Sept 06:

In the week that would have marked Freddie's 60th birthday, I had the privilege of attending the party at the Dominion Theatre in aid of the Mercury Phoenix Trust, and become the proud owner of both the CD and DVD, "Lover of Life, Singer of Songs", which focuses on Freddie's solo material, but the DVD also contains 'The Unknown Story' documentary of Freddie's life. In my constant quest for written material about Queen, I came across this article "Bravo, Sir Frederick!" from the December 1988 issue of Q magazine, which, I believe, is transcribed for the first time on the internet. This is definitely one of the last press interviews Freddie gave. It is reproduced here verbatim as I think it is fair to show the struggles Freddie was clearly facing, the knowledge of his illness being one, the sheer ignorance of a large part of the media another, which in turn lead to the poor relationship he had with journalists. The article has its moments of high quality writing and wit, and, it appears, the writer is giving a blatantly honest perspective:

Fountains tinkle, Fireworks cascade in the warm Spanish sky. And 40,000 people eagerly await a mimed operatic spectacle involving a besequinned diva and the lead singer of Queen. Freddie Mercury to about to explain his latest musical indulgence. Adrian Deevoy is granted an audience.

Never having been one to opt for the outrageous when the downright preposterous will do, Freddie Mercury concludes his operatic concert by attempting to blow up Barcelona with fireworks. It is unanimously proclaimed to be the most awesome pyrotechnic display this side of the four-minute warning.

 The pungent aftermath of the apocalyptic finale is hanging heavy in the still night air. So dense, in fact, is the smog that the small band of British journalists walking nonchalantly into the backstage area can hardly see the Spanish policeman’s hand in front of their faces.

 “No press,” he says flatly.

 It’s OK, we explain showing him assorted press cards and passes, we are guest of honour of the extravaganza.

 “No press,” he repeats eyeing the identification contemptuously.

 You don’t understand, we persist, we have flown from England to witness this spectacular event and now we are going to meet Mr Mercury.

 He exhales slowly, unfastens the flap on his holster and curls his hand around the butt of his government-issue revolver.

 “No press,” he says, with the air of a man winning a particularly effortless chess match.

Caption: Sir Frederick meet The King and Queen of Spain at a reception for La Nit, the concert to celebrate the start of preparations for the Olympic Games in Barcelona in 1992.

This is the first indication that despite impressions to the contrary, sitting down for a heart-to-heart with Freddie Mercury will be considerably more troublesome than anyone had envisaged.

 We wander into the bustling city center feeling confused and a little wounded, although admittedly not quite as wounded as we could have been. What we had told the policeman had, quite remarkably for the British press, been true. Freddie Mercury had paid for us to come Barcelona (sic) to see this, his first bona fide live appearance for two years. He was, we were told, attempting to bring opera to the people. Hence he had found himself a diva in the amply proportioned Spanish opera singer Montserrat Caballé, had a hit single – Barcelona – and recorded an album of the same name. Now he was holding a concert. And if we were very lucky he might just talk about it.

 Originally Freddie had intended to forego the concert and instead throw a party to end all parties to which all his “friends” from the press would be invited. He promised fire-eaters, dancing bears, unicycling waiters, bearded women juggling live dwarves, that sort of thing. But in the restless tradition of true genius, he became bored with this idea before they had even auditioned the first hopeful midget. Instead, he decided, he would treat us and 40,000 others to the finest and most diverse concert he could muster. it would combine his much-loved opera with rock’n’roll, ballet, gospel, pop, classical, reggae and choral music. If variety was – as lesser philosophers had claimed – the spice of life, then this, Freddie declared, would be a veritable vindaloo. In order to give the concert – going under the banner, with presumably no puns intended, of La Nit – even greater appeal, it would (albeit somewhat prematurely) sound the starting pistol for Barcelona’s 1992 Olympic preparations.

 Another sizable media-attracting carrot cunningly dangled by Mercury’s PR people was the news that King Jun Carlos and his Queen-styled other half would not only attend the show but that the British press, being some sort of honoured guests, would share a box with the royal Spanish personages.

 Say no more, said the British press corps, and pausing only to remove do-eared press cards from our trilbys and insert them into more climatically suitable sombreros, we were off to sunny Spain in search of stories true and tall.

 “I’m only really going for the King and Queen angle,” says the man from the Sunday Express on the Barcelona-bound plane. “I just want to introduce myself with a view to doing an ‘At Home With…’ feature in the future.”

 “I’m not actually interested in the concert,” says a freelance Fleet Street photogrpher between mouthfuls of gratis champagne. “Everyone will have concert stuff. I just want to see what I can get backstage. Old Freddie doing something daft or anyone that shouldn’t be seen with anyone – if you get my drift.”

 “I can see the headline now,” giggle The Times to The Guardian, “The Two Queens!”

Upon our arrival we are regretfully informed that the press are not staying in the same Barcelona hotel as Freddie and friends. We are, in fact, a mile or so away in a smaller establishment where practicality takes precedence over luxury. Interestingly this is not due to the fact that the hotel in which Mercury and entourage are staying is fully booked. Indeed, the receptionist says they have “many rooms”.

 It would seem that Freddie wants to court the press without having any physical contact with them. In keeping with this, his PR people tell us that Freddie does not like, and consequently does not do, interviews, But, we are conspiratorially advised, if we mill about backstage during or after the concert we may be able to catch the occasional pearl of wisdom or screamingly witty conversational gem should we be fortunate enough to be within earshot of the great man.

 The concert takes place at the head of Barcelona’s Avinguda De Maria Cristina, a huge fountain-lined road the equivalent size and position of The Mall in London. Approximately 40,000 people stand an eye-straining hundred yards from the action whilst those willing to pay more for the privilege have seats in front of the stage.

 We members of the British press soon discover that we will not be sharing a box with either the King or the Queen of Spain. In reality we are just about sharing the same city as the royal box, which is situated some two hundred yards from the press area. Thus the Sunday Express’s chances of an ‘At Home With…’ feature appear more than a little remote.

 A warm ripple of applause washes across the audience and the fountains well as Montserrat Caballé opens the show with a powerful blast of her turbocharged soprano. A minor problem with the sound system ensures that her voice, which barely needs amplification, is actually 30 times louder than it needs to be and is almost responsible for the largest collective nose bleed in medical history.

 A small procession of large operatic persons follow the mighty Montserrat. Some perform opera classics, others hit a more contemporary note with heftily vibrated renditions of Summertime and My Way.

 Then, surprisingly, Rudolph Nureyev and a friend materialize virtually unannounced – in what appear to be customized Celtic football kits – and perform a bizarre modern dance. They attract an enthusiastic if slightly non-plussed audience response. After a short interval, a leather-clad figure with three-foot long dreadlocks takes the stage. The King and Queen make a polite exit – taking with them 40 courtiers. From this we can deduce that the rock set is about to commence. From the pounding rock-reggae rhythms and familiar “Give me hope, Jo’hana” refrain we also deduce that the man on stage is Eddy Grant. Sporadic bursts of unself-conscious crazy-bonkers dancing break out among the foreign contingent of the press. The British reporters quasi-rhythmically tap their approval on paper cups struggling manfully to contain the “lively” wine of the region.

 As quickly as he appeared, Eddy Grant vanishes, his two songs completed. His place in the spotlight is swiftly taken by a rather drawn-looking Dionne Warwick, who tells us, by way of an introduction to the person waiting in the wings, that four people were responsible for defining rock’n’roll: Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and our next guest. Who could it be? Wayne Fontana? Gilbert O’Sullivan? Midge Ure? The conjecture is humanely brought to an end by the arrival of a lean, mean-looking man in his sixties. Jerry Lee Lewis, for it is he, hurls himself into a firey Whole Lotta Shakin’, his right hand alternating between punishing the upper register of his piano and tossing back the independent life-form that is his huge greasy fringe. Mid-way, he mule-kicks his piano-stool across the stage and attempts unsuccessfully to raise his right foot to the keyboard. As if he is being paid by the second, he collects jacket and exits stage right leaving the pick-up band to complete the job while he, presumably, collects the cash. Following a quick spate of journalistic jokes regarding The Killer’s infamous libidinous predilections, it strikes the assembled company that Lisa Marie Presley might be present, as she has recently been collaborating with the curmudgeonly legend on some new material. With the scent of scandal in the nostrils, a couple of writers scuttle away to investigate another potential exclusive, missing as they do Suzanne Vega’s Spanish language version of Luka, a song about child abuse.

 “Buenos noches, Barcelona! How ya doin’? Awlwight?” Spandau Ballet are, by all accounts, “big in Spain” and three songs later the crowd are indeed, judging by the noise, “awlwight”, warmed up and, in a very real sense, ready for Freddie.

 The orchestra heralds his arrival with an appropriately grandiose signature tune. He makes his entrance hand in hand with Montserrat, she in an alarmingly large frock, he in an uncomfortably tight tuxedo. Mercury’s voice is immediately overshadowed by Cabballé’s well-drilled trilling and swooping. It is soon quite plain that his is not a strong operatic voice but a warbling rock tenor with cod-operatic pretensions. Comically, Mercury has also obviously experienced some difficulty in moderating his stage performance and seems to be constantly wrestling with a desire to finger a few hairy-chested air-guitar riffs on his microphone stand. That is, until you realise that there is no microphone stand. There is as a matter of fact, no microphone. Amidst all the booming and shrieking and violently passionate body language of their song, Barcelona, the realisation suddenly dawns that they are miming. The fireworks at the climax come as a welcome distraction to the poorly executed lip-synching. Back in the British press box, two bombshells of a less spectacular nature have been dropped; firstly, it is revealed that no press will be allowed into the backstage enclosure as Freddie just wants to relax with a few close acquaintances after the show; secondly, the photographers have discovered that the man from the Mirror has been in Spain for the past two days photographing Freddie and Juan Carlos. To cap it all, his pictures will be available for publication in London before they even return. “We’ve completely wasted our fucking time,” points out the man from The Sun, astutely.

  So what must one do in order to meet Frederick Bulsara, 41, the man for whom the word “ludicrous” has never been entirely adequate? The unblushing front-person of Queen who attempted to marry Madame Butterfly to Led Zeppelin whilst wearing a pink feather boa, having apparently secreted several pounds of root vegetables down his ballet tights. Her he is, the wrist-flicking pianist and melodramatic lyricist whom even Beelzebub couldn’t stand the sight of. The macho-moustachioed bon viveur who could never decide whether to toss roses to his adoring fans or show them his bottom.

 Although it has been some time since he has granted an interview, he still finds shaking hands with the press a painful experience, having had his fingers burnt badly in the past. Previous encounters with journalists have found Mercury proudly recounting tales of crass sexism, appalling wad-waving and indecent ego exposure. Much to his surprise, these unsavoury boasts were reproduced verbatim, invariably casting him as unbearably self-infatuated or obnoxiously arrogant. But he can’t really be like that, can he?

 In a last ditch effort to achieve congress of some description with the elusive showman, I revisit the entrance to backstage where another, younger policeman is now on duty. Press cards are dutifully displayed.

 “Ah,” he says, “Press? One moment, please.” This looks very hopeful. He confers quietly with another officer and returns scowling.

 “No press.”

Caption: Freddie and backing singer Debbie Bishop enjoy some post-performance Spanish cuisine: "We might do something live but My God, I'll need a lot of rehearsal". 

 Back in the hotel at 2am there is a faint air of desperation. Stories need to be filed and no-one has a notion what to write. The men from The Sun and The Times receive the information that the reason for Mercury’s miming was a previously unannounced “throat infection”. This forms the basis for both their stories; The Times takes the opportunity to snipe gratuitously at Spandau Ballet, calling them “lumpen lager louts”; The Sun uses Mercury’s ailment as an excuse to speculate, in its inimitable fashion, as to whether or not Mercury has AIDS.

 Outside on the pavement, the empty-handed photographers have decided to cut their losses and “go out and get blitzed”. They stop a taxi and inform the driver of their intentions. “Ah, yes,” smirks the rotund cabbie offering a vigorous variation on the Twist. “You want go deesco deesco, yes?” “No, Manuel,” quips a waggish smudge to a chorus of hearty belly-laughs, “we want go drinko drinko.”

No-one is cracking jokes at the airport the following morning. Most have remembered what they were drinking to forget and only have a hangover to show for a hard weekend’s snapping and snooping.

 Whilst waiting for a connecting flight in Brussels tempers begin to fray and a photographer lets the record company representative know exactly what’s on everyone’s mind. While this minor fracas is taking place, Freddie Mercury’s PR explains that all is not lost. The lack of access had been due to Mercury’s distrust of Fleet Street, but he will talk to Q – only briefly mind – at a party he is throwing in the strangely named Crush Bar at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden tomorrow lunchtime.

The party, it transpires, is the UK launch for the Barcelona album and the world and his whippet are in attendance. Media folk from TV, radio, press, record companies have come, many with friends and immediate family, to drink a drop of “the old shampoo” and eat the posh scoff. As the chintzy bar fills to near capacity the chances of a quiet tête-à-tête with the man Mercury appear to be slimming by the minute. A reverential hush and a blast of the inevitable Barcelona and Freddie, diva in tow, is among us once again. Simpering benevolently and stopping to occasionally press some particularly influential flesh, he makes his way to a central table where he sits upright, lights a low-tar cigarette and fidgets with his champagne glass, looking for all the world as if he finds this mildly tiresome. Suddenly I am whisked into his presence. He looks pained and takes two tiny, impatient puffs on his cigarette. “Let’s not make this too long, eh?” he grimaces.

 Surely an aspiring opera singer shouldn’t be smoking?

 “Oh do fuck off,” he laughs, theatrically propelling a column of smoke heavenwards. “Ask your questions.”

 Why opera?

 “It was all her,” he says motioning lazily towards Caballé. “I just thought, and still think, that she has a marvellous voice and on Spanish television about a year, a year and a half ago I happened to mention it and she came to hear it and she called me up and said, Let’s try to do something, see if we can musically get something together. So we met in Barcelona and the story unfolds from there.”

 But what was the appeal of opera?

 “I just liked her voice,” he repeats adjusting his cuffs agitatedly. “Whether it be opera or whatever I just think she has this remarkable voice. And I was willing just to go on liking it, never thinking that she’d ask me to sing with her. Then it was, Oh my God!”

 How will Queen fans react to this particular musical indulgence?

 “I don’t know,” he sighs, making eye contact briefly for the first time. “I’ll have to find out. It is a bit of a thingy. You can’t put it under a label can you? The worst thing they call it is rock opera, which is so boring, actually. You can’t label it in any way because I’m doing songs that I’ve never done before, the sort of songs to suit our voices. I found it very difficult writing them and singing them because all the registers had to be right and they’re all duets.”

 Was he daunted when he first met Caballé?

 “Now I’m getting to know here it’s all right but at first…my God!” He tosses a hand limply into the air. “I didn’t know how to approach her or anything. You have this sort of idea of a super diva walking in but she really made me feel at ease.”

 Did she have any suspicions about him?

 “I asked her and everything and she said she’d heard of me and everything and before we met she’d got all my albums and started listening to all the old Queen records because she thought she was going to have to sing something like that! I said, No, no, I’m not going to give you all those Brian May guitar parts to sing, that’s the last thing I want to do! I think she though it would be more a rock’n’roll thing.”

  Did it make him reappraise his voice?

 “No, no, no,” he tutus disapprovingly. “in fact she did make me sing in different ways. Like she said, use your baritone, But, no, no, no. I didn’t take any lessons.”

 Why, I venture, did he mime in Spain?

 “I tell you what,” he announces, quite prepared for the question, “I really didn’t want to sing live because for that we’d need a lot of rehearsals. It’s a very difficult thing for me. They’re complex songs and we just didn’t have enough rehearsal time and we could have not done it all but because of the Olympic committee and all that we had to be represented.”

 Did he feel he was letting people down?

 “No, rubbish,” he spits petulantly. “We were there. We haven’t actually done anything live and I didn’t want to just go and, well you know…

 There will come a time when we might do something live but my God, I’ll tell you, I’ll need a lot of rehearsal. Weeks and weeks of it. I’ve never done things with orchestras and if my voice was not to come up to scratch I’d be letting her down. I didn’t want to take any chances.”

 What went through his mind before he took the stage in Barcelona? Was he nervous?

 “Well yeah,” he nods, “I was nervous. It was a cultural event. They had Dionne Warwick and Nureyev dancing so it was a mish-mash for everybody.”

 Will rock’n’roll be a bit of a come down after this?

 “No, not at all, because I’m currently working on a Queen album. I’ll never forget that. That will come out in April or May next year.”

 Does  he find it hard to keep the rock performer in him at bay whilst performing opera?

 “I still find myself wanting to do this,” he says striking a familiar bicep-flexing pose. “It’s strange for me to be wearing a tuxedo. But did you see her? Flying about all over the place!”

 Does he share any common interests with his diva?

 “We have a certain type of humour which is nice. I though, My God! – because you always think opera divas are going to be austere and very sort of frightening - but she jokes and she swears and you know, she’s a human being. It’s good. She doesn’t take herself too seriously.”

 Isn’t all this the campest thing?

 “Do you think she’s camp?” he asks laughing. “It’s so ridiculous when you think about it. Her and me together. But if we have something musically together it doesn’t matter what we look like or where we come from.”

 Has he missed playing live with Queen?

 “I do miss it to a certain extent,” he says, toying impatiently with his lighter, “but I want to do the album first so we’ve got something to play live. I know I haven’t done a live show for about two years but…I can’t fucking do everything all the time!”

 He laughs nervously at his outrageous closing quote and reaches for his low-tar cigarettes.

 “Anyway, dear, let’s have a breather, huh?”

Caption: Fred and his diva pose for their chums from Fleet Street: "I happened to mention that she had a marvellous voice on Spanish TV and she asked me to sing with her. Then it was, Oh my God!"