Queen Unseen

by Peter Hince

  The more imaginative of the crew, who had not blown every cent of their per diem or run any credit cards to the max, would look for souvenirs of a decent quality that were indigenous to the area and hopefully an investment. Basically, we were on the lookout for items that were cheaper than at home. We had picked up a variety on our travels. In Japan: antique kimonos and prints, pearls and electronic goods. In Australia: opals and … boomerangs. Spain was great for leather goods, France and Italy for ‘going out’ clothes, South Africa – diamonds, and the USA was tops for Levi jeans, American-Indian turquoise jewellery and cowboy hats. One appealing commodity Brazil offered was precious stones, but jewels were of no real interest for tour manager Gerry Stickells, who was in search of some shrunken heads! Apart from being disgusting, these ‘souvenirs’ of probably brutally murdered Indians (I don’t think many died of natural causes) were highly illegal. Gerry didn’t succeed in buying any, but I’m sure they would have looked charming in his suburban Californian home, alongside the war memorabilia, his parrot and his Jimi Hendrix gold records.

  JUMPING FOR JOY

  The shows in Belo Horizonte had been pulled for reasons best not to ask about, but São Paulo was definitely on. This was now to be our first Brazilian show as, meanwhile, the authorities and promoters were still debating whether to allow the Maracana in Rio to be used for a rock concert. This was a stadium, with the biggest capacity in the world, and was home to what was on par with religion in Brazil – football.

  The concern was the possible damage to the hallowed playing surface; the only other major non-football activities to have taken place being a Frank Sinatra show and a gig by His Holiness the Pope. If Queen were to play, the pitch was to be completely covered to protect it, as had every surface in Argentina, with rolls of artificial grass.

  The Brazilian authorities were still not convinced, so a small area of the Maracana pitch was cordoned off and the protective covering laid, where several energetic young people were hired to jump up and down on this section continually for two hours. After this simulation of alleged rock-concert behaviour, the resulting damage was inspected. It was then decreed that Maracana was to remain solely for the use of football.

  After enjoying the splendid sights, sounds and tastes of Rio (at about $20 a gram), we took the shuttle flight to São Paulo on a plane that had curious rows of small symmetric holes down the centre of the cabin roof lining. It was explained that until recently there were straps hanging here and late passengers would stand in the aisle, as on the London Underground, and hold on during the one-hour internal flight! Health and Safety? Never heard of it…

  The Morumbi stadium in São Paulo was vast, its open arena holding court to a total of 251,000 fans over two shows, making the event the biggest-ever paying audience in the world for a rock band. Queen were pleased. It was a truly awesome atmosphere as the band emerged from the dressing rooms via a tunnel that took them on to the pitch and to the bottom of the stairs to the stage. This route was normally taken by the football players to keep out of range of objects thrown by the supporters. Apart from the band’s own security, they had local help from the self-named Doctor Death and his associates. The good doctor claimed to have personally ‘taken out’ dozens of people and been rewarded for it by ‘the authorities’ and he proudly waved his powerful automatic hand gun around the dressing-room area, posing for pictures with it. He had no problem asking any of Queen for autographs.

  Despite the success of the shows, the next day or two were fraught, as we now had to get the gear safely out of the country. Brazil had many exports – coffee, fruit and other domestic products – but these were mainly dispatched by sea and, as we were still in uncharted territory, it was decided it would be safer in the circumstances to quickly fly the gear out. The problem was finding an available cargo plane big enough to handle it. Pan Am’s cargo division heard of our situation and offered a high price, confident we had no other choice. However, the Flying Tigers came to our rescue again. Tigers had a planeload of industrial weaving machines arriving from Zurich, and as yet no return cargo. The 747 Jumbo was perfect and a good deal was negotiated to fly to New York. The entire show including the staging, scaffolding and sound system that had been sent to Argentina by sea could be accommodated, and rental time and costs reduced – perfect. Or was it? The Tigers’ 747 needed the gear to be loaded on to special pallets that could be accommodated in the tracking rails in the hold. Guess who had the only available suitable pallets? Varig, Brazils national airline, and Pan Am – who were not amused at being undercut by Tigers. I believe money changed hands during the protracted negotiation to procure the necessary pallets from both airlines. In cash.

  Meanwhile, the crew heads of department were tired and very pissed off. We managed slices of sleep on top of the hard flight cases and, when the call eventually came in the breaking dawn, we set about loading pallets aided by local coffee which at its mildest can induce palpitations. The 40 tons of gear loaded, we returned to the shabby Hotel Jaragua in the late-morning light. I was a little disappointed I had been denied travel to New York on the chartered cargo plane. Regulations only allowed extra passengers who were US citizens. Flying on the upper deck of our own 747 with whatever we wanted could have been fun.

  SOUTH AMERICA AGAIN – NO MORE MAÑANAS

  Despite the headaches and nightmares, but buoyed by the ground-breaking euphoria of the first tour, within six months we were on a second trip to Latin America. First to New Orleans, its Latin Quarter and rehearsals in the Civic Auditorium, before travelling on to Venezuela. Time for a Queen party on one of the wrought-iron, period balconies that overlooked Bourbon Street.

  The next day, everybody had to undergo a medical and be pronounced fit and healthy for our visas to enter Venezuela. Most of us were bleary, some still jet lagged and all wondering what condition we were actually in as we did not often see the medical profession voluntarily. A local doctor set up his battered black bag in a faded, nicotine-stained dressing room, and one by one a basic check of the entire crew was done. The doctor reported that we were basically a sound bunch of young men; however, two conditions were generally consistent: slightly raised heart rate (due to sampling South American goods prior to actual arrival?) and dirty, waxy ears (due to the body’s natural resistance in blocking out loud nasty noises?).

  Oil-rich Caracas was an odd, unsettling experience, a modern concrete city high up in the mountains and the first place I had seen a dead body lying in the street. The venue Queen were to play was a contemporary indoor sports arena, The Poliedro. After educating the local promoter that the crew as well as Queen needed to eat and drink at the shows, things went surprisingly well.

  The hotel we were billeted in was the Anauco Hilton, a vast tower of a construction where we shared duplex apartments. The South American curse on our digestive systems had not been lifted and the toilet in our lodgings became known as the Mud Slide. Apart from ingesting the contents of the tiny sealed plastic tubes that had come over the border from neighbouring Colombia, there was not a great deal to do. With all this spare testosterone kicking about, the wildest we managed to get was tearing all the pages from the phone books and making paper planes to launch across the multi-lane highway towards Queen’s hotel, the Caracas Hilton. From hardened rock ’n’ roll party animals to litterbugs!

  Adjacent to the Caracas Hilton was a small park, where, while out strolling with Jobby, I took some photos of the old building at the entrance gates. The two of us wandered into the park and, as we saw little of interest, soon made our way back to the entrance. Blocking our path was a mob of screaming bearded, student types, carrying sticks, clubs and tree branches. I was very confused and very, very concerned, so we ran to the bottom of the park but found that the exit was blocked by more of these people – with dogs. We turned back up the slope with nowhere now to go. I was terrified as these very angry men came storming at us, convinced that we were about to be beaten senseless or probably to death.

  Something
logical in my mind was stirring amidst the terror: ‘Why so many of them, just to rob us?’

  From sheer instinct I put my hands up in a surrender mode and tried to say: ‘I don’t understand – no comprende – no comprende.’

  The mob slowed, and, realising from my dreadful pronunciation and accent that I was not local, looked quizzically at us – pointing at my camera.

  I held my hands out and tried again: ‘No – please – musica, musica, Grupo Queen – yes?’

  A few heads nodded and the wooden weapons were lowered.

  ‘Me turisto – si?’

  With this comment, I pointed at the hotel and my camera, then Jobby and I began shuffling along the line of the bedraggled bunch towards the exit, as some began laughing – making us feel very humble. Without altercation, we were allowed to pass and leave the park. I believe they thought I was some kind of journalist and possibly working for the security forces or some kind of unwelcome outside political interest. It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life, from just strolling in a park one minute to the possibility of suffering a brutal death the next.

  Due to a death, the Venezuelan shows were cut short. Not mine fortunately, but the demise of the former president, Romulo Betancourt, in hospital in the USA. Considered the father of modern democracy in Venezuela, the authorities decreed that no music, dancing or entertainment was to take place, and the entire country virtually shut down to allow proper mourning. While discussions were in place as to whether Queen could finish the series of shows, all we could do was sit around in limbo as the prospect of getting out on schedule diminished.

  The powers in Caracas were making no firm decisions as to when Queen could play again, so an escape route was set and we took off for Dallas, Texas, via Miami.

  BANDIT COUNTRY

  The amount of time in Dallas was undetermined as the final Mexican tour arrangements were still somewhat nebulous – TBA, as we were becoming accustomed to. More problems arose getting into Mexico – a paradox as the usual problem was stopping people from Mexico getting into the USA. We were informed that we were now officially ‘assisting Mexican technicians’ and the entire crew was transferred to Laredo on the Texas/Mexico border, where we filled in the longest and most complex visa applications ever. The questions, apart from the obvious, asked for your religion, mother’s maiden name, whether you can read and write, what other languages you speak, the shape of your face and nose and your general build. We were then subjected to fingerprinting and mug shots – full face and profile.

  Even after all this bureaucracy, we were told we would not all be allowed to cross the border as they only issued three of this type of group visa per day. Gerry Stickells was becoming tenser as we all checked into a Laredo hotel. This dead time was occupied by drinking or reading the Ken Follett novels that had become popular among the crew. These spy stories were fiction but the situation we were in was not.

  The next day, we boarded ‘El Tigre’ the bus to take us into Pancho Villa territory, where at the border the useless promoter had again not arranged things. Time was tight. Time for bribery. The Mexican customs and immigration office was like a stereotypical scene from a Spaghetti Western movie with its dirty, greasy floor, peeling walls and ceiling fans that whirred uncomfortably. People with large battered straw hats holding chickens and grubby children sat forlornly, while behind a counter lines of officials with stained, ill-fitting beige uniforms and twisted peaked caps passed paper around. The temperature was hot, humid and very uncomfortable.

  I passed my visa form and passport, with a $100 bill slipped inside the first page to a fat customs official; a filthy handkerchief nestled under one of his many chins, which he pulled out from time to time to dab his puffy red face before replacing it into the void of his fleshy neck rolls. A grunt, a stamp in the passport and a furtive palming of the money and I was now allowed to enter Mexico. So I did.

  To relieve the boredom of waiting, Jim and I casually wandered unchallenged out of the gate of the secure area into Mexico. Having quenched ourselves with a drink and an ice cream we walked back – again unchallenged – into the ‘secure’ customs area. With all passports stamped and the whole crew onboard, we set off down the dusty road to Monterey where half an hour into the journey was another checkpoint, and money once again changed hands. The planned multiple shows in Monterey were reduced to a single one because, despite huge demand, the supermarkets, who were selling the desired tickets, had not printed enough in time!

  The show in the Estadio Universitario soccer stadium went off well except for the unexpected arrival of a support act, which surprised us, as there was no official support act at any South American show. However, here, standing at the bottom of the stairs to the stage in full national costume and complete with trumpets and drums, was a Mexican Mariachi band. They protested that they had paid a lot of money to play at the show – but to whom?

  There were many other incidents of people paying other ‘people’ for exclusive interviews, photo and film rights. Somebody was taking the piss, and the pesos. The promoters were elusive and the overall promoter who resided in the USA would greet any challenge to him over the many problems incurred with wide-eyed incredulity and claims that you had insulted his mother, before theatrically storming off to sulk.

  After the Monterey show, the satisfied crowd swarmed quickly off the field and over the moat that separates the pitch and the fans at soccer games in these parts. The ramp that had been constructed by our staging crew collapsed and there was a nasty accident as people fell into the dry concrete canal. Fortunately, the worst injury suffered was a broken leg, but US lawyers are not the only predators to swoop on an injury compensation case. The authorities locked the gates to the stadium and refused to let Queen or any of us depart.

  Eventually, after promises had been made, agreements signed and doubtless money had again changed hands, the band were given leave to return to the hotel, but none of the gear or trucks were allowed to depart and the armed guards positioned at the gates ensured this. This stalling tactic was no doubt to get further money to exchange hands and ‘sorry, no pesos’ – only good old US greenback dollar bills, preferably in large denominations. By now we had become cynical and mistrusting of the people we were dealing with and also the validity of this exercise. When we eventually left for Mexico City, a serious siege mentality had been established: us against the rest, in this land of Latin lunacy.

  On arriving in Mexico City, there was no transport to take the crew on a two-hour journey from the airport to our ‘resort’ hotel in Puebla. Our hotel, The Hotel Los Sauces, became the Hotel Lost Causes. It had been built for the influx during the 1968 Olympic Games that were held in Mexico and hardly used since. The swimming-pool water was ink black with a translucent scum atop. Each day the staff added barrels of chemicals until it eventually cleared, and was declared by them to be ‘perfect for bathing’. The crew spent a ‘tequila evening’ prior to this and our mounting frustrations were expelled by light scrapping and the throwing of bodies into this dip. The plumbing arrangements in the bathroom had the diversionary planning of when the toilet was flushed it bubbled back up through the floor of the shower before making its way to the coast.

  We still had ‘tummy trouble’ from the water or from eating the ‘chihuahua’ burgers containing unidentified small bones in the hotel restaurant.

  A young American lighting guy had met a very attractive Mexican girl: ‘I woood liike to-go tooo Amerrr-eeeca.’

  (I bet you would, love – along with most of your country.) He took her. Green card heaven. He was young, he was romantic, his brains were below his belt.

  ZAPATERIA

  Theft was always a constant worry in Latin America, so we had 24-hour security for the stage and dressing-room areas. Despite this, overnight the guitar trunks were locked and chained to a lighting pod which was hoisted in the air, the chain motor then disconnected and the hand control unit taken back to the hotel in our hired vehicle – which was uni
que. The VW minibus had only three gears and no reverse, and was also fitted with a disabling device, this being a 1/4-inch jack plug which I was used to plugging into guitars. However, this plug had to be inserted behind the steering column in order to start the motor and unplugged to turn it off. If the key was turned to start the engine and you had forgotten to fit the plug, you received a nasty electric shock!

  The Puebla shows were truly shocking – a touring experience never to be repeated. On the first day, enormous pressure built up from the huge crowd that had been queuing for hours and eventually broke down the stadium gates. Along with genuine ticket holders, many thousands of others charged into a space where the capacity was dangerously exceeded. There was clearly a lot of tequila consumed as the punters were in very high spirits. When the show started, all Queen’s musical and theatrical efforts were received well, as the audience was awash with cassette players held aloft. Starved of live rock music, it appeared everybody was intent on recording the show.

  Then for no apparent reason things turned ugly as objects started to be thrown on stage, not gifts but shoes, a gesture of appreciation? Never a pair, only single shoes. At the end of the show, the owners were making a huge fuss at the front of the stage, and asking for their shoes back! However, when a few bottles rained on stage, it became a concern and, once the hundreds of cassette players had drained their batteries, these were taken out and also aimed at the stage. Fred had started shouting to the band as he sang to ‘keep moving’ as he dodged the missiles.

  At some point in the show, while crouched in my usual position by the piano, I heard a dull thud on the stage carpet to my immediate right and felt something hit my arm. This turned out to be an old metal bolt that was about six inches long and looked like it had been pulled from a railway sleeper – nice! The band escaped unscathed but, in the dressing room afterwards, all hell broke loose. They were enraged, refusing to play any more shows and were off home. Gerry, as always in his role as ‘Senor Vaselino’, had to grease the wheels of diplomacy, so pointed out that we had a show the next day and then time off before more shows here in Puebla. If Queen did not play the following night, then it could be very difficult to leave the country and the equipment most definitely would not, plus the small matter of the possibility of the audience rioting.