In Which TotD, having run out of ideas and unwilling to do a normal record review, posts random pictures of Queen, commenting thereupon at his leisure, whilst simultaneously listening, and commenting thereupon, if indeed the impetus does come upon him, to News of the World.
Freddie and Michael Jackson collaborated briefly–the songs were terrible electrodance crap–but the team-up came to an abrupt end over personalities: Michael didn’t appreciate Freddie doing lines off the mixing board, and Freddie didn’t like the llama Michael brought to the studio.
Now: Michael has a point. Freddie has the larger one. (As seen in the picture.) Llamas belong in their natural habitat, South American recording studios.
What Freddie should have done was bring an ostrich the next day, and have it fight Michael Jackson’s llama.
“Get him, Liza!”
(Freddie has named his ostrich Liza Minelli.)
“Use your nails, darling!”
“Kick it, Sweater!”
(Michael Jackson’s llama is named Sweater.)
And so on.
I wonder if the Younger Enthusiasts I address sometimes really exist, but it doesn’t matter: even if they are real, they’re still just a literary device. Real or not, Younger Enthusiast: this anecdote defines what it meant to be a Rock Star, back when that term had a specific definition, before it was a piss-colored energy drink. The llama, the cocaine, the egos, but most of all: the fact that–in every recounting of the story–Freddie deals with the situation by calling his manager in London. (The studio, and hence the llama, are in Los Angeles.)
Rock Stars got to call someone nine time zones away to take care of a problem happening in the room they occupied. Also, the problem is that someone brought a llama to work. (When you phrase it more mundanely, the truly ludicrous nature of the day is revealed. Forget the rock star/studio angle: Freddie’s co-worker brought a llama to the office.)
Other people cleaned up Rock Stars’ messes.
This is not right, Queen. Don’t give John Deacon the fucking triangle. It’s like the band’s whole career was a conspiracy between the other three to fuck with John Deacon.
This was during the Acoustic Mini-Set, which should be on all your Rock Star Bingo cards. All the big bands did them, or at least attempted them, occasionally coming halfway into the crowd to play on an Acoustic Mini-Stage. Queen just huddled at the front of the stage like this:
You will note the strategic deployment of stools. Rock Stars are incapable, due to reasons of physiognomy, of playing acoustic music without the presence of stools. They may not use the stools, but they have to be there.
News of the World has one of Queen’s best songs, It’s Late, and one of Freddie’s best songs, My Melancholy Blues. (Roger and John Deacon do their jazz trio imitation behind him, but it’s just Freddie playing piano and singing.) But it has the first awful song (of more than several) to make it onto a record: Get Down, Make Love. It just sits there on the same riff for hours, and then there’s a chorus, and then back to the riff. The song is not a good portent, as most of Queen’s lesser material would follow this lazy pattern over the years.
Rock Stars had skinny legs. End of discussion, unless you were Meatloaf and we all know Meatloaf doesn’t really count. Rock Star pants do not fit dudes with chubby-wubby thighs. Not to mention the hair: you had to have it. (Thoughts on Rock Wigs could run into the thousands of words.) The look is Lord Byron, but with more sexually-transmitted diseases.
And make no mistake: Brian May had great hair.
You may disagree, Enthusiasts, but I think it’s a winning look. The hitch would come when he would occasionally cut it a little bit too short, and this would happen:
And that’s just a mess. He looks like a saint on a Greek Orthodox icon, and his hair is his halo, and that is an ugly woman’s jacket. Not that the jacket, which is ugly, was made for women: that jacket is only for ugly women. If you are not ugly, the clerk will refuse to sell it to you.
John Deacon looks like the third lead actor on a BBC cop drama you scroll past on Netflix, but at least he gets to wear his blue jeans.
Sometimes, Freddie would feel as though the crowd wasn’t looking at his cock hard enough, and so Freddie would thrust himself towards them.
(Finding out Freddie Mercury stuffed his trousers would break me. It would be the last betrayal of my youth: the Prequels, Bill Cosby, now this? The evidence towards authenticity, in a cock-wise fashion, is just too overwhelming: that’s all Freddie. I always assumed he was just proud of the thing, and rightly so: there’s a lot of potato in that salad.)
This is News of the World, and you should listen to it.
This is a picture of Roger, John Deacon, and Goofy; you should look at it:
God save the Queen.