mercury for assaulting him in a fit of temper, so once more he blames the hectic schedule: ‘It was definitely the pressures. I guess you would have had to experience it to understand.’

  The pressures could only have worsened during their subsequent third visit to Japan, this time for a much longer tour. It was a professionally fruitful visit, with numerous awards for top single, top album and top group. As summer approached, free time was scarce as recording commitments meant a confinement in Mountain Studios, Montreux. The complex was now up for sale. For tax reasons it suited Queen to own it, and Jim Beach approached the shareholders on their behalf with an offer to buy them out.

  It was at Mountain that they were invited to write the music for a new feature film, Flash Gordon. Directed by Mike Hodges and starring the former American footballer Sam J. Jones, Max von Sydow and Topol, everything about the film version of Alex Raymond’s 1930s comic-strip adventure was intended to be lavish. Certainly Danilo Donati had come up with impressively grand sets, and the film’s producers felt that a pounding rock score by Queen would be a perfect complement. All four band members would contribute tracks; in Mercury’s case, five of them, including ‘Ming’s Theme’, ‘Vultan’s Theme’ and ‘Football Fight’, which would partner Brian May’s ‘Flash’ as a single at the end of the following year to coincide with the film’s release.

  Summer saw a rash of Queen releases, starting in June with Live Killers and the single ‘Love of
My Life’, both recorded at various recent gigs. Then, because EMI received the 1979 Queen’s Award to Industry, the record company decided to launch a 200-copy limited edition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, pressed on blue vinyl. By now the band was busy writing new material, this time at a different location – Musicland Studios, Munich. It was here they would begin work on the film score, and here, too, where they would first meet record producer Reinholdt Mack.

  Queen had never lacked a strong sense of their own importance; indeed Brian May has said that ‘Part of you believes that the group is the most wonderful thing that the world’s ever seen.’ Almost proudly, May admitted that life could be difficult for outsiders around the band, declaring, ‘We don’t compromise with anyone else. If someone else comes along, he gets kicked out of the door very quickly or else can’t stand the heat. It was pretty hard for anyone to sit with us as a producer or whatever, and the ones who managed it, managed it by having very strong personalities.’ But, having already worked with many top groups, Reinholdt, known simply as Mack, had no need to be intimidated by Queen. He was to become the first outside producer since Roy Thomas Baker to work regularly with the band.

  The only break in recording for four months was Queen’s brief return to Shepperton Studios to rehearse for an open-air gig scheduled for August. At the Ludwigsparkstadion in Saarbrücken, Queen headlined with Voyager, the Commodores and Rory Gallagher, as support. Then it was back to Musicland Studios.

  Munich was to play a big part in Mercury’s future. While he was there he became close friends with Mack and his family. Because the star would go on to make the city his home for some years, he eventually bought himself an apartment there, but in the meantime he preferred the luxury of a suite at the Munich Hilton. It was here, while soaking in the bath, that he wrote an unusual song for Queen, but one that would give them their first American number one.

  Mercury could compose a song in minutes, conjuring up melodies off the top of his head at a piano. Few can deny that Mercury was a one-off, unique in every way, including his style of songwriting. But, when he wanted, he could also be an incurable mimic, and ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’, the jaunty number he knocked together in record time, was a distinct pastiche of Elvis Presley. Perhaps this partly accounted for its strong appeal to the US public.

  ‘It’s not typical of my work,’ Mercury said, ‘but that’s because nothing is typical of my work.’ Recorded at Musicland, Mack, who had expected the whole band to turn up for the session, was surprised when, on the first day, Mercury arrived early and alone, anxious to get started. Apologising to Mack for the fact that he wasn’t too adept on the guitar he was slipping over his head, Mercury clearly wanted to establish a particular sound before the rest of the band had the chance to turn it into a typical Queen number.

  When released on 5 October, the record went gold. It also marked another first by featuring Mercury on rhythm guitar. The star strummed the three chords only fractionally better than the time he had plagued flatmates ten years earlier. When some sought to mock this musical debut, Mercury unceremoniously crushed them, retorting, ‘I’ve made no effort to become a guitar hero, because I can’t play the fucking guitar.’

  What Mercury excelled at was surprising people, and he was set to do so again. For him it was the fulfilment of a personal dream. Since his days at Ealing College, he had been fascinated with ballet. He had attended performances in various parts of the world, but in particular he admired London’s Royal Ballet Company and had become friends with one of their principal dancers, Wayne Eagling.

  ‘I first met Freddie when I was producing a dance gala for mentally handicapped children,’ says Wayne Eagling. ‘I wanted to widen its appeal to more than just dance fans, and so I went to see my friend Joseph Lockwood, treasurer of the Royal Ballet, who was then also head of EMI. Originally I asked him if I could work with Kate Bush, but, unfortunately, Kate’s manager didn’t like the idea, so I asked Joseph to suggest someone else. He took five seconds to come up with Freddie Mercury, and it was he who initially brought Freddie along to the ballet school.’

  It was an unforgettable first meeting, Wayne Eagling recalls: ‘Freddie turned up already wearing tights and ballet shoes, and we all took one look at him and nearly fainted. I think some of the group thought, My God! What have we got here? because Freddie really made an entrance. We were to do two numbers, “Bohemian Rhapsody” and a new song called “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”, which hadn’t yet been released.

  ‘I’ll always remember, we were in the middle of rehearsing “Rhapsody”, when in walked the choreographer Sir Frederick Ashton. He asked me what I was doing, then suddenly scowled at Freddie and demanded in a strangled voice, “And who is he?” A little embarrassed, I replied, “He’s a famous rock star.” Ashton looked Mercury up and down and snapped, “Well, he’s got terrible feet!” Poor Freddie, and I thought he was being rather sweet, trying to point his toes so carefully, but fortunately he thought it was funny.’

  Eagling wasn’t Mercury’s only acquaintance at the Royal Ballet. During these rehearsals he also worked with Derek Deane, another principal dancer, who fondly recalls the fun they had. ‘We never stopped laughing,’ he insists. ‘Freddie was so Freddie. He became a great friend of Wayne’s and mine, and I saw right away that he liked to think of himself as a good dancer, but he wasn’t really. He more than made up for that though by being terribly enthusiastic.

  ‘One of the first things that struck me was the interest he took in the whole thing, and he wasn’t nervous either. It wasn’t that serious, and he didn’t have to do anything very strict. But still there was a big difference to what he was used to. On stage he did his own thing, whereas here he had to be where he was supposed to be at all times, or he’d throw the whole company out – and we kept trying to hammer that home with him.’

  Mercury’s eagerness was to prove legendary in the group. ‘He would try absolutely anything,’ says Deane. ‘In fact a lot of the time we had to hold him back in case he did himself an injury.’ After practice both at the school and on stage, there was the costume rehearsal. ‘We were going through our paces when suddenly Freddie began to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” without music,’ Deane recalls. ‘His wonderful voice just stopped us all in our tracks. We stared at him, awestruck.’

  Mercury had bottled up his nerves for the big night on 7 October at London’s Coliseum, but unnecessarily so, according to Derek Deane: ‘The audience were major!’ he says. ‘In the main, ballet audiences tend to be quite stuffy, and never in a million years did they expect a rock star to arrive on stage – but they loved Freddie.’

  ‘Basically we lifted him around all the time, tipping him upside down and throwing him about, but Freddie was a natural showman, and he thoroughly enjoyed it,’ Eagling recalls.

  Mercury remained friends with Deane and Eagling, often discussing the possibility of future projects. While spending time together, the contrast between the star’s public persona and the private man was obvious, says Eagling: ‘Freddie would slip in to see our performances and hardly be noticed. Then again, he loved his wild parties and being flamboyant. Even so, essentially he was a very shy man. He had to feel comfortable with you before he’d drop his guard.’ When Mercury ended his association with the Royal Ballet Company, he took with him one of their wardrobe assistants, Peter Freestone, with whom he had struck up a rapport. Peter joined Joe Fanelli and Paul Prenter as another of his personal assistants. He was with the band the next month when they set out on what they called their ‘Crazy Tour’. Instead of playing the famous, big venues, they took their music back to the smaller theatres.

  As the decade drew to an end, the change in Mercury’s style was pronounced. His hair had become gradually shorter, until now it just brushed his collar and only partially hid his heavy sideburns. On stage he was rarely out of leathers and had added a leather and chain cap to his biker ensemble. He may have recently performed ballet on a London stage, but when fronting Queen, his image was
thrusting and aggressive. Rob Halford, lead singer with Judas Priest, called on Mercury to ride a motorbike round the Brands Hatch circuit to prove he merited his biker gear. Mercury neatly deflected his challenge by accepting the offer on condition that Halford first danced with the Royal Ballet. Halford was never heard from again on the subject.

  In mid-December Queen played a couple of nights at the Centre in Brighton in the final two weeks of the tour. It was here that Mercury would meet the man who was to become his first live-in male lover. The star’s weakness lay in the beefcake variety, muscly men who looked like truck drivers, with big hands and, invariably, a thick black moustache. Still enjoying the gay scene to the full, after each gig Mercury would set off in search of local talent. It was on one of these excursions that he found the Curtain Club, where he was to meet twenty-eight-year-old Tony Bastin, a courier for the express-delivery company DHL.

  Mercury took Bastin back to his hotel room, where they spent the night together. After three years of picking up a different man every night and discarding him the next day, like any other star-struck groupie, this time was different. They hit it off so well that before Queen headed back to London, the two men had exchanged telephone numbers and promised to keep in touch.

  Queen ended the seventies with a Boxing Day charity gig at the Hammersmith Odeon, organised by Paul McCartney, in aid of the Kampuchea Appeal Fund. It involved a series of concerts, including performances from Wings, the Who and the Pretenders. False rumours had circulated that the Beatles were considering re-forming for the event, which had at least increased the media’s interest.

  Mercury had once predicted Queen’s life span as five years. He could not have anticipated that by the end of the decade they would have sold over 45 million albums worldwide. Already the fame, wealth and recognition he had so desperately craved were his in abundance, and professionally new challenges lay ahead.