Returning to his rented Swiss lakeside house, he honoured his work commitments as best he could, but mainly he resumed his strolls by the water’s edge. For some time he had been plagued with skin sores and weeping wounds, and when walking gradually became too painful, he took to sitting by the lake and sketching waterfowl. Sometimes he would also write songs. The disease made him extremely susceptible to infection and fatigue, however, and although he derived solace from these excursions, he often felt too drained by them and had to cut them short. Soon afterwards he slipped back, undetected, to Garden Lodge. Around this time Mary Austin, who had created a personal life for herself apart from Mercury, gave birth to a son.
Mercury’s own condition had lately taken another turn for the worse. He had been fitted with a small catheter on his chest, which fed him his medication intravenously. He was experiencing the usual disruption in sleep and the ever present risk of infection meant that he and Jim Hutton now slept in different rooms. He still celebrated his forty-fourth birthday lavishly but surrounded himself with only a few well-chosen friends.
By the following month the Queen album had a title – Innuendo – and was scheduled for a Christmas 1990 release. When this looked in danger of being pushed back, EMI were understandably annoyed. The album’s production had already taken almost two years and to miss the massive festive market would prove costly. Across the Atlantic, their relationship with the US label, Capitol Records, had been running into other kinds of difficulties. Jim Beach had been negotiating Queen’s way out of their contract, and in the end Hollywood Records weighed in with a lucrative bid to sign them. The deal was clinched by early November.
But business matters paled in contrast to the mounting personal pressures that were weighing down the band. The strain of fielding the bombardment of questions from the press about Mercury’s health was wearing. The rest of Queen wanted to do right by their friend, but it was becoming impossible to lie with any semblance of credibility. One day, cornered by a gaggle of gossip-hungry journalists, Brian May admitted that Mercury was suffering from strain and exhaustion – and that the years of hard living had finally caught up with him. But he denied that there was any truth in the rumours that the star had AIDS.
The next day the Sun carried the headline: IT’S OFFICIAL! FREDDIE IS SERIOUSLY ILL. They ran the story with a support picture that showed him staring-eyed and drawn. When Mercury saw this, he was very upset. At Garden Lodge thereafter Jim Hutton, Joe Fanelli or Peter Freestone vetted all newspapers before they got to him – but his torment didn’t end there. The press hounds now smelt blood and tightened their surveillance of the fading rock star. They would tail him on his rare excursions from home and finally got what they wanted: a photograph of him emerging from the Harley Street premises of a top AIDS specialist.
Mercury’s health was failing faster now. Only his stubborn determination to keep working kept him going. In early January 1991 he joined the band in Mountain Studios for a gathering with a difference. He had suffered a great deal of pain throughout the recording of Innuendo, which was now complete, yet he wanted to get straight back into the studio. He had also decided finally to confide in his three friends that he was dying of AIDS.
Typically, he invited no pity and simply said brusquely, ‘You probably realise what my problem is’ – which they did. He continued, ‘Well, that’s it, and I don’t want it to make a difference. I don’t want it to be known. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get on and work until I can’t work any more.’
For those on the receiving end of this barrage of commands, it was hard to take. Brian May later revealed, ‘I don’t think any of us will ever forget that day. We all went off and got quietly sick somewhere.’
A week later the title track ‘Innuendo’, an unusual number with its bolero-type rhythm, zoomed in at number one in the UK singles chart. Then, on 2 February, Queens Greatest Hits re-entered the album charts, two days before Innuendo was finally released. Like the single, it soared straight to the top but any pride in this achievement had been lost when they had filmed the video promo of a number entitled ‘I’m Going Slightly Mad’. The experience had been heartbreaking.
As the title suggests, the song’s lyrics centre on insanity and to reflect this on screen, all four band members were to portray differing exaggerated forms of madness. The shoot took place at Limehouse Studios and was directed by Hannes Rossacher and Rudi Dolezal. Mercury appeared with a bunch of enormous bananas on his head. He bounced on a pantomime gorilla’s knee, playfully punching its nose and raced around in circles wearing winkle-picker shoes, with his arms arched mock-threateningly above his head.
But a terrible sadness underpinned the filming. Mercury was now so ill that a bed had been set up nearby for him to lie down on between takes. He looked skeletal – and that was with an extra layer of clothes under his suit. The marks on his face were so pronounced that in order to camouflage them, his make-up was caked on. To hide his increasing hair loss, he wore an obvious wig.
Mercury was also in acute pain. To the astonishment of the crew though, he continued to run through with them the story board he had worked out for the shoot. They had been pre-warned that the star had muscle problems and, in particular, a knee injury, but none of that rang true. In one scene he had to crawl along the floor in front of a long leather sofa on which the other three were seated. That scene was agonising for him, but in the final cut no one would ever know this. He even took the trouble to comfort one of the penguins that featured in the video, when it became distressed under the hot lights. For all onlookers, it was hard to hide their emotions. Hardened hacks, by contrast, hung around outside the studios, hoping to catch someone off-guard as they left. But everyone was tight-lipped, and the official word was that Mercury had thoroughly enjoyed himself. ‘I’m Going Slightly Mad’ was released a month later, on 4 March.
After the shoot Mercury retreated once more. Naturally, the atmosphere at home was oppressive. Joe Fanelli could see his friend wasting away and was worried about his own future after the star died. When Mercury discovered this, he resolved to buy Fanelli a house. But Fanelli wasn’t the only one to entertain anxieties. Clearly Jim Hutton was aware of potentially similar problems. Hutton was under no illusions. He was aware that when Mercury died, the mansion would probably pass to Mary Austin. But at the same time his lover had expressed the wish that he should continue to live there. Personally Jim Hutton was not so sure that this was how things would work out.
Mid-May saw a third single release with ‘Headlong’. It was followed at the end of the month by filming of the poignant ballad entitled ‘These Are the Days of Our Lives’. It would be their last Queen promo. As in February, it was a distressing shoot, despite Mercury’s continuing bravery. Only Mercury, Taylor and Deacon took part in the filming. Brian May had been touring America, promoting Queen’s new album, and he was filmed separately, and his role later integrated in the editing room.
Simon Bates recalls that ‘Brian told me that when Freddie was making their last two videos he was so desperately ill that he could hardly walk, yet his eyes still sparkled, and he’d be saying, do it this way or that way.’ Although almost cadaverously thin, in baggy trousers, loose silk shirt and waistcoat, he managed to remain a stylish man. Despite everything, he was professional to the end.
No one knew when the end would come. Back in Montreux, May, Deacon and Taylor were only a phone call away and ready to record at a moment’s notice. Although their singer and friend battled on, he could not manage much time in the studio now. But work remained important to him, as it was the best way for him to keep his spirits from plummeting – and offered something positive to offset the sorrow of facing each day. Mary Austin later said, ‘I think that fed the light inside. Life wasn’t just taking him to the grave. There was something else he could make happen.’
The rest of the band’s contribution had been to provide Mercury with songs to sing, and he would, in turn, provide as much material to work with
after he was gone as he could produce. ‘Write me anything, and I’ll sing it,’ he told his three friends. They never knew as they watched him leave, drained and desperate to lie down, if they would ever see him again. In the last recorded interview he gave, the star spoke of hoping to cram as much fun into life as he could in the years he had left. But, the truth was, time was measured in months now.
In August Mercury heard that Paul Prenter, the man who had betrayed him to the Sun, had died of AIDS. He was soon to learn, too, Jim Hutton’s secret that he was HIV positive; traumatic news that devastated him. Mercury had tried driving himself hard and not giving in, but he became aware that he was living on borrowed time. In the peaceful world of his Swiss lakeside house he sought solitude to reach some vital decisions, one of which was that he didn’t want to hang on longer than his body could stand.
Mike Moran remembers this painful period: ‘A couple of months before Freddie died, I got a phone call from Peter Freestone asking, “Are you free on 5 September?” I said, “Yes. Why?” Peter replied, “Well, it’s Freddie’s birthday,” and of course we had never missed one – but we hadn’t thought that he would be celebrating this year. However, a handful of us went to Garden Lodge, and Freddie was still the perfect host. He didn’t have long left, and he knew it, but he was very calm about it, very relaxed and very pleased to see his friends. We watched old videos, told old stories and laughed, and Freddie bravely stuck it out to the end, staying until he saw everyone off. He was amazing.
‘After that, though, he didn’t want people to see him, because he was so bad. He and I kept in touch by phone, but if I suggested coming over he’d say to me, “No, you
don’t want to see me today, dear. I’m not looking very good.”’
Now a spectral figure, Mercury was so aware of his mortality that he began planning the details of his own funeral service. He had already laid out £1 million on ten houses for special friends, and now he made a will – a thirteen-page document that made the usual provisions for realising his estate, settling debts and taxes, and for the division of his wealth. He signed it on 17 September 1991 before two witnesses, and in it had appointed as executors John Libson and Henry James ‘Jim’ Beach. Not long after that he was so weak that he remained in bed most days, mainly asleep.
On 28 October, Queen released the album Greatest Hits Vol II. A fortnight before that their fortieth single, ‘The Show Must Go On’ had come out. As if the lyrics were not sufficiently haunting, the song’s video, which was premiered on Top of the Pops, looked like an obvious farewell – and only heightened fans’ fears that the end was near. Officially it was still denied that anything was seriously wrong, but by then few were really fooled. Some journalists had half written their obituaries, and in all areas of the music industry the general consensus was that Freddie Mercury was dying.
Although the star’s team of specialists did what they could to alleviate his suffering, his illness was an horrendous ordeal for Mercury. The AIDS virus infects brain cells and the central nervous system, which causes neurological disorders beyond the immune deficiency that renders the body effectively helpless against infection. By early November Mercury chose to come off most of his medication. His doctors advised him against this, but he was suffering blind spells and night sweats. Plagued by mouth and skin sores, he eventually needed to use breathing apparatus. Near the end he would not be able even to speak. And he had come to the point where he just wanted it all to end.
Apart from his doctors, regular visitors included Dave Clark and Mary Austin, by now pregnant again, along with Jim Hutton, Joe Fanelli and Peter Freestone. A constant vigil was kept on a rota basis at Mercury’s bedside. But an unwelcome presence at Garden Lodge had lately arrived in the shape of a burgeoning press contingent. The media ignorantly had settled themselves outside the house, assembling like vultures for bad news. Sometimes their tactless talk could be heard inside the sick room, upsetting those caring for him. Mercifully Mercury himself was too ill to make out their comments.
By the third week of November the star was existing on liquids alone and had almost entirely lost the use of his muscles. On the 22nd, Jim Beach arrived to go over the terms of an official statement that Mercury is said to have wanted to issue – and had supposedly worked on personally. Roger Taylor reckons that as Mercury had often remarked that he could ‘pop off at any time’, he hadn’t wanted to be cheated of his opportunity to make an announcement.
But Jim Hutton had no prior knowledge of this. Why, after years of obsessive secrecy, would he suddenly wish to confess all to the world? Hutton held the view that his lover was originally put under pressure to make this move. He contended that once convinced of the need to say something, Mercury then stipulated that he wanted it released worldwide – to prevent a scoop for the British gutter press.
On Saturday, 23 November, Queen’s PR officer, Roxy Meade, read out an official statement outside Garden Lodge, in which she stated on behalf of Queen’s lead singer that he had been tested positive for HIV and that he had AIDS. He felt it had come to the point at which he wanted his friends and fans to know the truth. And he hoped everyone would join him and his doctors in fighting to combat the killer disease. The statement made headline television news and filled newspaper front pages around the world the following day.
Sunday was a bleak day. The star’s doctor had been in attendance on and off for hours. Dave Clark had arrived, and Mary Austin shuttled urgently back and forth between Garden Lodge and her home nearby. Mercury was slipping in and out of consciousness. An attempt tenderly to move his emaciated body for a change of bed linen had resulted in one of his brittle bones breaking like a dry stick. He needed help to stroke his favourite cat, which had sat sentinel all day with her doting owner.
In the past week Mercury had felt himself fading. He realised he would never leave his house alive again. Just days before, weighing very little, he had insisted on enduring the agony of being carried downstairs to take one last long look around at his beautiful home packed with treasures, crammed with memories. After that he never moved from his bed again, and both Jim Hutton and Dave Clark were in the room with Mercury, when, just before seven o’clock in the evening, he died in his sleep.
Although hardly unexpected, his death was a great shock, and grief was immense. Joe Fanelli had gone to fetch the doctor, who had been leaving to pack an overnight bag, but he was too late. Mary Austin had not long said her goodbyes to Mercury, kissing him and holding his hand as she told him she loved him and respected his bravery. He couldn’t reply, and she had fled his bedroom in tears. His parents, although summoned from Feltham, had not managed to arrive in time, and Jim Beach, who had left for America directly after meeting Mercury that Friday, had to be contacted in Los Angeles.
The rest of Queen were also told, and just before midnight the news was announced publicly. There was a brief statement that read: ‘Freddie Mercury died peacefully this evening at his home. His death was the result of bronchopneumonia, brought on by AIDS.’ After twelve years as Mercury’s personal aide, making sure he always left the house perfectly dressed, Peter Freestone provided a final service for his friend and helped with the laying out. Shortly afterwards the star’s body was removed from the house and taken to a secret location in west London. There was a police escort to prevent the more aggressive members of the press from tailing them.
Reporters converged on Mary Austin at the first opportunity. Tearfully she told them that Mercury had known that the end was coming, adding, ‘But he kept his sense of humour right to the end. He told me he had no regrets.’
For months the tabloid pressure on Taylor, May and Deacon had been relentless. It was so intense that, as Taylor later admitted, they had often debated among themselves whether or not they could – or should – honour their promise to the singer. But after twenty-one years together, they had bonded more than ever in the face of his illness and had kept his secret. Now unwilling to endure an interrogation from the very journalists to whom
they’d repeatedly had to lie, they issued a joint press statement, expressing their overwhelming sadness at losing Mercury.
With the public announcement, distraught fans arrived in Kensington in their droves, some carrying placards, to gather outside the walled garden. Although they had feared the worst for a long time, now that Mercury had died they felt devastated. It was a kind of solace for them just to join together in their grief and stand in tribute to the star they had adored. The floral tributes flooded in, too, from mourners in all walks of life, and the Hammersmith Odeon, scene of many Queen triumphs, displayed the neon message FREDDIE MERCURY. WE WILL MISS YOU!
It had been Mercury’s wish to be cremated. The twenty-five-minute service took place three days later at the West London Crematorium in Harrow Road. It was a private affair on a bitterly cold day with only a few special friends joining the star’s family and relations. The ceremony was conducted in the ancient Avestan language, in accordance with the Zoroastrian faith, with both priests dressed in white robes, chanting traditional prayers. Adhering to Mercury’s instructions, gospel music by Aretha Franklin was also played, as well as an aria from Verdi by Montserrat Caballé.
In the aftermath many people queued to pay their public tribute to Freddie Mercury. Elton John maintained that ‘Quite simply he was one of the most important figures in rock ’n’ roll in the last twenty years.’
Francis Rossi added, ‘Freddie was one of the élite few who could really set a stadium alight.’
And pop pundit Paul Gambaccini declared, ‘What a star! They don’t make them like him any more!’
Freddie Mercury: The Biography Page 24
