Queen Unseen (21 page)

‘Dragon Attack’ –
The Game
– 1980

Written by Brian May; inspired by Munich.

Take me back to that Shack any time!

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.

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.

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.

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 birthday 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.