Queen Unseen Read online

  He also had an abundance of crap piled on him from some areas of the press and tabloids, who were only interested in his weaknesses, lifestyle and sexuality. Despite being a very strong-minded man, it did hurt him sometimes. When the fans are getting on to a top football player because he’s out of form or not scoring, he answers them in the best way – by getting the winning goal or, better still, a hat trick. Fred answered the media by writing another hit single, and Queen by producing another platinum album and getting rave reviews for the record-breaking live show to prove they truly were ‘the champions’.

  The end of the ‘Champions’ encore was the end of the show, when the lighting rig, with every light full on, moved and tilted towards the audience as smoke and dry ice covered the stage, engulfing the band. After taking their bows, hot and sweaty Queen would bounce off stage right, to the sound of audience appreciation and the ‘God Save The Queen’ tape. Towelling robes were thrown around them by assistants as they were ushered back to the dressing room, where they would either celebrate, argue or sit in stony silence. Then, after a short period, repeat or rotate those three options.

  How had they played tonight? How did they go down? On the nights when Queen played really well, they were truly something special and magical. When they did not, we knew and they knew, but the audience never complained. For them it was always going to be good! However, certain cities and venues certainly brought out the best in Queen and their audiences: The LA Forum, Madison Square Garden, the Montreal Forum, the Fest Halle in Frankfurt, the Budokan in Tokyo and shows in Holland or London immediately come to mind, and were where the band always found something extra. The final Magic tour in 1986 had many huge outdoor venues where the band excelled, and the 1981 South American outdoor shows were magnificent – the third Buenos Aires show at the Velez Sarsfield stadium was, in my opinion, the best outdoor show Queen ever played.

  Nobody except the closest personnel would be allowed into the dressing room after a show until the mood was deemed right. At times, the room would be cleared completely while just the four members of Queen discussed the evening. If things had gone wrong during the show then the respective heads of department would be summoned to analyse the poor performance. Gerry Stickells, Queen’s tour manager, would get most of the initial wrath for missed cues, equipment problems, poor sound or the pattern of the dressing-room carpet.

  Once the band had left the stage, the show was over. Except that we still had another show to do, and the activity immediately began in earnest, the moment the band left the stage – even before the tape finished and house lights came back up. The stage had to be cleared ASAP, as until that happened none of the sound or lighting in the ‘air’ could be lowered down for dismantling. Firstly though, a quick check of the stage was done to see what goodies or interesting items had been thrown up. These varied depending on which country we were in and included cards and letters addressed to the band (binned), coins, grass joints, key rings (kept), soft toys (kept, then blown up with pyrotechnic powder), cassettes (usually kept – to record over), sketches of the band and poems (binned), cigarettes, T-shirts (sometimes kept) and female underwear (kept – and filed…).

  On the 1980 US tour, a few disposable razors were thrown on stage during shows by fans, in protest at Fred having grown a moustache – he predictably told them to ‘Fuck Off!’. Then, as he chatted to the audience between songs, a moustached and check-shirted ‘clone’ placed a small shiny metal circle at Fred’s feet at the front of the catwalk. Fred picked it up.

  ‘What have we here?’ he screeched, holding it up. ‘It’s a cock ring! Thank you, my dear.’

  He came over to stage right and handed it to me. I thought it looked like a designer napkin ring. I was putting it away into BLU 8, my road tool-case, which held many surprises, when Paul Prenter, the band’s voraciously gay assistant, bounded over and barked in my ear: ‘Give it to me – I want it!’ No problem – it would have ended up in the toolbox hardware drawer with the other screws, bolts, nuts, etc. Paul obviously had other plans for it, which no doubt included screws, nuts and bolting…

  Having stashed any decent booty, the ‘tear down’ began in fraught but well-organised order. Anything taped down was un-taped and the heavy-duty gaffer tape rolled and moulded into hard balls, which were thrown at whoever was in line at the time. The local stagehands immediately cleared the stage of all liquids: drinks in cups, open cans, etc., into large plastic bins that were placed at the back of the stage. As John always had a good selection of drinks laid out for him, some of these would be consumed first as a bonus. Soundman Tony ‘Lips’ Rossi would be first in. The economic Rossi, also nicknamed The Love Criminal, over a period of three shows took the remnants of different bottles of John’s red wine to make up a full one. When quizzed as to why he had this re-corked and by now dubious winter 1980 vintage, he explained he was planning to woo the upper-class manageress of support act Straight Eight, a formidable fiery redhead. Some task for a streetwise Italian-American from Pennsylvania. Fully armed with the bottle of wine and a tiny amount of toot he had squirreled away, Rossi slipped over to The Park Hotel in Bremen to undertake the grand seduction. It worked. They even got married! But not for long.

  Once the stage was almost clear and all my gear was safely away, I would dash out to the truck, which was already in position with the ramp attached, to start packing. I would run into the empty trailer with the driver, and together with a team of loaders stack and place the cases like a jigsaw. In some places in America the heavy house unions would only allow the crew to point and direct loading but not physically touch the equipment. I didn’t argue – but it did slow things up considerably.

  While loading out, one of the obstacles incurred was that of liggers: tenuously connected persons who attend rock shows – and are somehow always in the way! The cast of ‘has-beens who never were’ included all manner of poseurs, only interested in being seen backstage (preferably in the company of the band or celebrity visitors), enjoying free food and drink, invites to after-show parties and exclusive passes or souvenir handouts. Anything that made them look or feel important.

  Liggers adopted the attitude that the whole show has been put on solely for their amusement. Dirty roadie types? Uuugh! These self-important ‘luvvies’ and friends of friends never attended in Wurzburg, Newcastle or Omaha, Nebraska.

  At least they were never allowed on stage during a show. That was strictly for crew, and occasionally very close associates and wives or girlfriends were allowed to watch from the wings.

  ‘Ratty, there’s a special guest here tonight. We’ve said he can watch the show from your side of the stage.’

  ‘No way! These people just get in the way. They just don’t understand. I have so much to do during the show, and you know what Fred’s like. No way.’

  ‘Sorry Ratty – we’ve already told him.’

  ‘And I’ve told you! No way! That side of the stage has to be kept clear for me to work.’

  ‘Ratty…’

  ‘No, absolutely no way – do you hear me?’

  ‘It’s Mick Jagger!’

  ‘Oh, all right then. What would he like to drink…?’

  An Englishman’s home is his castle and an English roadie’s castle is the stage – his fortress and safe haven, secured during show time by Queen’s minders, a mixed bunch of wall-to-wall muscled Americans and likely lads from London’s East End: Big Paul, Big Doug, Tunbridge, Big Wally, Wally Gore, Big Terry, Big Black Vic – in fact, all the US-born minders were very BIG lads indeed. At one time in 1981, all three minders on tour were called Wally – the three Wallies! Minder Mad Jack, a scary martial arts expert, once saw a seedy-looking figure lurking beneath Fred’s piano and pounced to drag him out. That shadowy character was me. Jack didn’t last the tour.

  Another short-lived minder was a muscle-bound chap whose revealing photos were discovered in a gay magazine – and handed around the crew of course.

  The band party also included, at Fred’s req
uest, a physiotherapist from Munich who had looked after Fred when he was recuperating from a knee-ligament injury, inflicted in 1984 during his tour of duty in the city’s bars and clubs. Fred was understandably nervous that his knee might not stand all the punishment he gave it on stage. Freddie Mercury was many things, primarily a musician who sang and performed on stage with the stamina of a professional athlete. Did he train? Did he work hard to get in shape prior to gruelling tours? Did he have a disciplined exercise and diet regime? No. A few stretches occasionally and an enormous self-belief. And a few vodkas.

  Dieter Breit, the physiotherapist, was known as The Fizz and deemed a luxury in some quarters, but rescued Fred and several shows when the Mercurial knee went during a performance in Hanover later in ’84. He also sorted out Roger’s badly sprained ankle after a fall in Sun City weeks later. Touring is hard on the body and The Fizz regularly worked on my back when it ‘went’. Usually after being thrown across the lobby of a hotel by one of my large drunken American crew mates!

  So, load out took varying times depending on the state of my back, the liggers, access for the truck, the local crew and whether we were staying in town and had the incentive of a good party to go to. Load out could take several hours, but in Tempe, Arizona, where the truck backed directly up to the stage, and we had a very efficient local crew, it took around 45 minutes from Queen leaving the stage to the band gear truck doors being closed. A 45-foot trailer. A foot a minute, a personal record. Packing trucks is a grubby and unpleasant procedure, punctuated by banged shins, scuffs, splinters, bruises and trapped fingers. As I packed the truck, I always made sure I had cigarettes and drinks at the back of the truck to smooth the way with the locals. Truck packing was never fun, just a task that had to be done in high spirits in order to get it done, but when it was cold, damp and we encountered sub-zero temperatures, it was a truly miserable experience. Yugoslavia in 1979, midwinter: Fred presents me with a gift to keep warm while packing the truck – a brightly coloured matching set of woollen hat and gloves. I was touched. Woven by local craftsmen and bought from some Eastern European artisan co-operative shop? No: the local branch of C&A, Zagreb.

  It was while loading a truck as a teenager that I acquired the origins of my nickname. Called on to do all the dirty jobs, including crawling in the gap between the top of the stacked gear and the truck roof, to slot some small item into the puzzle, the truck driver on this particular Mott The Hoople tour in 1974 said that with my long, lank greasy hair and skinny body I looked like a rat scurrying about. ‘The Rat’ as I was called became ‘Ratty’, courtesy of Brian May at my first Queen rehearsals a year later – and it stuck. When on the first day of rehearsals Fred was told his new roadie was one of the guys who had worked for Mott, and was called the Rat; with a twirl and flick of the Mercury wrist, adorned with a silver snake bracelet, he replied pompously: ‘Oh no! – I shall call him Peter.’ Didn’t last long.

  Fred, being Fred, put his own embroidery on my nickname, and with a French slant, I became ‘Ratoise’. Or occasionally when he wanted to communicate with the common man (me) and get his attention, he would shout in a mockney accent: ‘’Ere – Rats!’

  Once the truck doors were shut and padlocked, it was time to try to come down off the adrenaline rush from the intensity of marshalling the equipment at the end of an energy-packed show. Now we were free – until the next show. What happened next was subject to where we were going and by what method. If driving, then I wanted to get away immediately, and would not touch a drop of alcohol. If staying in town, we either headed to the hotel to clean up and splash on a bit of Brut aftershave – or, if time did not permit, we’d go in our working clothes straight to the club, bar or party. Some women like the smell of a working man – so I’m told.

  Pheromones or something.

  Queen often played multiple shows at venues, which gave us opportunity for a night out – after a night’s work. Once the gear had been shut down and everything secured and locked away, we would go to the band’s dressing room, as they would usually be there winding down. Apart from getting some free quality booze, and a post-show snack, maybe, it was also an opportunity to chat directly about any aspects of the show.

  Depending on where we playing, there would be invited guests in the dressing room after the show, but never many. My mum and dad would attend shows on UK tours, usually in the Midlands or west of England areas. At the NEC Arena in Birmingham, I took my parents into the dressing room, where Fred was still lounging in his dressing gown. He immediately made a huge fuss of my mum, and sat her on his knee, asking all about her and what she had been doing. Despite not having a large family, Fred was very family orientated, and involved himself with other people’s relatives with genuine enthusiasm. My dad sat outside the dressing room on some steps with John Deacon, chatting like two regular blokes – cans of beer in their hands. Brian and Roger also warmly welcomed my parents, recognising and remembering them when they arrived.

  Mum would often embarrass me by bringing food to shows for me.

  ‘Mum – they do feed us, you know.’

  ‘You look very pale – and so thin’

  ‘Well, it’s hard work – and I’m not thin – I’m lean – fit.’

  A popular homemade item were her jars of pickled onions, which Trip Khalaf, Queen’s American sound engineer, in particular loved.

  He always greeted her by saying, ‘Hello, Mrs Hince.’ Then he’d point at me and add, shaking his head, ‘What’s it like to be the most embarrassed woman in England?’

  She took it in good spirits.

  If, after the show, we were travelling overnight by bus, then there was time to wind down on board until the sound crew, with whom we travelled, were ready.

  Queen had normally vacated the dressing room at this point, so we would make that our first stop to see what scraps of food could be plundered.

  On early tours in the mid-’70s before we had our own caterers travelling with us, there was very little. The economic promoter had got his aide to clear the remaining food once the band had left – and it could be recycled the following day, no doubt the promoter charging full whack for it. The same aide had been critical of Queen’s crew, so we decided he needed to be taught a lesson. He had bought himself a smart white sports shirt and left it in the dressing room for safekeeping. It was hijacked, placed on the pavement outside Newcastle City Hall and set on fire with lighter fuel.

  When he asked if anybody had seen his prized new purchase, he was handed a set of Polaroids showing the shirt ablaze and final charred remains. He left us some cheese and biscuits every night after that.

  In Europe, we could always raid the catering area, where ‘trough time’, the evening meal, was served by our regular tour caterers: Toad In The Hole of Barry Wales. Barry Wales? Not a comic character but the small seaside town of Barry Island in South Wales where the unlikely outfit all lived. Now I realise that St David is the patron saint of Wales, but are all the male inhabitants named after him? The company owner was Dave Keeble and his regular cooks were Dave Thomas and Dave Lewis. These three were collectively and affectionately known as ‘Dave, Dave and Dave’. As Queen tours got larger, they took an extra cook out with them called Steve, and they became: ‘Dave, Dave, Dave and not Dave!’

  This Welsh quartet – also known as The Taffia, Stomach Saboteurs and Culinary Criminals – prepared generally hearty fare to sustain a hard-working crew: steaks, shepherds pie, spaghetti bolognese, chilli con carne and so on. They did, however, cater for the growing band of vegetarians – omelettes! The caterers also supplied Queen’s dressing-room requirements, and Dave x 3 + 1 attempted to vary the basic menu by using local products and specialities from the regions of Europe we visited. The American contingent of the crew had continually nagged them to get turkey to celebrate their traditional Thanksgiving dinner, though the stage manager vainly tried to convince them that in Boston the traditional holiday food was the finest fresh lobster. He had to settle for Thousand on a Raft �
� known in haute cuisine circles as beans on toast. Local produce was supplemented by all the vital garnishes transported from England: Marmite, HP sauce, Worcester sauce, marmalade and English mustard.

  Replete on our masters’ dressing-room leftovers, we would amble around the venue as the show was dismantled and the building rearranged for its next engagement. Walking into an empty arena at this point was a prosaic experience. A vast space, that only an hour or two earlier had transfixed a gathering of thousands with a glittering spectacle, was now a cacophony of folded metal chairs being stacked, industrial cleaning machines humming, rasping forklift trucks manoeuvring, lighting trusses and chains striking abrasive contact and a multitude of voices straining to shout and bark instructions and insults above the din. Smoke and pyrotechnic dust still hung in the air and mixed with pungent cleaning fluids, emissions from the forklifts and squashed, abandoned popcorn – it all left a sickly, sweet rasp in the throat. Tomorrow was another day and the cold concrete cocoon would house the hopes and dreams of another section of the community and their particular passions. Meanwhile, tonight, the victorious gladiators had left the coliseum and the magical genie was safely back in the bottle – ready to be unleashed again tomorrow.

  The uniformed Hispanic and Asian immigrant cleaners who mopped the floors and cleaned toilets in the US arenas, with their fluorescent yellow buckets on wheels, didn’t care who Freddie Mercury or any rock act was as they tried to keep America sanitary. They just wanted to be at home with their families and the better life America and her dream had given them. The good life.

  Hang on a moment – what was I doing with my own life? True, it was a good life: travelling the world with lashings of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll thrown in, but I could have been doing something worthwhile: working for charity in the third world, medical research, campaigning about global warming and pollution. These are things I have thought about since – but certainly not at the time – I was having too much fun. And just how did I get here? Where did it all start? In a supermarket in Fulham, south west London. Not stacking shelves, but amps and speaker cabinets.