My first ever memory is still incredibly vivid, though undoubtedly embellished through years of subsequent telling and retelling. I’m in the back of parents’ car, we are on our way to somewhere, not sure where, and a song is blaring out, I don’t know the words, but whatever it is, it’s the best thing I have ever and will have ever heard.
The voice coming through that car radio still makes me joyous every time I hear it, Freddie Mercury’s voice still makes me emotional to the point of being elevated to some childhood state that makes everything else unimportant.
Freddie would have been 73 years old today, he passed away in 1991. The reason that song, Bohemian Rhapsody, was on the radio in my parents’ car was because news had just broken that he had died from bronco-pneumonia, and had lost his hard-fought and long-hidden battle with AIDS.
There’s a great story about Freddie Mercury meeting Sid Vicious, of Sex Pistols fame. It’s 1977 and Queen and Sex Pistols are both working on their respective albums at Wessex Studios. Freddie Mercury and Sid Vicious pass each other in the corridor, Vicious turns to Freddie and says: “So you’re the bloke that’s supposed to be bringing ballet to the masses?” … “Ah, Mr Ferocious. We’re trying our best,” replied Freddie, according to those who were there.
The reason I love Freddie, other than for being the greatest singer of all time and a really quite handsome bastard, is that he un-self-consciously went round telling journalists that he was going to bring ballet to the masses. Who the hell tells journalists they’re going to bring ballet to masses in the year of punk’s great, snorting uprising? This bloke.
There’s a line in “The Show Must Go On”, written by Brian May, and performed by Freddie while he was on death’s door. It goes “my soul is painted like the wings of butterflies“, and was clearly written by Brian May, to be sung by Freddie, and the line is clearly about Freddie.
It’s damn well true, you know. Happy birthday you hairy-chested, mustachioed, madman, and thanks for everything.