by Peter Hince
The undercover cops stayed on board keeping a close eye on us all as the driver was directed to the local police station. The search of the bus resulted in the huge haul of half a joint and two small wraps of amphetamine.
During questioning, I was asked to roll my sleeves up so the cop could check for needle marks!
He said to me, ‘You look like you take drugs, and you may not think it, but up here [he tapped the side of his head] is a mind ticking over faster than you could comprehend.’
‘Really…?’
I had the flu.
‘We can stop your visas, you know – stop you going to the States, Japan and that.’
‘I see – very informative, can I go now?’
As I was led out of the interview room, I saw Fred in an open central area being questioned. He was in full ‘glam’ kit in those days; short fox fur jacket, satin trousers, sash, black painted nails, lots of jewellery and carrying his vanity/make-up case.
‘Do you take drugs, Mr Mercury?’
‘Don’t be so impertinent, you stupid little man,’ barked Fred in response as he snapped shut his vanity case and strode out.
It’s true, Fred did not take drugs – then.
I did. Like most of the crew I had some amphetamine powder with me, as this was a hard tour and a little ‘lift’ was always welcome. The search by the north-east’s crack squad of ‘top men’ was not particularly thorough. However, we were all very curious to know why the police had mounted such a massive operation. When quizzing some of them as we were released, their reply was: ‘be careful who you travel with’. We assumed this was a reference to a runner who I’ll call simply Dan (not his real name), who had been fired from the tour. A tenuous friend of one of the crew, he didn’t last long, as he became dazzled with rock’s glitz and glamour. In Preston, the tour manager gave him some cash as a gesture, and his train fare back to London. Dan was not amused, ranting how he would get his own back. He did – he burgled some of our houses. However, when Dan attempted to rob Richie’s home, he broke into the wrong house by mistake. BIG mistake. Richie’s neighbour was a local villain who sported tattoos of spiders on his tongue – and was currently out of prison.
We never heard from Dan again…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOUTH AMERICA
(IT’S HOW MUCH A GRAM?)
Dan simply disappeared without a trace… South America had a reputation for people disappearing; subversive people and high-profile people who could command a large ransom, or people who did not conform. Queen: wealthy, famous and decadent rock band – good idea to go?
The 1980s saw Queen taking on bold new challenges in touring; however, South America seemed a dark and daunting destination that, although often dangled, never materialised. The money and guarantees were never as forthcoming as the enthusiasm or promises from the Latin entrepreneurs and promoters.
So, surprisingly, it was announced that, following five shows in Tokyo during February 1981, The Game tour would be extended to Argentina and Brazil.
Wanting to remain self-sufficient and not reliant on any local equipment, we took everything with us, including scaffolding and necessary staging, and for the world’s longest air trip from Tokyo to Buenos Aires we had at our disposal a chartered Flying Tigers 727 cargo plane. The Queen crew all flew to Buenos Aires via New York on a scheduled Pan AM flight, and were surprised to find Fred was on board; and more surprised that he was sitting in economy class. It turned out that he had stormed off an earlier flight from Tokyo on discovering it was a DC10 aircraft, a type of aircraft that had recently been involved in some major accidents. He hadn’t known he was on board a DC10 until he was comfortably relaxing in his first-class seat with a glass of something expensively bubbly. He had freaked out and refused to travel on the flight, which was delayed while his baggage was unloaded. The next available non-DC10 flight was ours, in which first class was full.
Leaving Fred to enjoy himself in The Big Apple, we flew on and, after spending an exhausting 23 hours in the air, landed on a blindingly bright Buenos Aires morning. This was our first visit to South America and nobody quite knew what to expect. But we hoped. Though not a drug-producing country, Argentina was in the general area of the coca bush and so there would surely be piles of cheap supplies? Or, as a predominantly Catholic country, would there be lots of hot and lusty suppressed señoritas willing to keep us occupied? We had received strong warnings about both. Argentina had a military Junta and the omnipresence of armed troops and security vehicles was a sharp reminder. For the sake of a bit of toot and some hanky panky, I decided I’d prefer to keep my fingernails.
What did Argentina hitherto mean to me? Plenty of beef (which they sent ‘corned’ in tins to Britain), the Tango and that England had beaten them 1–0 (Hurst 78) in the brutal quarter-final of the 1966 World Cup at Wembley stadium, when their captain, Rattin, was sent off for foul play. The Argentine team were later branded ‘animals’ by Alf Ramsey, the England manager. They’re probably a bit excitable down here, I surmised.
Permission for Queen to play in Argentina was granted by the then President, Viola, and political motives obviously crept into play. The election was coming up and he may have been thinking about the young persons’ vote. The South American electoral process came somewhat frequently and spasmodically, and, despite bringing the first major rock shows to Argentina, Viola didn’t last very long.
Buenos Aires was a city familiarly European in style and with its wide avenues and cafes was reminiscent of Madrid or Barcelona. We spent a couple of days recovering from jet lag and acclimatising to the heat and humidity by exploring the adjacent neighbourhood. After being released by the authorities for taking photos in the harbour area and warned not to wear tight shorts downtown (another detainable offence), we got the go-ahead that the gear was now cleared; some type of import bond, fee or non-returnable sum having been paid to the right people.
The crew were driven to a far corner of the Ezeiza airfield where the lonely figure of the Flying Tigers cargo plane stood, the isolated area containing the single aeroplane creating the atmosphere of a hijack situation. Under a blazing hot sun, the pallets of gear were slowly unloaded and transferred into sea containers on flat-bed trucks. You don’t usually take sunblock to load trucks and I was becoming rapidly hotter and redder – the discovery of spent live ammunition shells that littered the concrete plain raising my colour and pulse even further.
All the shows in Argentina were in football stadiums that had been built for the 1978 World Cup, the opening show in Buenos Aires being at the Velez Sarsfield stadium. The enthusiastic local crew could not really believe that the shows would be allowed to go ahead, convinced that things would be cancelled at the last moment. Broken promises were something we would get used to. The catalogue of errors that happened on the two South American tours is thicker than an encyclopaedia, just suffice to say that the term ‘no problem’ is no longer something I take seriously. Corruption, lying and broken assurances were mandatory. For the crew, working, travelling and living conditions were grim, but despite all the setbacks the shows were a huge success, the world’s press witnessing the energy-packed opening night in Buenos Aires.
Gerry Stickells, who had visibly aged during this period, was asked by a journalist from the British tabloid press how he felt after this pioneering show. He replied, ‘After the countless months of negotiations, organisational and logistical problems, inadequate facilities and resources, the “local” factor plus the ever-nagging possibility of “the surprise element”, that, overall, it was A HUGE RELIEF.’
The unimpressed hack replied, ‘So what do I write for people to read back in England? “Queen’s tour manager says that the first ever major rock show in Buenos Aires felt like having a piss”?’
We all knew that due to the local amenities things would not run as we were used to, and Queen themselves, of course (who were used to being pampered in five-star luxury), did not expect some of the ‘differences’. They always travelled to and f
rom shows in limousines. Not in Buenos Aires, where the answer was a fleet of old Ford Falcons, family-sized sedans that had seen better days.
After the first show, the band and their personal entourage were crammed into these cars, and set off for a reception in honour of their appearance. The Falcons had to cut a swathe through the thousands of fans, who then raced after the motorcade in enthusiastic pursuit. Pulling free of the crowd, the drivers kept in an orderly line through the city before turning into a gas station. Furious band assistants were informed through interpreters that the cars needed to fill up with petrol or they would run out very soon! Meanwhile, the pursuing fans had caught up and engulfed the entire gas station, enthusiastically banging on the car bodies. Fred in particular was ‘not amused’, so this situation was resolved by the cars being accompanied in future by gun-toting police on motorcycles and the band secreted inside military armoured vehicles.
IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO
After a small drinks party following the final Buenos Aires show, I was accompanied to the Hotel Principado by a BA Belle (no, not a stewardess from British Airways – that’s another story).
I knew there were difficulties getting girls up to our rooms, and keys were never allowed to leave the hotel. So, while some of the other crew were occupying the attention of the front-desk staff, I grabbed my key from behind the small reception area.
Having plucked Margarita, my companion, from around the corner, we slipped into the lift and hurriedly ran to my room where I urgently snapped the door shut. Once inside, I proceeded to get us a well-earned drink. Immediately, the phone rang – it was the front desk enquiring about my guest.
I denied all knowledge on the phone, feigned fatigue and, with the parting words of: ‘No comprende, senor,’ I hung up.
As I began to build Anglo-Argo relations, there was a staccato knocking at the door. The ‘knocker’ would not be ignored, so, as the young lady hid in the bathroom, I reluctantly opened up. Despite my protests, the hotel guy insisted I had a girl in the room. Now, I had worked hard to get this far so I was not going to give up easily; besides, accommodating women had not been in abundance in the land of pampas and bolas. And my bolas needed pampering. The guy ignored me and shouted into the room in Spanish. He repeated his words, this time with more urgency, and the girl came into view, opening her handbag as she walked to the door. She then presented the hotel representative with her ID card. I was now getting nervous, as you do when people around you are talking in raised voices, in a language you do not understand and, to top it, in a military Junta!
It transpired that the hotel clerk was purely a zealous implementer of the house rules and all guests must be registered regardless, and identification shown. I signed some form (anything to get rid of him so I could get on with the business in hand), which turned out to be an agreement to pay the extra pesos for double occupancy of the room! I would leave that paperwork for our promoter Senor Capalbo to sort out. We were leaving town the next day.
Grateful for the fact that the secret police would not be pulling my fingernails out or administering electric therapy treatment, I relaxed. I was also thankful that no extension of the Vatican would be giving me a ‘Spanish inquisition’ over my liaison with this Catholic girl, who I noticed bore no crucifixes or rosaries. When she knelt down it wasn’t to pray. It was me who was calling for God – in English. I spoke only a few words and short phrases in Spanish, which mostly consisted of the ones required to order alcohol and breakfast, find the lavatory or praise a central midfield footballer.
Margarita: a potent Latin American drink. She was – as was her friend, Christina, who had ended up with another of the crew. We imagined they might be a little tearful as we left Buenos Aires the next morning.
‘Don’t cry for me Marge and Tina.’ Boom-boom!
AWAY VENUES
The next venue in Argentina was Mar del Plata, a coastal resort that, with its genteel elegance and faded European architecture, resembled a Latin version of Brighton. Our hotel, The Provincial, was situated on the sea front and was reminiscent of the grand hotels of the 1930s with sweeping Art Deco staircases that led to a first-floor open area that boasted a string quartet playing in a circular parquet dance floor. People sat at small tables taking tea and coffee under the glass-domed roof. Very pre-war Berlin, very homely. Lots of Schmidts and Vons in the local telephone directory.
By now we were adjusting to the different working conditions and the inexperienced local crews of mainly young guys who helped with the physical loading, unloading and moving of the gear. They would not turn up after the show to load out for two reasons – the first being they had not been paid as promised, and, secondly, some of them only did the work in order to see the show. When Queen went off stage, so did they.
Note in the itinerary: ‘For members of the crew wishing to lose weight, consumption of the local water is recommended.’
There was an ever, underlying panic as to when you might get struck down. In the backstage stadium washrooms, somebody did not quite make it and the incident became known the ‘Mar del Plata Splatter’.
Next came Rosario, where post-show the curious audience were slow to leave the pitch area, innocently inquisitive of what was happening on the stage as we began breaking down the gear. The military police formed a line the width of the pitch and with snarling Alsatian dogs on leads they moved in a united wave towards the crowd. They left.
This was 1981, the year before the Falklands conflict. After that show in Rosario, I swapped a baseball cap adorned with ‘I love New York’, which had been thrown on stage during an earlier US tour, for a young soldier’s green army cap with brass insignia on the front. He was acting as a security guard as we loaded the truck, and he and I made the exchange over a bottle of Coca-Cola. Inside the cap was the guy’s name and address written in blue biro. I thought about him that next year and occasionally since. Where was he when the conflict was happening? Did he survive? If so, how did he feel about the British now?
UP THE AMAZON – WITHOUT A PADDLE
Our ‘Boys Own’ adventure moved on to Brazil and the exciting prospect of Rio de Janeiro, but still the dates in the itinerary remained TBA: to be advised/arranged or, usually, to be avoided. Our flight from Buenos Aires to Rio was the most frightening I have ever encountered, as we flew into and through a tropical storm that tossed the DC10 (yes, them again!) around like it was paper. The plane continued to oscillate in altitude and my stomach was somewhere in my throat, then like a tidal wave the aircraft was tossed up again, as a rush burst to the top of my head and squeezed tight. It was pitch black outside and the flashes of lightning that splintered the darkness had me seriously thinking this was it – time was up, we were off to the great gig in the sky.
‘The scheduled aircraft that crashed in the jungle en route from Buenos Aires to Rio de Janeiro is believed to have had several Britons on board,’ the solemn tones of a BBC newsreader echoed in my head.
There was no warning as the storm took hold and shook hard, just to remind you who was in charge. Fingers were welded to rosaries and armrests, and spilled hot coffee caused no pain. Hands furiously made the sign of the cross and personal phrases were muttered. I joined in: ‘Now listen, I know I’ve not been to church for a while, but you know how it is, but I did go regularly to Sunday School. I even got a book for good attendance – honest – you can ask my mum.’
It must have worked because the storm passed and we landed in Rio safely.
The night bus ride to our hotel meant it was difficult to see the landscape that we had long imagined made up this exotic and sensuous strip of land between the mountains and the ocean. Despite peering closely through the windows, with one eye cupped to cut the reflection, Rio was not revealing herself. The following morning, however, the Rio stage was open as I pulled back the curtains that followed the curve of our circular hotel. Straight ahead was a lush mountain and with my neck craned I could see the seafront and beach. We were in the Hotel Nacional on Gavea beac
h, south of the main strip of Copacabana, Ipanema and Le Blond.
Rio immediately had its glamorous edge dulled by the security needs; our hotel keys were issued with no stylish tag or the hotel’s name, just a plain key stamped with a coded number and a chain to wear around the neck. Shame, a Rio hotel key tag would have been a great souvenir to attach to the keys of the Ford transit. Strict instructions were given to us: do not take anything, anything at all to the beach. Life was good here (for us) but local life was a cheap commodity, and the further back you travelled from the beach towards the mountains, the poorer it became, to a point at which cars do not stop at traffic lights for fear of attack.
The beaches were great but I never found the mythical ‘girl from Ipanema’ – or even any of her mates.
Q. What do a bunch of English and American guys do in one of the most exciting and naturally beautiful cities in the world?
A. They go to an English pub.
Most evenings we would take a taxi ride in a VW Beetle, where the front passenger seat had been removed in order for passengers to climb in the back. Having settled the fare in advance, during one taxi trip ‘down the pub’ somebody sneezed, causing the driver to look over his shoulder and grin proudly, showing his five teeth – of which three were black – as he chuckled: ‘Aaaah, cock ah een aye?’ Yeah, mate – something like that.
The Lord Jim English pub was run by an ex-pat airline pilot, who, having decided to retire to the sun, brought a few bits with him each trip until he finally built up his collection of horse brasses, dart boards, pint pots, yards of ale, round tables, period prints and other pub paraphernalia (I doubt if he got the original red British telephone box on board as hand luggage, though).
Brazil was very welcome after expensive Argentina ($10 for a beer in 1981). In fact, it was relatively cheap and we could spend and enjoy our cash despite the galloping inflation – there were prices in shops for the morning and different ones for the afternoon.