Queen Unseen

by Peter Hince

  Japanese nights brought the streets and seafood to life in neon-clad automatons, as giant crabs snapped their rotating pincers overhead, alongside fluorescent pink, smiling and singing shrimp. In vast hangar-like amusement arcades and Pechinko Halls, rows of people sat transfixed at machines, as thousands of metal balls rattled through channels and holes – occasionally vomiting out into the win tray. No apparent skill was required. Weird. Then I saw the Mole Bashing Machine! This mechanical amusement involved hitting the heads of plastic, replica moles with a mallet, as they randomly popped up from their holes – a direct hit causing a squeak of pain and points on the board. Good therapy for getting your frustrations out.

  Japanese cities also featured thousands of vending machines that perked up at night, in order to sustain the inhabitants with everything from beer and sake to toothbrushes and used schoolgirls’ (white) underwear. These vividly illuminated machines became an amusing diversion as I staggered back to my hotel. The two drinks I just had to try from these machines were ‘Tasty Drink’ (no explanation, just a Tasty Drink) and ‘Pocari Sweat’! I’ve no idea what a Pocari is – let alone if it perspires. This was supplemented by ‘Diet Pocari Sweat’. Both were sweet sports-style drinks and actually not too bad with vodka – when there’s nothing else. Even in our advanced state of drunkenness, we avoided the strange dried seafood snacks on offer from the machines. Desiccated squid wotsits? With ice cream? One popular Japanese dish we enjoyed was Shabu-Shabu: meat and vegetables cooked in boiling water inside a traditional pot. But it was the name that struck a nerve in the crew’s funny bone. ‘Shabu-Shabu’ was used as a phrase of greeting or reaction, accompanied by a rapid twisting and shaking of the hand in the air as the arm moved in and out from the body – a Masonic roadie handshake.

  We didn’t understand Japanese but, when we spoke quickly in tour buzz words or roadie slang, our parlance could not be understood by anybody whether in Japan or New Jersey.

  SCRUBBERS

  Twentieth-century commercial icons sat alongside the traditional symbols and customs of Japan, one of these being the Bath House. Bathing may be an ancient and regular ritual in Japan but is not quite so regular with ancient British road crews. The full Bath House treatment was arranged for the entire entourage after a 1979 gig in Hakata, and the particular place chosen by the promoter had the novel name of The Hole In One Club. The Japanese have an obsessive passion for golf, and inside the club were 18 ‘holes’, small wood-fronted cabins that looked like the entrance to a sauna. The hallways were covered in green plastic fake grass and the numbers of the ‘holes’ printed on triangular golf flags that could be turned to show the room was occupied. On the ground floor was a sparse dentist-style waiting room where we perched nervously before being summoned upstairs.

  This was a totally new experience for me, having previously relied purely on my ‘charm’ to pull women – of my choice. I now felt the dread akin to having root canal treatment. I needn’t have worried. My ‘caddy’ took me and my driving woods to Hole Eight, where the tiny room was split into two sections, a dry part, with a small single bed, mirrors, compact fridge with cool drinks and a dresser that had bottles of whisky and glasses full of cigarettes on offer. The raised section was the wet area with a deep bath, tiled floor with drainage grilles, a wooden ‘U’-shaped stool and a serious high-pressure hose. With interchangeable nozzles. My hostess spoke no English at all and yet communication was quite clear as she bathed my body completely.

  She then dried me down and got me sitting on the novel little wooden stool, where she started the ‘treatment’. It still brings tears to my eyes. Tears of joy. She continued alternating between this ‘treatment’ and dumping me back in the bath, to which she added fragrant oils and beautiful rose heads. My oriental scrubber meticulously washed my hair and even brushed my teeth, before unrolling a thin rubber mat, similar to one used for aerobics, and spreading on to it warm oil, honey – and me. Then back in the bath! I think I played a par four. When I was squeaky clean, I sailed downstairs to a room of broad smiling faces. I had apparently missed out on an in-house speciality, including menthol, but I didn’t care. I was feeling as cool, calm and collected as I ever had. And certainly the cleanest.

  Reports filtered through a few years later that the place had burned down – maybe it was all that attrition and friction?

  COMRADE RATSKI

  After the end of the ’82 Japanese tour, which finished at the Seibu Lions baseball stadium in Tokyo, the gear was trucked to the docks south of the city, for customs clearance and loading into sea containers for the ten weeks’ shipping back to the port of Felixstowe in England.

  Three representatives, one from each department – Queen’s gear, sound and lights – left the Akasaka dormitory hotel in the very early morning with Mako our interpreter, to guide us to the commercial port of Sakuragich. We arrived to find the gear already unloaded and spread around a bonded warehouse in this vast complex. Allowing unsupervised handling of the gear was never a concern in Japan, as the labour teams were meticulous in their treatment of equipment. Our promoter’s rep and appointed customs agent were in attendance, nodding and bowing, with the promise that Japanese customs officers would arrive soon.

  While waiting, we took an unscheduled wander around the dock area to the dismay of our disciplined Japanese colleagues. Big international ports intrigued me; they were truly fascinating places with vessels from all over the world. Splayed against the concrete dock were goods and produce from exotic corners of our planet: weird-shaped fruits of arresting colour in wooden crates and high-tech electronics passing through in the other direction were reflected in row upon military row of shiny new compact cars bound for commercial invasion across the Pacific. In the near distance was the centrepiece – an enormous Russian ship with a gold hammer and sickle emblem against a red background, standing proud on its black funnel, as it caught the autumn sun. I had never been to Russia or seen anything quite so Russian (apart from the gallons of vodka we consumed) and was intrigued to see something real from behind the Iron Curtain. The customs officers duly arrived and without any delay or inspection stamped the carnet and paperwork for Queen’s gear first. As I loaded the sea container, the highly efficient local crew blocked the wheels of the flight cases to the wooden floor and battened everything securely down, to protect against the onslaught of both the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean crossings.

  Having finished my packing and other responsibilities, I suggested I return immediately to Tokyo, in order to catch the JAL night flight to London. Mako our interpreter said I could get a taxi at the main gates to take me to the station for a train to Tokyo. She would write all instructions for me in both Japanese and English so I would not get lost or confused. When we had first arrived at the port, our taxi had taken us in through the gates to the warehouse where our gear was lying. Now, though, we had no quick way of getting back to the entrance, which was not even visible beyond the hundreds of warehouses and cranes. Mako, in efficient Japanese manner, rallied the dockworkers, and finally they produced an ancient ‘sit up and beg’ lady’s bicycle. Mako was the perfect business host and insisted that I ride the bicycle and she would walk beside. Being the perfect English gentleman, I couldn’t accept. Mako being the perfect Japanese host insisted. Eventually, we compromised by taking it in turns for a short time but it was not very efficient; so I put Mako on the saddle and stood up on the pedals and propelled us forwards. It was hardly reminiscent of the romantic scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid as we skewed and rattled past gawping and grinning dockworkers on our journey to the gates. It was all great fun and we reached our destination intact and both fell off the bike laughing. Mako, trying to stifle emotion behind her hands, pointed me towards a waiting taxi.

  I said my goodbyes, but as I walked past the gatehouse the security guards leaped out to urgently halt me. Mako immediately skipped over to intervene, and eventually after a lot of oriental protocol it was explained to me that the guards thought I had jumped
ship and was a deserter from the Russian vessel. I couldn’t stop laughing at this, but they didn’t – and demanded my passport. I didn’t have it. Then Mako improvised, apparently telling them I was in the music business by the way she was miming playing lead guitar. I then remembered a laminated backstage pass in my jacket pocket. So, I offered this, and Mako took it and presented it to them as if it were some ancient talisman.

  It worked a treat and I was given a double security guard bow before heading on my way with the white-gloved taxi driver to the station.

  Arriving back at the hotel, I confirmed the flight and packed my bags with newly acquired Japanese swag of electronics, kimonos, woodblock prints and a collection of plastic food used as displays in restaurant windows. A cab took me to the far Narita airport and, as I was checking in, I spotted Fred and Phoebe, his personal assistant, with their posse of martial arts bodyguards. I went over to Fred’s troupe and was invited to join them in the first-class lounge (I was travelling roadie class). Fred adored so many things about Japan and had stayed on to do some shopping – not for a new Sony TV or Nikon camera but antiques and art. He was a man of superb taste (with the exception of one or two of his stage and video costumes) and had a fabulous art collection of the highest quality at his Kensington home. The JAL flight to London was via Anchorage, Alaska, where the plane landed for refuelling. Apart from the distant snowy mountains through the windows, the only thing to see in the transit lounge was a small basic bar and a ferocious -looking, stuffed giant polar bear standing upright in a glass case.

  There was no first-class lounge available when transiting through Anchorage, so I sat on a bench in the shadow of the huge bear with ‘cuddly bear’ Phoebe, and Fred squeezed between us. Hardly SAS security: a large, camp, ex-Royal Opera House wardrobe ‘mistress’ and a scrawny, bedraggled roadie, but it did deter most of the curious who were pointing at us from a distance. Fred always preferred to remain anonymous, but would never refuse an autograph if asked.

  Crystal, Queen’s drum roadie, wore flouncy cream silk shirts and burgundy PVC trousers and was, according to the tour manager, more like a female impersonator than a roadie, with his louche attire and carefully coiffed hair. Crystal was gleefully signing autographs for a ring of young Japanese female fans on the bullet train platform one morning, when the precision-timed doors swished shut, leaving him stranded. We laughed. We always laughed at each other’s misfortune. Japan was the first (and only) place I was asked for my autograph. I was a little embarrassed.

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No – but I ruv roo, Latty.’

  ‘Oh – go on, all right then – and just how old are you?’

  Always young (but legal) and always in white underwear.

  The Rat is a symbol of good luck and fortune in Japan and ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ remains a big hit for me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROAD DIVERSIONS

  (ALL DAMAGE MUST BE PAID FOR – OR WILL BE DEDUCTED FROM YOUR PER DIEMS…)

  HOTELS

  On tour, hotels were your temporary home-from-home – but without having to clean up afterwards – which was very handy. Queen stayed at the most exclusive five-star palaces available and, if there was no suitable hotel where we were playing, then they would commute from the nearest ‘civilised’ city. Despite meticulous planning, one, two or even all four guys in Queen would sometimes move out and stay in another or separate hotels – because the toilet paper was the wrong colour, the lift was too full of guests, or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were not visible from the sweeping balcony of their penthouse suite. When staying in hotels during touring or recording, Queen would naturally wish to remain anonymous, so a system of aliases was devised that was also used on luggage tags and room lists:

  Freddie Mercury: Alfred Mason.

  Brian May: Chris Mullens or Brian Manley.

  Roger Taylor: Roy Tanner or Rudolph de Rainbow.

  John Deacon: Jason Dane or Judge Dread.

  The crew, who did not use aliases (though it could have been useful at times) were housed in more durable chain establishments, such as Holiday Inn, Marriott and Trust House Forte – from which Queen were banned during the 1979 UK Crazy tour due to a range of creative damage in Liverpool, and a particularly raucous tour party in Brighton.

  In the mid-1970s, a Holiday Inn hotel was considered a real treat. In the USA, enthralled by all things American, I found that the bed in my room offered a service called ‘Magic Fingers’ which was activated by putting a quarter into the coin slot on the wall. This would cause the bed to tremble gently for a few minutes. It gave me a queasy and mildly disorientated feeling, an effect that could also be produced by spending considerably more than 25 cents on alcohol.

  The bathroom had a personal message from the maid: ‘Dear Guest’ told me that the toilet had been sanitised for my protection, and a white cellophane band had been stretched over the seat. Naturally I should try to see if I could piss around it… There were powerful and controllable showers that made washing almost fun, rather than the limp dribble of the handset attached to the H&C taps back home. When you have spent as much time in hotels as I have, you never need buy soap, shower caps, bath foam, sewing kits, shampoo or conditioner ever again.

  IN-HOUSE ENTERTAINMENT

  Days and nights off while on the road could tax the imagination; after being so intensely active, it could be difficult when there was nothing to do for an evening or sometimes a day or two. Unusual behaviour was not unusual at all: hairy-arsed lighting guys walking through reception in ladies’ underwear – the more modest sporting a dress. Drunken riggers scaled the outside of a 30-storey hotel for fun, and 18-stone soundmen would wear Playboy rabbit ears or vampire teeth in the restaurant. For reasons of practicality, crew hotels would be close to the show venues. It may have been convenient, but these places were often way out of town or in depressing grey areas next to a busy motorway or industrial park. There was not a lot to do except laze around our rooms watching TV, drinking, smoking, playing cards and having a good moan about the miserable life we had chosen; surely other bands were better to work for?

  When the crew were to congregate in a hotel room, it was always advisable to avoid offering your own, as the aftermath could result in damaged accommodation that smelled like a mixture of a stale brewery and somewhere for curing fish. Bored, we devised original ways of amusing ourselves, which were generally at somebody else’s expense. Obtaining a pass key to another room was one way: rearranging the furniture or hiding until the occupant returned with a new ‘friend’, then bursting out and catching them in flagrante. This was best accompanied by wastepaper bins full of iced water and a camera. Sachets of ketchup and mustard with the corners cut off were placed under the front of a toilet seat and it was hoped the victim would need to sit, and then be rewarded with streaks of sticky red and yellow sauce down the backs of the legs. As back-up, there was always the cling-film-over-the-toilet-bowl prank.

  A technical trick that caused mayhem in another Forte hotel was to open up the control panel in a hotel lift and switch the connections around. All the floor numbers outside the lifts were taken off, and also switched around. The result was that if you selected floor eight, for example, when the doors opened the number on the wall indicated three, though you were actually on floor six. Chaos. The manager, on the verge of a breakdown, threatened to throw us all out, although he couldn’t actually prove anything.

  The Rotterdam Hilton was regularly the scene of mischief, as we were always ‘lively’ during trips to Holland, due to the quality of illicit merchandise freely available there. After returning from one show, our choices of fun were limited to the expensive nightclub next door – full of businessmen who no doubt thought Barry Manilow was cutting-edge – or the nondescript hotel bar. Not a lot of leisure potential. So, wide awake, bored and with nowhere to go, we resorted to opening the tiny door flaps in the corridors that lead into a room’s wardrobe, where you leave your shoes on painted foot prints for
the porter to take away for cleaning. A square metal key was needed to open the flap – we improvised with a large flat-bladed screwdriver. What next? Swap the shoes with other rooms? Could be fun? Why not try and crawl through? More fun?

  The space was very tight, and with a few grazes and chaffed ears only myself and Dick ‘Dirt Ball’ Ollet, our electronics boffin, were skinny and wiry enough to manage it. Now we had proven that it could be done by getting into our own rooms, the next step was to get into a room where one of the quieter crew members would be sleeping. Dirt Ball crawled in through the targeted hatch like some dishevelled, deranged commando, and once through he very rapidly came back out of the room’s main door, slamming it and instructing us all to beat it – sharpish, and don’t wait for the lift, take the emergency stairway. It was not one of the crew rooms, as it turned out. As he appeared through the wardrobe for his grand entrance, he had woken a man and his wife who were innocently occupying the room. They were obviously in shock – was this a robber? The wife’s lover? Certainly not hotel security…

  There is a lot of stereotyping of rock bands’ behaviour in hotels, which usually includes damage and the image of televisions being thrown from windows. Some of it may be true, but it still has to be paid for. Rich rock stars can afford it – road crews generally cannot. Although an innocent party, I personally own a section of fire hose from the Holiday Inn in Toledo, Ohio. My share of the damage bill was $20 I believe. Also in Ohio is Cleveland, a grey industrial city on Lake Erie. The city is often referred to as ‘the mistake on the lake’. Once home to Richfield Coliseum and the powerful stage workers’ union, now home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame – and once upon a time to Swingos Celebrity Inn. Swingos was an early themed hotel and a retreat from the industrial Mid-West, where they gave out T-shirts to resident bands, had a dayglo pink fur-covered piano in the bar and tolerated rock ’n’ roll behaviour in the brightly painted, gaudy rooms. Fred had the pink suite. True. Swingos was where I invented the ‘Doctor’s Comfort’ cocktail on 22 January 1977. After scouring the corridors late at night with a bottle of Southern Comfort procured from John Deacon’s stage bar, I couldn’t find any cola in the vending machines to mix it with. So I chose Doctor Pepper.