Queen Unseen (11 page)

‘Would-you-like-to-buy-a-lovely-orange-flower?’ some simpering bald tit dressed in a dyed bed sheet would ask at LAX.

‘No – I’d like to buy a large vodka and orange!’

‘Peace and love – brother.’

‘Rock ’n’ roll – mate!’

‘Hare Krishna, peace and love.’

‘Harry Ramsden, salt and vinegar!’

Time to get out of this ‘La La Land’.

Boarding pass, please – aisle or window seat.

As long as it’s in smoking!

W
e flew hastily west out of LAX to the east, across the big blue bit on the map usually referred to as the Pacific Ocean, and from one foreign place to another. Los Angeles had certainly been an alien encounter, but what lay ahead was equally strange – and intriguing. Japan in the mid-1970s was still a novelty, a journey into the unknown and an exciting bonus to life on the road for the few bands invited to play there. Queen were big in Japan, even before they ever arrived.

‘You won’t like the food,’ a veteran of one previous visit nodded sagely on the JAL flight to Tokyo. He was right. The immaculate, smiling doll-like stewardess passed around trays of cold rice, raw fish, purple pickles and seaweed. Raw fish! Now, I didn’t mind a rare steak (pull its horns out, wipe its ass and put it on the plate – with fries
on the side) but raw fish? It took the smile off my face. And the hot towels we were graciously served with took the grime off my face.

Wherever we went in Japan, we experienced the polite ritual of being given a small handkerchief-size towel, either hot or cold, and sometimes fragrantly perfumed, to dab your face and wipe your hands with. For roadies who rarely clean themselves, they were very handy – but it’s not the done thing to use them for your armpits in a restaurant.

Cleansed and very keen, I was feeling excited and expectant as we descended into Haneda airport, with the sprawling blanket of the lights of Tokyo sparkling below. A ceremonial gong went off in my head, announcing Peter Hince’s first arrival in Asia. Soon I was witnessing what I imagined Beatlemania must have been like. Queen, who had been up the pointy end of the Jumbo Jet, were being escorted through thousands of hysterical, screaming fans by their personal Japanese security: Samurais in cheap suits with what looked like white plastic National Health hearing aids. Brian May was towering above the throng like some
curly-topped
beanstalk; Fred, Roger and John in stacked heels and platform soles were also giants among the Japanese. Their 1970s hairstyles alone put a good six inches on their height. The hordes of fans followed us to the hotel, where more uniformed security kept them at bay. I felt like I was in a movie; it was all somewhat surreal and I was so enthralled with everything I was experiencing that I never noticed any jet lag. Pure adrenaline took over.

A four-fold sensory bombardment followed, with more strange and suspicious food, sights both bizarre and serene,
shrill noises and pungent aromatic smells. I soon encountered a fifth – which were very firm and accommodating indeed.

‘Watch out! There’s a high rate of VD in Japan,’ the wise old sage told us. Once again he was right. The opening line from any Japanese doctor you saw, for any ailment, was: ‘You have discharge?’

‘No – not that! I can’t hear, my ears hurt, a problem on the flight over here. It’s very painful.’

‘Aaaaahhh – your ears pop when you fry?’

These were the days when Benny Hill and his particular type of humour reigned supreme. Jingoism? I didn’t have any idea what it meant back then; foreign people were there to amuse and entertain. Xenophobic? No. We certainly had no fear of foreigners; we genuinely wanted to get to know them, very closely. The young women especially.

The following muted phrase spoken in English by a Japanese female was heard from the room of one crew member, as he entertained his new ‘special friend’:

‘You may ownee be loadie – but you are lock star to me.’

Pause to visualise the guy’s huge grin that followed her remark. The young lady continues: ‘
I am not gloopie – I have feerings too.
’

This information was obtained by using a Tokyo Spider; a small radio microphone and transmitter, discovered while scouring the arcades of electronic-goods stores in the Akihabra district of Tokyo. By tuning in on an FM radio with a cassette recorder built in, the conversation could be saved for posterity. Once the bug was fixed in place, usually
behind the curtains, and a sound check done, we went out clubbing. On returning, the sniggering, drunken ensemble would gather in a room on a higher floor and tune in. With the recording complete, we would retire with great anticipation for the following day’s Queen sound check, when the recorded tape would be played once everybody was gathered. Queen appreciated wicked mischief. They really loved it. The victim was forced to listen to the highlights:

‘I am not a Playboy, baby – I think you are really special. Would you like to stay? I’m feeling very tired.’

‘OH REALLY?’ The crew would all shout in unison.

‘Of course I can introduce you to Freddie and Brian – they are often coming to my room.’

‘OH REALLY?’

‘No, I’m not married – I don’t even have a girlfriend. I’ve been waiting for somebody really nice – like you.’

‘OH REALLY?’

‘No – you don’t have to go, just stay. I’m tired, we don’t have to do anything, we can just go to sleep. You can trust me.’

‘OH REALLY?’

Cue – huge rounds of laughter.

Though all this exotic Japanese exposure was stimulating, it was at times a real comfort to experience something familiar – and thankfully the Japanese drive on the right side of the road – by that I mean the
correct
side – the left. Japanese courtesy was followed to the letter as the rear door of taxis opened automatically for you when the car pulled up. It was comforting too to see things written in English: McDonald’s,
Shakey’s Pizza and English Pub. I know – sad, wasn’t it? The familiar publications of
Playboy
and
Penthouse
were available and, when opened up, it was found that all the women’s ‘front bottoms’ had been scribbled over by teams of Japanese women armed with black felt-tipped pens. No display of pubic hair was allowed in Japan, though Japanese ‘top shelf’ material, which had a particular penchant for showing young-looking girls in white underwear bound and gagged, was freely available.

The cultural contrasts continued; all Queen shows followed a very different pattern in Japan by starting much earlier, usually at 6.00 pm and there was never a support act. The early start was so that the predominantly young Queen audiences could travel home on public transport in good time, and a large percentage of the fans were still in their smart school uniforms – something that was deemed rather attractive by some of the quieter members of the crew.

The visual impact of a Queen show was reduced, due to pyrotechnics not being allowed at all, while a total black-out was also vetoed by the strict authorities, the exits having to be clearly lit and visible. So, as the band crept on stage in this twilight, they could easily be seen by many of the audience, which lessened their grand entrance. A certain singer was not at all happy in his luminescent white stretch ‘Mercury the winged messenger’ outfit: ‘Ratty – get those lights turned off or I’m not going on!’ Sound familiar?

He did go on and the place went crazy. Japanese audiences were wildly enthusiastic, yet remarkably respectful. No steel barriers or battalions of bouncers were needed to halt any rush to the stage, just a rope or tape strung across neat and 
evenly placed posts. Like a queue in the post office. Very civilised. The honourable Japanese and their custom of bowing was taken to task by the dishonourable crew; prior to the show, a group of us would walk on to the stage, stand in a line and bow to the audience. The first few rows, having seen us, would stand up and bow back. We repeated our courteous gesture, getting more and more people to respond until the crowd caught on to what was happening, laughed and applauded. (Some nights we went down better than the band!)

They showed their appreciation by throwing things towards the stage during the shows, mainly paper streamers, confetti and colourful ribbons but also toys and gifts, with many cards of goodwill and confessions of undying love for Fleddie, Blian, Loger and John. These tokens would be gathered up and put into boxes for the respective band member – ‘member’ being a common term used by the Japanese: ‘Have members arrived? Which member do you play with? My favourite member is…’ John Deacon was very popular in Japan and certainly Queen’s biggest member in Japan. I know, I’d seen him in his tight trunks at the swimming pool.

These gift boxes and their contents (most of them) would be delivered to Queen’s dressing room for after-show perusal. ‘These are very nice, but where are the Sony TVs and Kawasaki motorbikes,’ quipped Roger. Queen:
multi-millionaires
who were certainly not adverse to freebies or saving a few quid on a camera, digital watch or tape player. ‘Could you just
slip
this in with the gear for me?’ Many of the gift items from fans would be stored in the equipment or 
wardrobe flight cases for return to England, where in the sanctity of our warehouse at Elstree Film Studios, we spent many enjoyable sessions blowing up the cuddly toys with pyrotechnic flash powder and fireworks. Until you have slit open a small toy penguin, filled it with flash powder, stuck a rocket up its rear, bound it tightly with gaffer tape, lit the blue touch paper, retired to a semi-safe distance and then watched it sail through the air finally to explode – you just haven’t lived. Sorry, Brian.

For the crew, just touring Japan was a bonus itself and, when shows in the famed Budokan arena in Tokyo were sold out, the entire entourage got a bonus from the promoter. Queen’s tour promoters, Watanabe Productions (aka What A Knob End), gave out ornately decorated envelopes with the Queen logo and colourful Japanese graphics. Inside were several hundred Yen (about £2). ‘It’s the thought that counts’, and yes it was a nice keepsake, but where were the Sony Walkmans, Seiko watches and Nikon cameras that the rival promoter handed out to his visiting bands and crews? As the Japanese crew did all the physical loading and unloading and trucking of equipment, it is fair to say we had a relatively easy time in Japan compared to the band, who not only had to perform as usual, but also had to do a gruelling schedule of interviews, TV, photo sessions, promotion, game shows and the opening of supermarkets and such like. And all with a polite smile.

When we arrived at a venue, a swarm of travelling Japanese crew, who took copious notes and drew diagrams of all the gear, would even have set up Queen’s ‘Back Line’ of amplifiers and drum kit. Unfortunately, they set it up 
back to front and also measured the distance from the back of the stage – not the 23 feet from the front! Everything about a Japanese show was very orderly and efficient with legions of extra local crew, caterers, truckers, organisers, interpreters, travel people and promoter reps, all constantly milling around.

In the early days, when the band were younger, leaner and keener, they would play extra afternoon matinee shows at 2.00 pm, as the six o’clock show had sold out ‘due to popular demand’ as the saying goes. Some of these venues were large school gymnasiums, which still held at least a few thousand people. Travelling outside of the Western-influenced Tokyo to school gymnasiums (tight white shorts and undergarments) and poignant sites of the nuclear explosions, Japan became even more foreign. This was the mid-1970s and many local inhabitants, who had never seen tall Westerners with long or blond hair, stopped in the street to gawk and point. They probably hadn’t even seen
Starsky and Hutch
on TV. Or flared jeans. To travel, we took flights: All Nippon Airways – and all Nip Off again! – or buses and the Shinkansen (bullet trains), to places with some familiar names: Hiroshima, Nagoya, Osaka, and some not so well known: Himeji, Yamaguchi, Sendai, Fukuoka and Kanazawa.

At the local nightclub in Kanazawa (where?), aptly named Zoo, we were made welcome with free entrance and complimentary drinks. Top place. After a few more rounds, when some of us drifted over to start talking to some local ladies, the management politely asked us to return to our table. Why? We were not causing any trouble (yet), the girls weren’t complaining about our behaviour (yet), so 
what was the problem? Club policy dictated that: ‘you must only sit at the first table that you sat at when you entered, and only with the people you arrived with. You may stay sitting where you originally were or you must leave without paying.’

Fine by us – see you at the hotel, girls. Getting girls back to your hotel room outside of Tokyo, unless they were registered, was very tricky and involved fire escapes, disguise, bribery, corruption and diversionary tactics to allay staff. If you did succeed in getting young ladies to your room, you could almost guarantee that they would stick to you like a rash, following you around on tour like a lap dog.

Unfortunately, one word from the previous sentence was sometimes encountered: rash. The wise old sage was right once again! NSU and gonorrhoea were prevalent, but thankfully these were the halcyon pre-AIDS days, when a shot of penicillin, an alcohol ban and a bit of guilt were all that was required to clear a sexually transmitted disease.

One evening in provincial Japan, The Sex Police struck! This self-righteous force consisted of those who had not pulled that particular evening and their task, fuelled by envy, was to stop or interrupt any activity by those who had got lucky. When they burst into the room of this particular victim, they did not catch him
in flagrante
but fast asleep… on my own – my companion having already left. She had to leave early as she was working; haunting houses by the look of her. Jet lag was regularly used as a scapegoat for ending up with The Dragon Lady of The East, resplendent with her dyed red hair,
black lips and nail polish. An awesome sight: ‘I’m telling you guys – she wasn’t
that
bad.’

This particular lady was known as Ed the Spread, because she appeared to put her make-up on with a plasterer’s trowel. Fuelled by adrenaline and not to be denied their fun, The Sex Police picked up the mattress, stripped it of the bedclothes and carried it complete with occupant, also stripped bare, to the hotel elevator, which was then dispatched to the
ground-floor
reception. When the automatic doors opened, it was just in time to greet a welcoming party of elderly Japanese ladies, who were at the hotel for a wedding. It turns out that a mattress is a very heavy and awkward item to grab quickly to hide your modesty, particularly if elegant, elderly Japanese are looking on incredulously.