by Peter Hince
The total of Queen and their entourage who flew out to Italy from London for the four-or five-day trip numbered eighteen. Possibly a little excessive for a mimed TV show by four musicians! But hey – this was Queen – big band – first time in Italy – big impression. I left in advance for Milan with the few thousand pounds in lire of ‘float’ I had got from Coutts Bank. I was travelling with John’s bass, Fred’s microphones with ‘wand’ – which I had checked in, and a couple of fragile bass drum skins with the Queen logo as hand baggage. I also had different-sized spares in case the Italians got the drum dimension wrong. They did.
I had requested a window seat and made my way on to the Alitalia jet, where I asked for somewhere safe to put the drum skins. There wasn’t anywhere. My assigned seat was already occupied by a large Italian woman, complete with black dress, a rosary welded to her fingertips and a moustache to rival Fred’s. She did not want to move – in any language. I explained my predicament with the drum skins and that I could store them flush against the edge of the window seat.
‘Impossible – they must be checked in and travel in the hold,’ said the stewardess.
I tried again, this time using the name San Remo.
‘San Remo?’
‘Yes – gruppo – musica: Queen.’
Magic words. ‘Mamma Italia’, her moustache and matching armpits were dispatched to the back of the plane. My own mamma-in-law was Italian – but fortunately nothing like that.
Arriving in Milan, I collected the luggage, weighed up my options, and walked towards the green customs channel where I was curtly stopped and asked to open the guitar case and other bags. The customs officers held their hands up and looked at me as if to say: ‘Are you having a laugh? Looking like you do, and strolling through the green channel with this lot?’
The magic words: ‘San Remo – Queen.’
‘Ah, si, la musica bella. No problem. Benvenuto in Italia!’
Pleased at avoiding another customs confrontation, I waltzed my trolley into the arrivals hall where I was greeted by my sharply dressed record company contact of the previous meeting. (He was in Armani – I was more Army & Navy.) As we had met once already, he thought that entitled him to kiss me. I was certainly not having any of that nonsense! I appreciate that the Italians are passionate people, but didn’t they invent homosexuality? No – maybe it was the Greeks? Anyway, as I have indicated, I later married into an Italian family and have to regularly kiss men, women and moustaches…
Squeezing into a metal box constructed in Torino, we drove into Milano. I was assured all was ‘magnifico’ and a meeting for the goods to sustain the entourage was set up. Splendido. Time for vino? No?
‘You have dollars or pounds to exchange?’
‘No,’ I replied proudly. ‘No need to change it: I’ve got it all in lire.’
‘Are you crazy? It is illegal to import or export lire above a certain amount.’ (At that time about £200.)
‘Customs were fine, no problems – but then they didn’t see the money.’
‘You are very lucky, signore. They would have “confiscated” the cash, you would have definitely been fined, and probably detained in jail.’
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Mamma Mia let me go!
That was close. I was then introduced to a third party and was told how many millions of lire were required for what was wanted.
‘Fine, it’s all here – I’m ready to go.’
‘Peter, it is better you don’t come to this meeting.’
‘No, sorry, pal, I don’t hand over large wads of cash without personally seeing something back.’
It was then clearly explained to me who the people holding the merchandise were: dark suits – Sicily… something nasty left in the bed (something nasty was about to be left in my trousers).
‘I’ll stay here with a cappuccino then – got anything in English to read?’
Having earlier narrowly avoided an Italian jail, I decided to skip meeting the Mafia. Our man returned with huge rocks – like chunks of ancient Italian marble. Flaking some off, we tried it. There was no need to ask for the money back. Buzzing at 1,000 miles an hour we could easily have run down the autostrada to San Remo.
When I did arrive that night, Paul Prenter was still up waiting for me, or, more importantly, for the merchandise. He commandeered it all and hammered at the rocks with a glass hotel ashtray on the hard wooden floor – smashing the ashtray as the chunks of cocaine slithered across the room. He was on his hands and knees desperately trying to retrieve every morsel. It’s a very nasty drug at times, cocaine.
The following day, the Queen entourage arrived and the festival turned into a big party. I was moved from my room in The Royal Hotel to a tiny cupboard in the hotel annexe, as some periphery person deemed more important MUST have a room in the main hotel. It was at this time that I began to consider just how much I was appreciated and valued, and whether I wanted to do this any longer.
Blondie, a German friend of ours from Munich, had shown up in his official capacity as representative for Puma sportswear. He had custom-made a tight red singlet vest with a leaping white puma on the front for Fred, and was delighted when he wore it on stage in front of a TV audience of millions.
In those days, there was virtually no sponsorship or hard endorsements. Queen would be given loads of sportswear from Puma, Nike and Adidas and would maybe wear it – or maybe not. No contracts were signed or heavy lawyers involved. It was very relaxed and low key – just the occasional promo photo. It was a different era.
Appearing in San Remo were other English artists, including Paul Young and Culture Club. I was surprised at how big Boy George was. Normally, the angles photos and film of bands are viewed from are low, making people appear larger and grander. Many stars and singers are actually quite short and slight. Not ‘Boy’ – he was built like a brickie’s labourer.
The San Remo show was deemed a huge success for Queen and I wasn’t surprised. Queen’s popularity in Italy is all down to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. There are many theories of what ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is all about, but I know the truth. Honest. On a couple of occasions I asked Fred, ‘What’s it all about then, Fred – “Bo Rhap”?’
He would twiddle his hands dismissively: ‘Oh, you know, dear – this and that.’
Revealing …
Actually it’s all about Italy and Fred being influenced by the magnificence of this cultured country. Just think about the words: ‘Mamma mia’ – Italian of course. Galileo, Figaro, Magnifico? – all Italians. Scaramouche – a pizza topping from Naples. Fandango – a formula one racing driver for Ferrari. Bismilah – a fashion designer in Milan. And Beelzebub was a striker for Juventus. The pathos of the grand mini opera is summed up: ‘I sometimes wish I’d never been to Roma at all.’
Now you know.
BACK TO WORK – MAYBE
Meanwhile, back in Munich, recording carried on (a bit) and discipline slackened. The studio was not exactly being used to its full potential, doubling as a breakfast cafe, chat room, meeting point, dining room, recreation area, video playback suite and occasional place to record songs. Once the basic tracks were laid down, you no longer saw all four members of the band together regularly. They would come in for their own songs, to collaborate or play on other songs, or just eat and meet. At times, members of the band would fly out to Munich, do a bit of work and fly home to London again.
There was one occasion when we were not spending large sums of money for Musicland to be sporadically used, that a few hours of studio time and producer Mack were required. ‘I Want To Break Free’ had been chosen as the follow-up single to ‘Radio Ga Ga’, and John was to oversee mixing the 12-inch version. Problem was that Musicland had already been booked by somebody else. I flew out to Munich with John and, in the meantime, Mack found another professional studio that he knew – Union Studios in Allescher Strasse. The mix with its slowly building intro on the synthesiser was so popular with everybody that the seven-inch single was held back an
d then released with this new mix.
When John and I and the rest of Queen were back in Munich at Musicland to continue final recording of The Works, we were once again installed in the Hilton Hotel.
Room 828 Muenchen Hilton Hotel. Knock-knock.
‘Who is it?’ It’s around 5:00 am and I’m entertaining!
‘Ratty, it’s John.’
‘Yes, John.’
‘I’m fed up with all this – I’m off.’
‘Back to London?’
‘No.’
‘Are you… leaving the band?’
‘No, I’m off to Bali – tomorrow – today that is, but I need some cash.’
(You need cash?)
‘Right… well, you’re the boss, it’s your money, and it’s stashed in a flight case – we can get it when the studio opens. Bali? Fine, well, I’ve heard it’s very nice – when are you back?’
‘Dunno, I’ll call you. I need a break. OK, I’ll check out. Put my luggage in your room, can you, and you’d better tell the rest of the band – please.’
‘You’re the boss…’
Later that day: ‘Fred – John’s gone to Bali.’
Cue Mr Mercury leaping on to the dining table to sing ‘Bali High’ from South Pacific, in the grandest operatic style.
Apart from breaking the news that band members had gone missing, my daily routine would include going upstairs to the news-stand in the Arabella Hotel and buying what was left of the English papers that were flown in. They did not arrive until around lunchtime, which was very convenient as we were never out of bed until at least that hour. I would also buy an assortment of international magazines for the band to peruse, and any music publications in any language.
Fred discovered a double page spread of himself live on stage in one mag and flaunted it around the studio. Then he and the others would often criticise other bands’ images.
‘Just look at Sting! She’s posing with her shirt off again!’
Fred always wanted his newspaper horoscope (Virgo) read out to him daily and sometimes other signs (presumably people he was close to or interested in at the time). I read John’s to try to find out when he might be back from Bali… he eventually called, a week or so later, asking me to book him back into the Hilton, and could I pick him up from Munich airport. He showed up with peeling, flaking skin from severe sunburn, and was immediately dubbed The Snakeman.
Fred would either get very excited by the horoscope prediction or dismiss it as rubbish. He then asked for vodka. Not a vodka – just vodka.
Everybody drank vodka, which is apparently a ‘clean’ drink and good-quality stuff is easier on the system – so they say. The band all drank it with tonic, the crew with orange juice. We were younger then and our livers could cope – most of the time. Brian also enjoyed his vodka, but was never the best at timekeeping and particularly after a hard night. He did not smoke cigarettes and never did drugs and had a good diet, so he did make an effort to look after himself.
All the crew smoked and so did Roger, but Fred and John, both former non-smokers, started the habit in the ’80s. Then Roger, after various attempts, eventually gave it up. I never thought Fred suited smoking. There was historically an element of cool and macho attached to cigarettes, but Fred didn’t jam the cigarette in the corner of his mouth James Dean style or bite on it like Clint Eastwood. Nor did he hold it up and let it smoulder as Marlene Dietrich and other Hollywood stars did. No, I have to say Fred smoked cigarettes like a schoolgirl, puffing quite lightly and urgently on cigarettes and never leaving them in his mouth for long, before snatching them out with his fingertips. Naturally, he never bought his own, so would bum fags from the entourage. Munich and its people and places inspired everybody and in particular one of Brian’s songs:
‘Dragon Attack’ – The Game – 1980
Written by Brian May; inspired by Munich.
Take me back to that Shack any time!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LONDON
(HOME SWEET HOME – ONE DAY
IN SIX FOR TAX PURPOSES)
FRED’S BED
From Munich to Kensington – via West Ham. Fred was always buying things on impulse, and usually very expensive things. In 1980, while recording in Munich, Mr Mercury had bought some Art Deco-style bedroom furniture – a period he was very fond of. The pastel pink and peach, shell-style boudoir set was to be transported back to England with Queen’s studio gear, which involved me organising the paperwork to export the goods, transit them through other countries and import them into England. It was a real headache as it meant mixing the band equipment on a temporary import carnet with Fred’s goods exported for importation into another country while passing through other countries. Bloody paperwork… necessary but boring. These difficulties were compounded by having to travel at the weekend when some customs services were not available at all border posts. The traditional route back home was via Frankfurt, Cologne, cross into Belgium at Aachen then zip past Brussels to Ostend and the ferry to Dover. This was not an option, and a more circuitous route via Holland had to be negotiated. More bloody headaches!
There was no real choice but to travel in the truck myself, leaving the others having a leisurely lie-in before conveniently jetting home club class later that afternoon.
‘Wish you were here!’
As Gerry, the driver, and I wearily approached the German/Dutch border that evening, I asked him to pull over anywhere I could find a phone, in order to call the local freight agent who would meet us at the border. I spotted a bar, jumped down from the high cab of the truck, ran over the deserted road and entered. It was now nearing the end of a bright summer’s evening, but inside it was quite dimly lit and empty, apart from three or four reasonably attractive girls. I asked in my half-decent German if I could use the phone and would willingly pay for the call. As I was making my call, the bar girl gestured to me – did I want a drink? By now my eyes had adjusted to the dim light and, as I viewed the surplus of red velvet furniture and gold coloured trim and fittings, it dawned on me that this was some sort of brothel and I was potential trade. The agent had told me to go directly to the border only a few minutes away, where he would meet us, so I made my apologies, handed over some deutschmarks for the call and with a tinge of doubt leaped back in the truck.
Crossing Holland, and then into Belgium we arrived at the port in Ostende in darkness – missing the final ferry. The words loyal, stupid and underpaid came to my mind as I attempted to sleep while hunched in the passenger seat of the truck, parked on the dock, waiting for the morning’s first crossing. My mouth felt like a used jockstrap and an overall personal freshen-up would soon desperately be needed.
Arriving back in London with an equally sore back and attitude, we dropped everything in Queen’s warehouse at Edwin Shirley Trucking in West Ham and I made my way home on the tube, still in my clothes of two days standing – literally.
Shortly after entering my flat, I got a call from Queen’s office: ‘Is Fred’s furniture back and all OK?’
After confirming that it was, I was told that Fred wanted it delivered immediately. Thanks!
There was now a problem in the fact that I did not have access to the Queen Productions van because it was being serviced. No excuse – Fred’s bed MUST be delivered at once, Paul Prenter insisted.
Dragging myself back across the width of London, I arrived at Edwin Shirley Trucking, who had agreed to lend me a VW van for the evening. With the help of Jobby, we finally arrived at Fred’s, only to be told that everything was to be put into Mary’s flat at the end of the terrace.
By this point, I was completely shattered and could barely keep awake after two days of travelling without any proper sleep at all. The furniture was being carried into the flat by Fred’s driver and others, and I told Jobby that, as we were double-parked, I would pull the van around the corner and wait for him there. It was getting dark, so I fiddled with the van’s controls to find out how the lights worked, flashing them on and off. I
lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat to relax, when suddenly a serious-looking guy knocked on the side window. I looked at him incredulously as I was so tired. When he flashed some sort of official ID police pass, I wound the window down.
‘Is this your vehicle sir?’
‘NO.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘WAITING FOR SOMEBODY.’
‘What is your name and address?’
As I gave my name and the Queen Productions office address, more of these menacing plain-clothes guys were milling around the van. They ran a radio check on the vehicle and me to see if I had any previous record, and then told me to get out of the van and hand over the keys. I protested strongly as I did not like the way I was being hassled – WHACK! – I was pushed hard against the side of the van, which gave the dull springing sound of a person indented on sheet metal. I was then told from very close range at high volume: ‘This can be easy or hard’: which did I want? Easy was just fine by me. I opened the back of the van for them to view, and, save for a few bits of cardboard packing, it was empty. One guy jumped inside and checked around thoroughly, as another checked the front. At this point Jobby showed up and was asked if he knew me and could confirm my name and address. He gave them my home address!
Great! I was now in deeper shit for giving false information. However, after a few urgent radio conversations, they lost interest in us and were off as fast as they came. I had managed to find out that they were Special Branch officers, and as we were in the wake of the recent Iranian Embassy siege in Kensington, which was two minutes down the road, they were on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary in the area. Flashing my van lights on and off in a Kensington side street close to the bombed-out embassy was unusual enough to warrant checking out.