Queen Unseen

by Peter Hince

  HOME IS WHERE…?

  Despite being hassled by the security services, it was nice to get back to London where people spoke proper English and the telly was understandable too. London was our home, or at least it was where we all lived occasionally between Queen’s hectic touring and recording schedules. When the band were off the road, they rarely relaxed, but were busy writing, doing interviews, photo sessions, arguing, planning and thinking, etc. I was on permanent call for domestic and professional duties; hunting down new musical and technical gadgets, taking garden rubbish to the tip, delivering decorative items of excellent taste to Fred or Roger’s houses, all manner of new and antique things to Brian’s, and everything including the bathroom sink and matching French suite to John’s. I even had to fix Fred’s telephone and his ancient hi-fi system.

  ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ Fred would coo to Mary Austin.

  Mary was wonderful too; a delightful lady to be around. In fact, all of Queen’s wives, girlfriends and partners, including David Minns, Joe Fanelli and Jim Hutton, were very cordial towards the crew. They enjoyed a drink and a laugh like most of us, and would always find time for a chat and bit of banter, wherever we were in the world.

  In 1976, after the Night At The Opera tour, the band had finally seen a bit of cash and moved out of their rented flats into the land of mortgages and property ownership. Fred bought a grand duplex flat in Stafford Terrace in Kensington, a few minutes’ drive from his old flat in Holland Road, and I had been asked to move his ‘bits and pieces’. An honour.

  On the way to Fred’s, I got pulled over by the police (something that would happen frequently to me through the years) near the famous Rainbow Theatre on the Seven Sisters Road. I was driving in a bus lane, which was an offence – having long hair and an unkempt appearance confirmed my guilt.

  The bus lane law was new, and though not a custodial sentence or hanging offence was a hefty (in 1976) £10 fine.

  Arriving slightly late at Fred’s flat due to the efficiency of police paperwork, I apologised to Mary, and we shuttled back and forward between ‘Chez Mercury’ old and new, as Mary was busily occupied with the administration of the utilities bills, etc. Fred was out somewhere, spending his newfound wealth on lovely things and objets to fill the new Mercurial abode.

  One important item that I moved was a neat little blue metal toolbox – but this was Mary’s, as she was the one who knew how to change a plug or fit a fuse! When all was cleared at the old flat, Mary came up to me and furtively slipped me some cash, saying, ‘Thanks for your help and here’s something towards the fine, but don’t say anything to Freddie about it.’

  One thing you could always be sure of when visiting Fred’s was a cup of tea, invariably Earl Grey – and not in teabags. This was sophistication indeed for a roadie used to a ‘mug of char’ and I quite got used to the taste and aroma of the fragrant bergamot (unlike Crystal who described it as perfumed piss). Tea was always served in proper china cups – with saucers. However, it was not brewed by the Mercurial hand, it was always Mary, Joe, Phoebe or whoever was nearest to the kitchen.

  TRANSPORT

  Driving a Transit van around town in the seventies, with one or two of the other roadies in tow, we felt like Regan and Carter in The Sweeney – confident and irreverent towards authority – just getting the job done. Sorted! So Shut It!

  A van may have been fun to drive around London in, but was not great for pulling birds. Hardly surprising, really, when you consider the disgusting state band vehicles get into. The front of a ‘bandwagon’ was always full of old fag packets, chocolate wrappers, bits of paper, crisp bags, cellophane, etc., while the ashtray overflowed with dog ends. The dashboard would be thick with grease and grime and you could confidently say it was a potential fire hazard; as poignantly demonstrated in my early days on the road with Phil and Richie, when we worked for Mott The Hoople. Sitting in a line at the front of a three-ton truck somewhere on a motorway, having eaten our staple roadies’ diet of fried everything with beans plus extra beans on the side, Phil took over the driving. As Richie relaxed, he started to break wind profusely and, greatly amused by this, decided to set his farts alight. Slouching down in the seat with his legs stretched out, he could rest his cowboy-booted feet on the dashboard. He then lit a match and, holding it close to his denim-clad ass, farted long and hard. This methane propulsion caused a substantial flame, which ignited the cellophane and quickly spread to the entire dashboard and its contents. Panic stricken, Phil screeched over to the hard shoulder as we flapped about to put the fire out. The rest of the journey was spent with the windows wide open to rid us of the stench of old farts and singed plastic dashboard.

  Another tale involving van life and bodily functions was when driving through the busy centre of London I suddenly felt my bladder straining intensely. I had recently been prescribed some pills by a special clinic for a recurring ‘water infection’ and one side effect of the medication was that it regularly flushed the system out – I was bursting for a slash! Stuck in heavy traffic and racking my brains as to the location of the nearest public loo, I realised I was not going to make it. I pulled over with two wheels illegally mounted on the pavement in a major road, then jumped into the back of the van where there was a pile of parking tickets still in their weatherproof plastic bags. Crouching on my knees as the traffic rattled past, I managed to fill a few of the bags before securing the tops. Later that day the bags were dispatched from the van window at an appropriate target.

  Queen always spent Christmas at home and one of the van’s domestic duties was a seasonal pick-up from Fred’s, to take delivery of a mixed case of booze he had kindly given to each of the personal crew. You would always get a card from Fred as well, my favourite being the day-glo pink one he did with a black and white photo of himself from Vogue magazine on the cover. Inside was the printed inscription: ‘Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from the Preening, Pouting, Posing, Posturing Old Tart’. To this he added his personal handwritten message. Priceless.

  EXECUTIVE ATTIRE AND ASSHOLES

  Being a roadie has to be the antithesis of being a be-suited businessman, so why was there a fashion in the early seventies for roadies to carry black briefcases?

  What would you possibly carry around in them? Well, head roadies could be excused as they would have expense sheets, receipts, carnets, itineraries, tickets, etc., but for the others it was a merely a pretentious holder for cigarettes and sandwiches. The briefcases never stayed black for long as they were quickly adorned with stickers and labels. These ranged from promo stickers for music stores to stage passes from somewhere cool. As a roadie’s career blossomed, the mosaic built up, and layers of stickers thickened, with the highest-quality labels displayed on top.

  The little thin paper decal for a hotel in Brussels was superseded by a silky, stippled material backstage pass for a gig in Los Angeles or a bold QUEEN JAPAN TOUR 79. Cases would be flaunted around town and particularly up and down Tottenham Court Road, Shaftesbury Avenue or Denmark Street where the majority of the professional music stores were.

  I always carried my briefcase to my ‘meetings’ at the accountant’s office. I was in my usual attire of jeans and T-shirt, but not a Queen Tour Jacket – that was seen as total posing, to wear an embroidered satin jacket around London. It was acceptable on tour because it could help in pulling women. Being interesting by association was still interesting. Queen’s posh accountant thought he was interesting by association too. Keith Moore was Queen’s UK accountant. Moore was a tall, well-built man who wore oversized ‘Michael Caine’ glasses and had several music-related clients in his large office next door to the Kensington Hilton. Although he was well educated, he had little style or taste and, like so many at the time on the periphery of rock ’n’ roll, was seduced by the glamour of the rock lifestyle. He once turned up at Madison Square Garden in New York in a startling white suit – and the man in the white suit looked far funnier than the Ealing comedy. At Fred’s 30th bir
thday party at Country Cousins restaurant on the King’s Road in Chelsea, he sat next to Crystal and me. He was with a female companion and clearly wanted to impress her with how cool he thought he was.

  My background was basic working class; accountants, lawyers and bankers never featured in my world; they were above me, and due to the inherent class system of the time I foolishly believed that they were somehow superior. I am now of a very different opinion.

  The rot at the accountancy firm started when I discovered one of its employees had misled me over a flat I was buying, losing me both the flat and money, then disappearing in a sports car he hadn’t paid for – never to be seen again. That wasn’t the worst of it; the guy who fled was not a qualified accountant at all, but a petty thief who also stole items from the office. But, more seriously, he had been forging two of Queen’s signatures on company cheques and embezzling the money for himself. Subsequently, Queen gradually pulled everything out of the accountancy firm, then adopted a different system for looking after their finances and appointed a reputable firm of city accountants. When Peter Chant, the new accountant, was checking how I filled in my expenses book, he said, ‘This all seems fine – but what does B&C mean for cash paid out?’

  ‘Oh, that? That’s bribery and corruption.’

  He laughed, then asked me, ‘OK, but please do try and get petty cash slips signed when you can, and not by Mr Michael Mouse or Ivor Bigun.’

  What happened to Keith Moore? Queen’s former accountant subsequently served a prison sentence for stealing around £6,000,000 from the Geordie bass player Sting.

  In fact, I met Sting in the reception of Keith Moore’s firm one day in 1977. I was introduced by Andy Summers, an excellent session guitarist, who I knew from previous tours I’d done. This was the era of punk, and, now sporting dyed blonde hair, Andy told us they had formed this new band: The Police. ‘Never get anywhere,’ I concluded with Crystal as we walked back to the van. I will add in my defence that we had not yet heard them play. I felt the same on the Mott tour in ’73 about Queen and I had heard them play – every night. A career in a record company A&R dept was not an option for me.

  POP STARS

  John, Brian and Roger liked to watch other bands play in London. Fred never went to rock shows and would favour attending the ballet or opera. Or he was equally quite happy at home with the telly.

  I went along with John to see Bruce Springsteen at Wembley Arena on his 1980 The River tour. It was a tremendous show and afterwards we went to the backstage bar area and had a drink along with the press and most of the music world of London, desperate for a piece of Bruce’s time. Shortly after, Bruce’s manager came over and asked John if he would like to come and say hi to Bruce.

  ‘Sure – love to.’

  We were led back into one of the many rooms off the backstage corridor, which was empty save for a few chairs, a massage table and the smell of athletic massage fluid. We were given a beer and told ‘The Boss’ would be along shortly. Bruce opened the door unaccompanied, and the three of us then sat and chatted over a beer for ages, while outside the whole of London’s music world clamoured to see him. He was a truly nice guy and pointed out that he had a masseur to help keep his body toned for the gruelling schedule he undertook. There appeared to be mutual musical respect between him and Queen, as Roger, who had been to Bruce’s show the previous night was granted the same audience.

  A year or so later, I was in the Sunset Marquis, a quieter, low-key apartment hotel in Los Angeles, and passing through reception when I saw Mr Springsteen coming in. I caught his eye and he came straight over, shook my hand and said it was good to see me again and asked after the band. I was stunned!

  He must constantly meet thousands of different people, yet he remembered a humble roadie he once met briefly while accompanying his bass guitar-playing boss. Top man.

  HOME COMFORTS

  Roger had houses in London but his preferred residence was in the Surrey countryside at Mill Hanger (dubbed Coat Hanger) complete with the rock-star lifestyle: swimming pool, go-karts, pinball machines, snooker table, juke box and bar were all available. One of his neighbours was Rick Parfitt of Status Quo, who had a small studio incorporated into his country seat. An impromptu session was arranged with Rick, Rog and John, so I drove down with John and his guitars in the splendour of a Ford Transit van. Rick had his Porsches parked in front of his house, which he called his ‘Giant Tonka toys’. After some ideas were put on tape, he suggested we went off to his local pub for refreshment; the route on foot had us negotiating crop fields and small country paths. The centre-piece of the pub’s bar was a gold Status Quo album. Rick was a regular. He beckoned Rog and John over to meet his landlord: ‘See these two guys here?’ Rick whispered closely to the guy behind the bar. ‘They’re almost as famous as me.’

  Later, while I was driving John back to London in the van, we were apprehended by a sole policeman, who had been concealed in the shadows of a Little Chef diner. John, who had been drinking, seemed a bit nervous but I was completely sober, and as it was me driving I told him we had nothing to worry about. I was also used to being stopped by the Old Bill and dealing with them. The cop was concerned by the pungent smell he claimed was dope, and inspected the van’s ashtrays thoroughly. The smell was just the van’s dodgy old heater, with its singed rubber signature. He never searched us…

  Fred’s magnificent house, Garden Lodge in Kensington, was a testament to his superb taste. It was full of wonderful antiques and art tempered with personal knick-knacks, Mercurial objets and photographs, but despite its grandeur it had a homely feel. There was no obvious visual evidence on display at Garden Lodge of Fred’s day job. All the hundreds of platinum, gold and silver albums, plus the awards, plaques and statuettes, were tucked away out of sight.

  On one wall of his kitchen was a large, modern, forgettable but expensive oil painting that Fred had picked up on tour in South America. It was very big, and I had suggested strapping it into the lid of the Steinway grand piano case to ship it home. Fred thought this was a good idea as he could get his new piece of art back to London quickly: ‘But what about all those customs men and things?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Fred – if they ask, I’ll tell them a fan gave it to you. They’d find it hard to believe you actually paid money for it.’

  I was rewarded for my insolence with the Fred frown.

  Visiting Brian’s house in a quiet area by the Thames, I was offered the usual cordial cup of tea. While sitting in the lounge, I noticed a new addition, a semi-circular shelf, positioned halfway up the wall that it dominated. I asked if it was reserved for an item of beauty he had purchased or some newly won award. No, the shelf and its small orange velvet cushion was set aside for Squeaky, Brian’s tortoiseshell cat, to sit on. Brian explained this as he brought in the tea and biscuits, balanced in a drawer from a kitchen cabinet! Apparently, he had builders in and couldn’t find a tray. A guitar-playing scientist is hardly going to be the model of domesticity after all.

  John lived quite modestly and, as the most anonymous of the band, he managed to keep a degree of privacy, which he wanted for his family. However, when he moved to a big Victorian house to accommodate his growing clan, I teased him that it looked like the layout of the Cluedo board. You always got a good cup of tea at John’s.

  MEN IN TIGHTS

  One of the more unusual gigs I did for Queen, or rather for Fred himself, was when he appeared with the Royal Ballet for a charity show at the London Coliseum in late 1979. Fred’s circle of friends included Wayne Sleep and Wayne Eagling, both highly respected classical dancers, and Fred was delighted to join them for this one-off performance. As to be expected, Fred would only accept the invitation if he was fully rehearsed. I was summoned, as Fred’s performance for ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ involved him singing while lying on his back, carried over the heads of the other dancers as they glided across the stage.

  ‘But how can we do it, Ratty?’

  ‘We, Fred?’

&
nbsp; ‘You know, you know, the microphone and cable and all that – it’ll get in the way, won’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what then?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Fred, we can get a radio mike for you.’

  ‘Oh yes – very good.’

  I rented a radio microphone system, which in the far-off days of ’79 were temperamental to say the least. I located the very best available and went to visit the sound technician at the Coliseum to check the place out and see if there were any ‘dead spots’ or if they had experienced problems using wireless in the theatre. It all seemed to work fine and a 1/4 tape was specially mixed at the Townhouse Studios to be ‘dropped in’ during the opera section of ‘Bo Rhap’. Fred would then sing live to the remaining backing track. The rehearsals went well and all were in good spirits backstage at the Coliseum on the Sunday night.

  I’m sure Fred was nervous, but I was shitting myself. No matter how good the technology of musical equipment becomes, you should always get a spare. In this case, there was no spare available and I was not on stage to solve any problems, as I was in the mixing booth at the back of the stalls, charged with the task of mixing Fred’s voice with the ambient orchestra and dropping in the tape at the vital moment.

  Oh shit, he’ll kill me if something goes wrong. How did I get dragged into this – stupidity or loyalty? The biggest headache was that the mixing booth was enclosed behind glass, and the sound only audible through small monitor speakers. This was certainly not rock ’n’ roll – I needed to hear it from source. The house engineer in the booth with me changed into an elegant black velvet evening jacket with satin lapels to mix the show, while smoking cigarettes from a long ‘Noel Coward’-style holder.