They became a big act in America almost immediately, just as they had in Britain. Brian’s 1974 song ‘Now I’m Here’ contained poignant words about becoming America’s new bride.
Well, I had no intention of getting married, but the honeymoon had already started.
For a roadie, going on tour in America was the icing on the cake; a reward for slogging around all the stale-beer-carpeted clubs and bleak halls of Britain in a tatty old van, with no food, no sleep, no help and if you were lucky – very lucky – some dodgy bird with a face like a robber’s dog – and bad teeth.
However, getting to America was not always done on merit; it was being with the right band at the right time. As is often said in rock ’n’ roll: ‘It’s who you know and blow.’
One of the great things about America is its continual sense of optimism; nothing seems impossible. If you want to do something – then just go do it, it’s all out there – if you want it. It certainly attracted me.
The US was youthful, with boundless energy and didn’t carry the baggage and stifling tradition of ‘good old England’ – and its women did not disappoint either. They were very forward and open to making new and brief friendships with people in the music industry. Yes! However, the type of band you worked for was very important to the girls they attracted, and luckily Queen were not only hugely popular but also held the type of allure and mystique that girls wanted to be around. I am eternally grateful I didn’t end up working for Cliff Richard (no disrespect, your holiness) or a folk group.
Big girls with big hair, mouths, asses and appetites. This I had been assured, not by a man in a pub, but by a roadie or two who had toured the US and tasted from the top table. Now they were not going to lie to me – were they? They were telling the truth – please . They were right. And even the ugly ones had good teeth.
If you had long hair, a cute English accent and were with an English rock band, you had it made. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Since I was a child I had always wanted to go to America, nowhere else attracted me, just America. I had absorbed American culture by avidly watching all the American TV shows screened in Britain and thumbed through the imported DC Super Hero comics. I enjoyed the stories of Batman and Superman but what I really liked were the little ads for one-man submarines, X-ray specs, your own ant colony and other novel things unheard of in Britain. Did they really exist? These comics held many opportunities for lucky American kids: sell 24 boxes of greeting cards and you could claim a Liverpool Drum Set as a prize. I truly imagined you could get anything in America as the lifestyle appeared to be so rich and glamorous; even the breakfast cereals looked far more exciting. Touring certainly was.
In early 1976, America indulged us with decent hotels, the luxury of tour buses with beds, union crews to load and unload trucks, proper catering at the shows, endless drinks in bins piled with ice that never melted, customised promoters’ T-shirts for single shows and per diems of $30 a day as your extra living expenses. All this gave me a feeling of wealth, power and wellbeing. I liked it! And I wanted more. I longed to open the door of one of those huge walk-in refrigerators that are mandatory in American kitchens and step inside to consume all the goodies bathed in the enticing yellow glow.
TALKING IN TONGUES, EATING AND DRINKING WITH GUSTO
The US had the most comprehensive communications facilities with thousands of TV and radio stations, yet the majority of America remained frighteningly parochial. This would become evident as Queen toured provincial places, where the corn-fed waitress in the bar of the ubiquitous Holiday Inn, Howard Johnson’s or other chain motel would, upon hearing us talk, squeak: ‘Oh gee! Are you guys English? That’s great. Now, tell me – how’s your royal family?’
‘Fine
Well, I had no intention of getting married, but the honeymoon had already started.
For a roadie, going on tour in America was the icing on the cake; a reward for slogging around all the stale-beer-carpeted clubs and bleak halls of Britain in a tatty old van, with no food, no sleep, no help and if you were lucky – very lucky – some dodgy bird with a face like a robber’s dog – and bad teeth.
However, getting to America was not always done on merit; it was being with the right band at the right time. As is often said in rock ’n’ roll: ‘It’s who you know and blow.’
One of the great things about America is its continual sense of optimism; nothing seems impossible. If you want to do something – then just go do it, it’s all out there – if you want it. It certainly attracted me.
The US was youthful, with boundless energy and didn’t carry the baggage and stifling tradition of ‘good old England’ – and its women did not disappoint either. They were very forward and open to making new and brief friendships with people in the music industry. Yes! However, the type of band you worked for was very important to the girls they attracted, and luckily Queen were not only hugely popular but also held the type of allure and mystique that girls wanted to be around. I am eternally grateful I didn’t end up working for Cliff Richard (no disrespect, your holiness) or a folk group.
Big girls with big hair, mouths, asses and appetites. This I had been assured, not by a man in a pub, but by a roadie or two who had toured the US and tasted from the top table. Now they were not going to lie to me – were they? They were telling the truth – please . They were right. And even the ugly ones had good teeth.
If you had long hair, a cute English accent and were with an English rock band, you had it made. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Since I was a child I had always wanted to go to America, nowhere else attracted me, just America. I had absorbed American culture by avidly watching all the American TV shows screened in Britain and thumbed through the imported DC Super Hero comics. I enjoyed the stories of Batman and Superman but what I really liked were the little ads for one-man submarines, X-ray specs, your own ant colony and other novel things unheard of in Britain. Did they really exist? These comics held many opportunities for lucky American kids: sell 24 boxes of greeting cards and you could claim a Liverpool Drum Set as a prize. I truly imagined you could get anything in America as the lifestyle appeared to be so rich and glamorous; even the breakfast cereals looked far more exciting. Touring certainly was.
In early 1976, America indulged us with decent hotels, the luxury of tour buses with beds, union crews to load and unload trucks, proper catering at the shows, endless drinks in bins piled with ice that never melted, customised promoters’ T-shirts for single shows and per diems of $30 a day as your extra living expenses. All this gave me a feeling of wealth, power and wellbeing. I liked it! And I wanted more. I longed to open the door of one of those huge walk-in refrigerators that are mandatory in American kitchens and step inside to consume all the goodies bathed in the enticing yellow glow.
TALKING IN TONGUES, EATING AND DRINKING WITH GUSTO
The US had the most comprehensive communications facilities with thousands of TV and radio stations, yet the majority of America remained frighteningly parochial. This would become evident as Queen toured provincial places, where the corn-fed waitress in the bar of the ubiquitous Holiday Inn, Howard Johnson’s or other chain motel would, upon hearing us talk, squeak: ‘Oh gee! Are you guys English? That’s great. Now, tell me – how’s your royal family?’
‘Fine
Similar Books
