The Show Must Go On — Documentary (2019)

London - 13 Nov 2022

As a continuation of this post here are pictures from my visit to London last month! I dropped by some Queen-related places, it was a long list and impossible to get to in only 1-2 days. I'm also horrendous at schedule management so I missed places that were actually close to each other, welp.

But anyway! Here are the places I got to visit that day. You can click to see the full pictures. Please do not repost my photos!

Garden Lodge was the first stop! I think this place needs no explanation. Lovely place during a lovely weather. I had the area for myself for about 15 mins before a few other fans came along as well to take pictures.

The next stop was 12 Stafford Terrace in Kensington. This was supposedly Freddie's first flat in London, and it is the location of many familiar photos including this one above I attached. It was a really nice place, not that we question it but Freddie had an excellent taste.

Afterwards I had to rush off and barely caught what used to be the location of Kensington Market. Here's a video I took from the bus lol. The market was sadly already demolished and is now a Currys. If I get to go there again I'll take a proper photo of the entire area!

From Kensington I went to Soho and visited 143 Wardour Street. This address was where they took this well-known photo above (Watal Asanuma)! This area is where I should have visited the original Marquee site as well as Trident studios, but I messed up the day's schedule that I didn't get them. Next time for sure!

On my way back from lunch in Soho I went to Carnaby Street where they have the lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody (I didn't think they were still there!). They were put up there to celebrate the launch of the movie in 2018. I bet they look a lot nicer at night but I was there in the afternoon so this is what I got.

Next up is Royal Albert Hall. This was very annoying because there was a huge tent set up that ruined the scenery and again thanks to my bad scheduling management this was the last day I could go anywhere. So I couldn't stand on the exact steps that Smile stood on in this photo (Douglas Puddifoot) without the tent in view, but oh well. I tried my best!

Just around there I went to see the plaque for PRS for Music Heritage award, which commemorates Queen's first public performance in London at Imperial College. Also got a video of where exactly it is. It was originally unveiled in a different place (as shown in photo) but after about a month it was then moved outside for better visibility.

While around Imperial College I looked for this specific site where Queen took this picture when they were still with Mike Grose. It was fun searching for it (it was quite hidden imo) and I felt really triumphant once I found it! There were several compartments (?) but I just picked one that I think is the same one lol.

Genuinely tried my best to keep up with the sun but it set so quickly so I dropped by whatever was on the way back to my hotel. This building at 54 Russell Gardens was formerly Kensington Tavern. This was apparently where Freddie first met Ibex and Roger met John Harris. Pretty iconic! It's a shame that it was closed down.

And from there I finally went to 100 Holland Road, which was also a flat where Freddie once lived in. Firstly, I regret not taking this when there was still sunlight because it didn't look as pretty as it I hoped it would. Secondly, scaffoldings... ugh. Just my luck. Well here's a photo of when it looked nice, hope I can get a shot of it like that next time. This flat is also where this iconic photoshoot (Douglas Puddifoot) took place.

Lastly, below are some bonus of tourist-y photos I took the day before haha. It was a cloudy night but the lights were so pretty!

And that's all for this part of London visit! Again I know I missed a lot of obvious places in literally the same areas that I visited, but with the combo of my bad route planning and the fact that there are just so many historical places in London related to the band, it was obvious that it's going to require several dedicated visits to eventually get to all of them, if I really want to.

My sincerest thanks to Ribbit London who made me a custom map for my visit, put up with my whining about tents and scaffoldings, and always responded so quickly when I get lost pretty much every other turn looking for a specific landmark lol. I couldn't have made it without you!

I will be visiting London several more times for sure, and I hope to be able to get to as many Queen-related sites next time!

One of Brian’s many tributes to Freddie; this is my favorite.

May I have this dance?💙💜

“It started off so well…” [Brian doesn’t come in with piano] “It didn’t start off so f****** well!”

2024 Neon boot boys support post

Compilation of Lewis talking about/consoling George after the race because I saw someone on one side saying George needs to be Lewis’ doormat and he’s ruining his races, and on the other, someone saying Lewis doesn’t appreciate George enough

Dude is so fucking proud of his teammate, even when he makes a mistake, and it’s something George returns week in week out. I couldn’t be prouder of them both, for the insane race they pulled off, and for how they talk about each other

It impress a me sometimes how people can be so willing to just ignore what Lewis says- BOTH sides. Ignoring Lewis is shit max fans do, some of them need to do better.

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!"]

Brian: Thank you! We’re trying some new things here I hope you like them. This is something a little more familiar - if you remember dirty little song called Death On Two Legs this is it

Freddie: …We’re not gonna do that just yet. I’ll kill you when I get in the dressing room! We’re gonna do a song… we’re gonna do Death On Two Legs, don’t worry, but before we do that, I’d like to do a song I like. This is called Somebody To Love.

Excellent article.

huw.substack.com

Nobody Left to Believe

Why are gays so afraid of Freddie Mercury?