Latest Posts by ffloramint - Page 3

Freddie Mercury gives a radio interview after their show in Detroit, January* Boston, February 1977.

It's so lovely oh my god 🥰 He's so toughtful and soft-spoken, chuckling to himself saying "oh dear, oh dear"! Also, the mic must be so close to him! I listened to it with headphones and it was like he was speaking directly into my ear.

~~~

Some interesting bits (time stamps approximate):

6:10 - talking about being business savy and learning from Smile's experience getting ripped off

14:40 - Freddie got the idea of playing the entirety of BoRhap live while rehearsing for the tour in Boston

18:30 - Roger has books about the Marx brothers and Freddie sees some parallels between their and Queen's approach to their art (meticulous)

23:15 - "That's the whole fucking point of doing it!"

23:50 - they weren't confident initially to play the lighter stuff (Freddie at the piano etc.) on stage when they were just starting out, focusing on the hard rock aspect instead

24:45 - Freddie is being served tea

26:30 - They want to do Long Away live and have rehearsed it, but don't feel it's quite right yet [spoiler: they're never going to play it live *cries* I wonder who'd have sung it, Freddie or Brian...]

27:40 - Somebody to Love is 'nerve-wrecking' and 'a killer': "The first time we ever did it we did it so fast - we just wanted to get it over with."

27:36 - "You want some tea?"

29:10 - Freddie munching on a biscuit?

36:30 - How to keep an accurate picture of yourself with all the things written in the press. Lovely bit.

40 - How they write their songs and approach album recording.

43:15 - They are quite rudely cut off because Roger and John are sitting outside waiting for their turn (Brian already had his turn)

Also, this is the interview where Freddie forgets the name of Brian's 'vaudeville' contribution to ANATO (Good Company) and tries to remember it for a whole blessed minute (forgot to note the time stamp).

(Yes, the others' interviews are also on Youtube, and I'll spend the rest of my day listening to them 😊)

~~~

*It seems the date and place on the vid is wrong, since Brian implies in his interview that they're in Boston.

Interview with Brian

Interview with Roger

Interview with John

Q Magazine - December, 1988

Credits to Louise Belle and Queencuttings.com

BRAVO, SIR FREDERICK!

[Photo caption: (Above and right) Fredcie and his diva. Montserrat Caballe, disport before the good talk of Barcelona: "It’s so ridiculous when you think about it — her and me together. But if we have something musically together it doesn't matter what we look like se where we come from.”

[Photo caption: (Above and right) Fredcie and his diva. Montserrat Caballe, disport before the good talk of Barcelona: "It’s so ridiculous when you think about it — her and me together. But if we have something musically together it doesn't matter what we look like se where we come from.”

[Photo caption: (Above and right) Fredcie and his diva. Montserrat Caballe, disport before the good talk of Barcelona: "It’s so ridiculous when you think about it — her and me together. But if we have something musically together it doesn't matter what we look like se where we come from.”

(Below) The site of the concert — Barcelona's Avinguda De Maria Cristina, a huge fountain-lined road equivalent in size and position to The Mall in London.]

[Photo caption: "I don't know how Queen fans will react to this. I'll have to find out. It is a bit of a thingy — you can't put it under a label, can you? The worst thing they can call it is 'rock opera', which is so boring actually.”]

Fountains tinkle. Fireworks cascade in the warm Spanish sky. And 40,000 people eagerly await a mimed operatic spectacle involving a besequinned diva and the lead singer of Queen. Freddie Mercury is about to explain his latest musical indulgence. Adrian Deevoy is granted an audience.

Never having been one to opt for the outrageous when the downright preposterous will do, Freddie Mercury concludes his operatie concert by attempting to blow up Barcelona with fireworks. It is unanimously proclaimed to be the most awesome pyrotechnic display this side of the four-minute warning.

The pungent aftermath of the apocalyptic finale is hanging heavy in the still night air. So dense, in fact, is the smog that the small band of British journalists walking nonchalantly into the backstage area can hardly see the Spanish policeman's hand in front of their faces.

"No press, " he says flatly.

It's OK, we explain showing him assorted press […]

[Photo caption: Sir Frederick meets The King and Queen of Spain at a reception for La Nit, the concert to celebratethe start of preparations for the Olympic Games in Barcelona in 1992.]

[…]

cards and passes, we are guests of honour of this extravaganza.

"No press," he repeats eyeing the identification contemptuously.

You don't understand, we persist, we have flown from England to witness this spectacular event and now we are going to meet Mr Mercury.

He exhales slowly, unfastens the flap on his holster and curls his hand around the butt of his government-issue revolver.

"No press," he says, with the air of a man winning a particularly effortless chess match.

This is the first indication that despite impressions to the contrary, sitting down for a heart-to-heart with Freddie

Mercury will be considerably more troublesome than anyone had envisaged.

We wander into the bustling city centre feeling confused and a little wounded, although admittedly not quite as wounded as we could have been. What we had told the policeman had, quite remarkably for the British press, been true. Freddie Mercury had paid for us to come Barcelona to see this, his first bona fide live appearance for two years. He was, we were told, attempting to bring opera to the people. Hence he had found himself a diva in the amply proportioned Spanish opera singer Montserrat Caballé, had a hit single — Barcelona — and recorded an album of the same name. Now he was holding a concert. And if we were very lucky he might just talk about it.

Originally Freddie had intended to forego the concert and instead throw a party to end all parties to which all his "friends" from the press would be invited. He promised fire-eaters, dancing bears, unicycling waiters, bearded women juggling live dwarves, that sort of thing. But in the restless tradition of true genius, he became bored with this idea before they had even auditioned the first hopeful midget. Instead, he decided, he would treat us and 40,000 others to the finest and most diverse concert he could muster. It would combine his much-loved opera with rock'n'roll, ballet, gospel, pop, classical, reggae and choral music. If variety was — as lesser philosophers had claimed — the spice of life, then this, Freddie declared, would be a veritable vindaloo. In order to give the concert — going under the banner, with presumably no puns intended, of La Nit — even greater appeal, it would (albeit somewhat prematurely) sound the starting pistol for Barcelona's 1992 Olympic preparations.

Another sizable media-attracting carrot cunningly dangled by Mercury's PR people was the news that King Juan Carlos and his Queen-styled other half would not only attend the show but that the British press, being some sort of honoured guests, would share a box with the royal Spanish personages.

Say no more, said the British press corps, and pausing only to remove dog-eared press cards from our trilbys and insert them into more climatically suitable sombreros, we were off to sunny Spain in search of stories true and tall.

"I'm only really going for the King and Queen angle," says the man from the Sunday Express on the Barcelona-bound plane. "I just want to introduce myself with a view to doing an 'At Home With…' feature in the future."

"I'm not actually interested in the concert," says a freelance Fleet Street photographer between mouthfuls of gratis champagne. "Everyone will have concert stuff. I just want to see what I can get backstage. Old Freddie doing something daft or anyone that shouldn't be seen with anyone — if you get my drift."

"I can see the headline now," giggle The Times to The Guardian, "The Two Queens!"

Upon our arrival we are regretfully informed that the press are not staying in the same Barcelona hotel as Freddie and friends. We are, in fact, a mile or so away in a smaller establishment where practicality takes precedence over luxury. Interestingly this is not due to the fact that the hotel in which Mercury and entourage are staying is fully booked. Indeed, the receptionist says they have "many rooms".

It would seem that Freddie wants to court the press without having any physical contact with them. In keeping with this, his PR people tell us that Freddie does not like, and consequently does not do, interviews. But, we are conspiratorially advised, if we mill about backstage during or after the concert we may be able to catch the occasional pearl of wisdom or screamingly witty conversational gem should we be fortunate enough to be within earshot of the great man.

The concert takes place at the head of Barcelona's Avinguda De Maria Cristina, a huge fountain-lined road the equivalent size and position of The Mall in London. Approximately 40,000 people stand an eye-straining hundred yards from the action whilst those willing to pay more for the privilege have seats in front of the stage.

We members of the British press soon discover that we will not be sharing a box with either the King or the Queen of Spain. In reality we are just about sharing the same city as the royal box, which is situated some two hundred yards from the press area. Thus the Sunday Express's chances of an '’At Home With…’ feature appear more than a little remote.

A warm ripple of applause washes across the audience and the fountains well asMontserrat Caballé opens the show with a powerful blast of her turbocharged soprano. A minor problem with the sound system ensures that her voice, which barely needs amplification, is actually 30 times louder than it needs to be and is almost responsible for the largest collective nose bleed in medical history.

A small procession of large operatic persons follow the mighty Montserrat. Some perform opera classics, others hit a more contemporary note with heftily vibratoed renditions of Summertime and My Way.

Then, surprisingly, Rudolph Nureyev and a friend materialise virtually unannounced — in what appear to be customised Celtic football kits — and perform a bizarre modern dance. They attract an enthusiastic if slightly non-plussed audience response.

After a short interval, a leather-clad figure with three-foot-long dreadlocks takes the stage. The King and Queen make a polite exit — taking with them 40 courtiers. From this we can deduce that the rock set is aboutto commence. From the pounding rock-reggae rhythms and familiar "Give me hope, Jo'hana" refrain we also deduce that the man on stage is Eddy Grant. Sporadic bursts of unself-conscious crazy-bonkers dancing break out among the foreign contingent of the press. The British reporters quasi-rhythmically tap their approval on paper cups struggling manfully to contain the "lively" wine of the region.

As quickly as he appeared, Eddy Grant vanishes, his two songs completed. His place in the spotlight is swiftly taken by a rather drawn-looking Dionne Warwick, who tells us, by way of an introduction to the person waiting in the wings, that four people were responsible for defining rock'n'roll: Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and our next guest. Who could it be? Wayne Fontana? Gilbert O'Sullivan? Midge Ure? The conjecture is humanely brought to an end by the arrival of a lean, mean-looking man in his sixties. Jerry Lee Lewis, for it is he, hurls himself into a firey Whole Lotta Shakin', his right hand alternating between punishing the upper register of his piano and tossing back the independent life-form that is his huge greasy fringe. Mid-way, he mule-kicks his piano-stool across the stage and attempts unsuccessfully to raise his right foot to the keyboard. As if he is being paid by the second, he collects jacket and exits stage right leaving the pick-up band to complete the job while he, presumably, collects the cash. Following a quick spate of journalistic jokes regarding The Killer's infamous libidinous predilections, it strikes the assembled company that Lisa Marie Presley might be present, as she has recently been collaborating with the curmudgeonly legend on some new material. With the scent of scanda lin their nostrils, a couple of writers scuttle away to investigate another potential exclusive, missing as they do Suzanne Vega's Spanish language version of Luka, a song about child abuse.

"Buenos noches, Barcelona! How ya doin’? Awlwight?" Spandau Ballet are, by all accounts, "big in Spain" and three songs later the crowd are indeed, judging by the noise, "awlwight", warmed up and, in a very real sense, ready for Freddie.

The orchestra heralds his arrival with an appropriately grandiose signature tune. He makes his entrance hand in hand with Montserrat, she in an alarmingly large frock, he in an uncomfortably tight tuxedo. Mercury's voice is immediately overshadowed by Caballé's well-drilled trilling and swooping. It is soon quite plain that his is not a strong operatic voice but a warbling rock tenor with cod-operatic pretensions. Comically, Mercury has also obviously experienced some difficulty in moderating his stage performance and seems to be constantly wrestling with a desire to finger a few hairy-chested air-guitar riffs on his microphone stand. That is, until you realise that there is no microphone stand. There is as a matter of fact, no microphone. Amidst all the booming and shrieking and violently passionate body language of their song, Barcelona, the realisation suddenly dawns that they are miming. The fireworks at the climax come as a welcome distraction to the poorly executed lip-synching. Back in the British press box, two bombshells of a less spectacular nature have been dropped; firstly, it is revealed that no press will be allowed into the backstage enclosure as Freddie just wants to relax with a few close acquaintances after the show; secondly, the photographers have discovered that the man from the Mirror has been in Spain for the past two days photographing Freddie and Juan Carlos. To cap it all, his pictures will be available for publication in London before they even return. "We've completely wasted our fucking time," points out the man from The Sun, astutely.

Originally Freddie had intended to forego the concert and instead throw a party for all his "friends" from the press. He promised fire-eaters, dancing bears, unicycling waiters, bearded women juggling live dwarves, that sort of thing. But in the restless tradition of true genius, he became bored with the idea before they'd auditioned the first midget.

So what must one do in order to meet the Frederick Bulsara, 41, the man for whom the word "ludicrous" has never been entirely adequate? The unblushing front-person of Queen who attempted to marry Madame Butterfly to Led Zeppelin whilst wearing a pink feather boa, having apparently secreted several pounds of root vegetables down his ballet tights. Here he is, the wrist-flicking pianist and melodramatic lyricist whom even Beelzebub couldn't stand the sight of. The macho-moustachioed bon viveur who could never decide whether to toss roses to his adoring fans or show them his bottom.

Although it has been some time since he has granted an interview, he still finds shaking hands with the press a painful experience, having had his fingers burnt badly in the past. Previous encounters with journalists have found Mercury proudly recounting tales of crass sexism, appalling wad-waving and indecent ego exposure. Much to his surprise, these unsavoury boasts were reproduced verbatim, invariably casting him as unbearably self-infatuated or obnoxiously arrogant. But he can't really be like that, can he?

In a last ditch effort to achieve congress of some description with the elusive showman, I revisit the entrance to backstage where another, younger policeman is now on duty. Press cards are dutifully displayed.

"Ah," he says, "Press? One moment please." This looks very hopeful. He confers quietly with another officer and returns scowling.

"No Press."

[Photo caption: Freddie and backing singer Debbie Bishop enjoy some post-performance Spanish cuisine: "We might do something live but, My God!, I'll need a lot of rehearsal."]

Back in the hotel at 2am there is a faint air of desperation. Stories need to be filed and no-one has a notion what to write. The men from The Sun and The Times receive the information that the reason for Mercury's miming was a previously unannounced "throat infection". This forms the basis for both their stories; The Times takes the opportunity to snipe gratuitously at Spandau Ballet, calling them "lumpen lager louts"; The Sun uses Mercury's ailment as an excuse to speculate, in its inimitable fashion, as to whether or not Mercury has AIDS.

Outside on the pavement, the empty-handed photographers have decided to cut their losses and "go out and get blitzed". They stop a taxi and inform the driver of their intentions. "Ah, yes," smirks the rotund cabbie offering a vigorous variation on the Twist. "You want go deesco deesco, yes?" "No, Manuel," quips a waggish smudge to a chorus of hearty belly-laughs. "we want go drinko drinko.”

No-one is cracking jokes at the airport the following morning. Most have remembered what they were drinking to forget and only have a hangover to show for a hard weekend's snapping and snooping.

Whilst waiting for a connecting flight in Brussels tempers begin to fray and a photographer lets the record company representative know exactly what's on everyone's mind. While this minor fracas is taking place, Freddie Mercury's PR explains that all is not lost. The lack of access had been due to Mercury's distrust of Fleet Street, but he will talk to Q — only briefly mind — at a party he is throwing in the strangely named Crush Bar at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden tomorrow lunchtime.

The party, it transpires, is the UK launch the Barcelona album and the world and his whippet are in attendance. Media folk from TV, radio, press, record companies have come, many with friends and immediate family, to drink a drop of "the old shampoo" and eat the posh scoff. As the chintzy bar fills to near capacity the chances of a quiet têtê-à-têtê with the man Mercury appear to be slimming by the minute. A reverential hush and a blast of the inevitable Barcelona and Freddie, diva in tow, is among us once again. Simpering benevolently and stopping to occasionally press some particularly influential flesh, he makes his way to a central table where he sits upright, lights a low-tar cigarette and fidgets with his champagne glass, looking for all the world as if he finds this mildly tiresome. Suddenly I am whisked into his presence. He looks pained and takes two tiny, impatient puffs on his cigarette. "Let's not make this too long, eh?" he grimaces.

Surely an aspiring opera singer shouldn't be smoking?

"Oh, do fuck off," he laughs, theatrically propelling a column of smoke heavenwards. "Ask your questions.”

Why opera?

"It was all her," he says motioning lazily towards Caballé. "I just thought, and still think, that she has a marvellous voice and on Spanish television about a year, a year and a half ago I happened to mention it and she came to hear it and she called me up and said, Let's try to do something, see if we can musically get something together. So we met in Barcelona and the story unfolds from there."

But what was the appeal of opera?

"I just liked her voice," he repeats adjusting his cuffs agitatedly. "Whether it be opera or whatever I just think she has this remarkable voice. And I was willing just to go on liking it, never thinking that she'd ask me to sing with her. Then it was, Oh my God!"

How will Queen fans react to this particular musical indulgence?

"I don't know," he sighs, making eye contact briefly for the first time. "I'll have to find out. It is a bit of a thingy. You can't put it under a label can you? The worst thing they call it is rock opera, which is so boring, actually. You can't label it in any way because I'm doing songs that I've never done before, the sort of songs to suit our voices. I found it very difficult writing them and singing them because all the registers had to be right and they're all duets."

Was he daunted when he first met Caballé?

"Now I'm getting to know her it's all right but at first… my God!" He tosses a hand limply into the air. "I didn't know how to approach her or anything. You have this sort of idea of a super diva walking in but she really made me feel at ease."

Did she have any suspicions about him?

"I asked her and everything and she said she'd heard of me and everything and before we met she'd got all my albums and started listening to all the old Queen records because she thought she was going to have to sing something like that! I said, No, no. I'm not going to give you all those Brian May guitar parts to sing, that's the last thing I want to do! I think she thought it would be more a rock'n'roll thing."

Did it make him reappraise his voice?

"No, no, no," he tuts disapprovingly. "In fact she did make me sing in different ways. Like she said, use your baritone, But no, no, no. I didn't take any lessons."

Why, I venture, did he mime in Spain?

"I tell you what," he announces, quite prepared for the question, "I really didn't want to sing live because for that we'd need a lot of rehearsals. It's a very difficult thing for me. They're complex songs and we just didn't have enough rehearsal time and we could have not done it at all but because of the Olympic committee and all that we had be he represented.

Did he feel he was letting people down?

"No, rubbish," he spits petulantly. "We were there. We haven't actually done anything live and I didn't want to just go and, well you know… There will come a time when we might do something live but my God, I'll tell you, I'll need a lot of rehearsal. Weeks and weeks of it. I've never done things with orchestras and if my voice was not to come up to scratch I'd be letting her down. I didn't want to take any chances."

What went through his mind before he took the stage in Barcelona? Was he nervous?

"Well yeah," he nods, "I was nervous. It was a cultural event. They had Dionne Warwick and Nureyev dancing so it was a mish-mash for everybody."

Will rock 'n' roll be a bit of a come down after this?

"No, not at all, because I'm currently working on a Queen album. I'll never forget that. That will come out in April or May next year."

Does he find it hard to keep the rock performer in him at bay whilst performing opera?

"I still find myself wanting to do this," he says, striking a familiar bicep-flexing pose. "It's strange for me to be wearing a tuxedo. But did you see her? Flying about all over the place!"

Does he share any common interests with his diva?

"We have a certain type of humour which is nice. I thought, My God! — because you always think opera divas are going to be austere and very sort of frightening — but she jokes and she swears and you know, she's a human being. It's good. She doesn't take herself too seriously."

Isn't all this the campest thing?

"Do you think she's camp?" he asks laughing. "It is so ridiculous when you think about it. Her and me together. But if we have something musically together it doesn't matter what we look like or where we come from."

Has he missed playing live with Queen?

"I do miss it to a certain extent," he says, toying impatiently with his lighter, "but I want to do the album first so we've got something to play live. I know I haven't done a live show for about two years but… I can't fucking do everything all the time!"

He laughs nervously at his outrageous closing quote and reaches for his low-tar cigarettes.

"Anyway, dear, let's have a breather, huh?"

[Photo caption: Fred and his diva pose for their chums from Fleet Street: "I happened to mention that she had a marvellous voice on Spanish TV and she asked me to sing with her. Then it was, Oh my God!"]

Queen in London - Part I: Freddie

A brief timeline of the band members' living arrangements, focused on London/England. I put this together from a variety of sometimes contradictory sources - if anyone has additional or differing information, please let me know!

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When the Bulsaras arrive in England in the spring of 1964, they settle down in Feltham. In November 1964, they move into 22 Gladstone Avenue x x

While Freddie officially continues to live in Feltham for the next 5 years, he often stays with friends who live in London. One important address is 49 Addison Gardens, Kensington, where Chris Smith and Paul Humbertone share a basement flat (QonC, 31). Roger's flatshare at 15 Sinclair Gardens is just a street away, and they form one big circle of friends, often hanging out with each other.

Freddie with Paul Humberton at the back garden of 42B Addison Gardens.

"When we all got together [...] Brian would stay at Roger's, while Tim and Freddie would stay with me." (Chris Smith, QonC 31)

In October 1969, Freddie moves into a flatshare at 40 Ferry Road, Barnes, with Roger and others (Denise Craddock, QiC). The cast of flatmates fluctuates a lot, but for a while Brian lives there as well.

View of 40 Ferry Road and a floor plan with occupants; QiC

After about a year at Ferry Road, Freddie moves into a flatshare in Fulham with Roger, Jo, John Harris and others in the autumn of 1970 (Pat McConnell, QiC). According to Pat, "Freddie was [in the Fulham flatshare] for a while but went to live with Mary."

Probably in early 1971, Freddie and Mary move into £10-a-week bedsit x. The article states the address as Victoria Road, Kensington, but Victoria Road is a lot further north, in Acton. It might be a mix-up with Victoria Grove, Kensington.

The dating is a bit of an educated guess: according to the article, Freddie first asked Mary out on his 24th birthday - September 1970. In this article, Mary is quoted saying that that they moved in together about five months after their first date.

"After two years together" - probably Autumn 1972 - Freddie and Mary move just about a mile into a slightly more expensive one-bedroom apartment at 100 Holland Road x They live there with two cats x, Tom and Jerry.

100 Holland Road; the "dress-up"-photoshoot with Doug Puddifoot took place there in March 1973.

In Spring 1976, Freddie is still living in the Holland Road flat with Mary, but has been house-hunting for a while - in vain, so far x

In mid-1976, Freddie rents a flat in Dovehouse street, Chelsea, for himself and David Minns, who calls it "a hellhole" (WtMS, 31; TWTRL).

In October 1976, Freddie talks about "the new place he's got in Kensington" x - probably the first mention of 12 Stafford Terrace.

In Spring 1977, Freddie is busy furnishing his new flat at Stafford Terrace (WtMS, 31), while still living at Holland Road x (the article refers to his lush flat 'upstairs').

It's not entirely clear when Freddie finally moves into Stafford Terrace, but it seems to have been sometime in late 1977 or even early 1978: According to David Minns, Freddie moved into Stafford Terrace with Joe after he came back from a "long, arduous tour" x (the US leg of the 1977 NOTW-tour), and he still calls it a "new flat" at this point (TWTRL).

"Freddie’s home was the lower part of a house conversion. The hallway and dining room were on ground level and the kitchen on the mezzanine. In the basement were the bedrooms – Freddie’s facing the street and Joe Fannelli’s at the rear – and a large sitting room looking out on to a small, patioed garden." (M&M)

Freddie at Stafford Terrace.

In the first half of the 1980s, Freddie spends significant amounts of time in New York and Munich, but 12 Stafford Terrace is his home whenever he is in London for the next 7 years.

In 1980, he buys a new property, Garden Lodge, 1 Logan Mews, in Kensington (FM, Ch. 4). It's a two-story, Neo-Georgian mansion surrounded by high walls and a landscaped garden x

Freddie spends five years completely refurbishing the place. The process is finished in July/August 1985, while he was still mainly living in Munich. In the autumn of 1985, Freddie permanently moves into Garden Lodge with Jim (M&M). They're going to live there along with Phoebe, Joe, and an assortment of cats until Freddie's death in 1991.

Aerial view of Garden Lodge; Freddie in his garden.

Sources

FM - Peter Freestone & David Evans: Freddie Mercury.

M&M - Jim Hutton & Tim Wapshott: Mercury and Me.

QiC - Rupert White: Queen in Cornwall.

QonC - Mark Hayward: Queen on Camera, off Guard

TWTRL - David Evans & David Minns. This Was The Real Life

WtMS - David Evans. When the Music Stops

This wonderfully heartbreaking editing is brought to you by The Show Must Go On (Official Q+AL documentary, 2019)

You’re welcome :))))