Is This The Real Life?

I
t is 13 July 1985, and for rock stars of a certain vintage, it’s a difficult time. Many who came of age in the sixties and seventies are living off past glories and the blind goodwill of fans. The world has yet to invent the pensioner rock star, and Pete Townshend’s adolescent mission statement ‘Hope I die before I get old’ has never seemed more ill-judged.

Today’s Live Aid concerts in Philadelphia and London will unite musicians of every age. The common cause is to raise funds for Ethiopian famine relief, but there is another agenda. There are over eighty thousand people in the audience at London’s Wembley Stadium alone, and a satellite TV link-up means that a further 400 million people in over fifty countries will witness the action, both good and bad. Reputations will be made and lost, while those watching donate a total of £150 million to aid the starving people of Africa.

Over the next few hours, this global audience will see an under-rehearsed Bob Dylan, an underwhelming Led Zeppelin, and pop peacocks Mick Jagger and David Bowie shaking their tail feathers in each other’s faces. Live Aid will prove a pivotal moment in the careers of the still-novice U2 and Madonna, but will do nothing for the longevity of Adam Ant, Howard Jones or the Thompson Twins. For Dire Straits and Phil Collins, the ubiquitous multi-platinum-sellers of the day, it will never get any bigger than this.

Into this disparate mix comes a rock group with 14 long years on the clock. This multi-millionaire band (listed in the 1982
Guinness
Book of Records
as Britain’s highest-paid company directors) have notched up a daunting run of hit singles and albums, with a restless musical style encompassing rock, pop, funk, heavy metal, even gospel. While their reputation as a supreme live act precedes them, even their most loyal supporters couldn’t have predicted what would happen today.

At 6.44 p.m., the group’s appearance is heralded by the arrival of TV comedians Mel Smith and Griff Rhys Jones. Smith is dressed as an officious police sergeant, Jones as his hapless constable. The gag is simple: authority versus ‘the kids’, and the pair’s jokes – ‘there have been complaints about the noise … from a woman in Belgium’ – help whip up the crowd but are almost drowned out by the sound of the road crew behind them making last-minute adjustments. Finally, Smith removes his copper’s helmet, jams it under his armpit, and stands to attention for ‘Her Majesty … Queen!’

Interviewed later, Live Aid’s organiser Bob Geldof will try to describe the inherent oddness of these four individuals. Bounding onstage at Live Aid, they look, as Geldof says, ‘like the most unlikely rock band you could imagine’.

John Deacon (Geldof: ‘the reserved bass guitarist’) takes up his position at the back, close to the drum riser. Despite a pop star’s shaggy perm, he most resembles the electronics engineer he’d have become had a career in music not panned out. Earlier in the day, when the band had been summoned to line up and meet Live Aid’s royal guests, the Prince and Princess of Wales, thousands of Queen fans watching on TV wondered why a man that looked
suspiciously like a roadie had taken John Deacon’s place. ‘I was too shy to go and meet Princess Diana. I thought I’d make a fool of myself,’ he said later, admitting he’d sent his roadie, Spider, instead.

Brian May, of the praying-mantis physique and busby of dark curls (‘the hippy guitarist’, says Geldof), looks almost unchanged since the group began. May undercut his guitar-hero posings with a naturally studious manner. For the Bachelor of Science and former schoolteacher, guitar playing is a serious business. In the early days, May would mutter under his breath like a tennis player psyching himself for an important point.

Meanwhile, you wonder if Roger Taylor isn’t frustrated at spending his working life hidden behind a drum kit. With his blond coiffure and dainty features (he once grew a beard to stop people mistaking him for a girl) and offstage passion for sports cars and model girlfriends, Taylor is the band’s most obvious pop star. In recent years, his bass drum skin has been decorated with a close-up picture of his face, visible from even the cheapest seats. While Taylor remains largely unseen, he will not go unheard; his distinct, cracked backing vocals are an essential part of Queen’s sound.

Whatever Freddie Mercury’s bandmates do over the next twenty-two minutes, they rarely divert attention from, as Geldof calls him, ‘that outrageous lead singer’. At the very beginning, Mercury was a glam-rock pimpernel. Not now. The hair is short and greased back; the satin Zandra Rhodes creations of old replaced by a gym vest and snug pale jeans.

When it comes to his sexuality, Mercury has been playing cat-and-mouse with the press for years, but his image is clearly modelled on the ‘Castro Clone’ look popular in US gay circles. The finishing touches include a studded bracelet circling his right bicep, and a dense moustache – Freddie’s trademark – almost, though not quite, covering his oversized teeth. When Mercury jogs on stage, his exaggerated gait suggests a ballet dancer running for a bus.

It’s difficult to imagine any twenty-first-century music business Svengali or reality TV judge buying into the notion of the 38-year-old Mercury as a global pop star. And yet, in years to come, Mercury will have more in common with today’s wannabes than history currently allows. Years before Live Aid, as an art student
with musical ambitions, the man born Farrokh Bulsara told anyone who would listen that he would ‘be a star one day’. Few believed him.

Despite their usually unshakeable self-belief, the band are keenly aware that this not just their crowd. Not for them, then, the sloppy approach taken by some of their peers. This band have drilled themselves with four days of intensive rehearsals, timing their twenty-minute set to the very last second, and selecting their songs for maximum impact. After a quick lap of the stage, Freddie Mercury seats himself at a piano stage left. The audience erupts as he picks out the opening figure to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ – how else to start? – crossing his hands with a camp flourish to play the high notes. As he delivers the opening line, the crowd responds again. The song’s sense of melodrama is undiminished, despite the piano being adorned not with candelabra, but Pepsi-branded cups and plastic glasses of lager. Undaunted and already in the moment, Freddie manages to sing as if he’s conveying a message of worldshattering importance. Today, Live Aid will belong to Queen.

The rest of the band joins in, with May weaving in his baroque guitar solo, and then, without warning, Mercury jumps to his feet, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ cut off at its first big crescendo and before it overstays its welcome.

Freddie’s roadie Peter Hince hoves into view, passing the singer his instantly recognisable prop – a sawn-off mic stand. Mercury prowls the lip of the stage, punching the air, cocking his head and pouting. Behind him, Taylor beats out the introduction to ‘Radio Ga Ga’, Queen’s number 2 hit from the year before. With its modish synthesiser and electronic rhythm it is the antithesis of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

The song’s lyrics are an indignant commentary on the state of modern radio, sweetened by a singsong chorus. But its promo video, with scenes lifted from the 1920s sci-fi movie
Metropolis
, which helped to sell the song. Today, on the first chorus, the audience mimics a scene in the video, with thousands of hands above heads
clapping as one. ‘I’d never seen anything like that in my life,’ admitted Brian May later.

From here on, the group appears invincible. Mercury teases the audience, flexing his vocal cords with some call-and-response banter, before launching into ‘Hammer to Fall’. A modest hit, its comic-book heavy metal is still made for stadiums such as these. A visibly more relaxed Brian May whips out the riff, while Mercury joshes with the onstage cameraman, mugging into his lens, before prancing around the guitarist like a matador goading a bull. Then, while May scrubs away, Mercury fixes the crowd with a mischievous smile and starts tugging the end of the microphone, now pointing out at crotch level.

Less lusty rock star, more naughty schoolboy, the twinkle in Freddie’s eye suggests that he takes none of this, including himself, seriously. Live Aid’s worthy cause and the disposition of many pop stars has resulted in plenty of furrowed brows on the Wembley stage today. Not, it seems, on Queen’s watch. ‘They understood the idea that Live Aid was a global jukebox,’ said Geldof. ‘And that Freddie could ponce about in front of the whole world.’

Onstage, Queen may have already tasted victory, but behind the scenes it was a different story. In November 1984 they had been absent from the recording of the Band Aid single, in which pop’s great and good (and less good) had collaborated on a charity record to aid Ethiopia. ‘We were all in separate parts of the globe at the time,’ Mercury said later. In reality, having just completed shows in South Africa’s Sun City for which they’d been lambasted, Queen had been licking their wounds before resuming a world tour.

Tension between the band members had often led to creativity in the studio, but by 1985 Queen were, as Roger Taylor, put it ‘feeling jaded’. The drummer’s frank assessment that the band had ‘outlasted some of our marriages’ didn’t exclude that same marriage from now being on the rocks. Years of touring, making music and generally accommodating each other’s egos had taken its toll.

Queen’s most recent album,
The Works
, had restored some of the momentum lost when 1982’s
Hot Space
, with its dance grooves and noticeable lack of guitar, proved an experiment too far. Queen’s star had waned, especially in the US. There had been numerous
problems: wrangles with the American record label; a lack of airplay; divisive influences within the Freddie camp; and the promo video for the single ‘I Want To Break Free’, in which Queen dragged up in women’s clothes (much loved in the UK, but less so in the US).

May, Taylor and Mercury had all made solo albums, with Freddie’s debut released just two months before Live Aid. None had yet succeeded in forging a separate identity as a solo artist away from what Brian May called ‘The Mothership’. The plan after Live Aid was for Queen to take time off, and not to tour again for at least five years, if at all.

Later, Live Aid promoter Harvey Goldsmith will applaud the band for not fighting for a later, more prestigious slot on the bill. But it was all part of the plan. Years before, while waiting for Queen to get their big break, Brian May had watched David Bowie unveil his Ziggy Stardust alter ego onstage and been struck with jealousy, wondering when it would be Queen’s turn to make their mark. Later, Queen had shared management with Elton John, and fought for attention. Tonight, Bowie and Elton will follow Queen, giving the band the perfect opportunity to upstage both of them. Meanwhile, Queen’s early evening slot means their performance will also be screened on American TV.