On this day, a long time ago...
Tuesday, 25 November 2003 00:24![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apollawhen I was nine years old, I came downstairs as always for breakfast before school. We still had a table in our kitchen then (this was before the Big Refit of 1997) and I sat down with my mum and my brother to have breakfast. I don't remember the food, but I suspect it was probably Coco Pops, which make the milk go chocolately. I don't remember what was on the television, but it was probably GMTV. I don't remember what I was wearing, but it probably included either leggings or jeans and a t-shirt. I don't remember what I did at school that day, but it probably involved me, Richard and mischief.
There is absolutely no reason that I should remember the 24th November 1991 at all. Except that in the early hours of that day, a man I loved then and love now died of pneumonia.
That morning I sat down at the kitchen table, when we still had a table in our kitchen, and my mummy told me that Freddie Mercury had died of Aids. I was nine years old and did not understand Aids. I did understand 'Freddie Mercury'. Little children have always loved Queen you see, because they were noisy, colourful and ever so slightly insane. I loved Freddie then, you know. When you are nine you do not understand Aids and do not generally understand the concept of 'gay'. You do understand the concept of a boisterous, funny man on a stage or on Top of the Pops singing rock and roll music. When I was nine, you can bet your life that I understood the concept of a man with long hair singing to me from my radio/record player (I had one of those when I was nine, a big thing that took up half my room it seemed) or my television.
When I was nine I did not know who Rock Hudson was, but I knew who Freddie Mercury was. When I was nine, I learned what Aids was and what it did to people.
I will never though, forget the response my brother gave to my mum telling us Freddie Mercury had died of Aids: "What, from a hearing aid?" Most six year old boys do not understand what Aids is, and I wish I could say that none did.
I will never forget the many times I walked past the Welwyn Bookshop in the town centre (near Sainsbury's) and seeing a record cover in the window. Four men part-morphed together, with the word Queen in big red letters above. True to form, I noticed the long haired guitarist first, partly because he was on the end. By the time I really heard this band consciously at much the same time (The Miracle was released in 89) I realised that this was one of those voices I could never really live without.
Freddie Mercury was the first of my heroes to die on me. See, Lennon and Morrison died before I was a twinkle in anyone's eye and so although I mourn them, although I wish they hadn't died, although it breaks my heart, I do not remember it happening. I do not remember having to come to terms with it because I have always known that these men were not part of my physical plane. Freddie was the first. Like PP Arnold said when talking of love, the first cut is the deepest. Sometimes I think she's so very right, for although I do not listen to Queen as much as I used to, although I don't own all their albums (they're all still full-price everywhere, do you think I'm a Rothschild or Vanderbilt?) and although I might not talk about them incessantly, in some ways Queen was my first love.
You see, even the nine year old Clare loved loud guitars and over-flamboyant frontmen. I don't change, you know.
My best friend Richard and I made up a weird comedy dance called the Bogeyman Rhap at around that time. I can't recall it all, but it involved a mime to Bohemian Rhapsody, a snatch of the Bangles' Walk Like An Egyptian (his idea not mine, I'm sure) and some blue pom-poms (I do not want to know why my best friend had pom-poms). When the song was re-released for Crimbo 1991, my dad bought it for me on cassette (see, things really don't change). I still have that Bohemian Rhapsody/These Are The Days of Our Lives cassette at home. That Christmas, when it became the all-important Christmas Number One, I got serious neck-ache doing the head-banging to Brian's solo. You see, when I was nine I did not understand Aids, but I did understand rock and roll. I understood dying then too.
Christmas 1995 was spent listening to Made In Heaven and trying not to cry. It was also spent watching the taped-off-Channel 4 Queen documentary In the Lap of the Gods. I recognised Roger Daltrey (Buddy's Song had been released a year previously, making my friends goo-goo eyed at Chesney Hawkes and me notice the old rocker playing his dad), George Michael, Lisa Stansfield and Elton John, but I did not recognise a lion-maned Robert Plant at the time, although a comment of his on the show about Freddie would be repeated by me for years, never knowing that the man who said it would one day become one of my heroes, just like Freddie. One of the voices I cannot truly live without, just like Freddie.
But I am getting off the point. This is not about me, nor is it about Robert Plant. It is about a man born in Zanzibar who took over the world. It is about a man who stole the show at Live Aid without needing to even try very hard. It is about a man whose greatest achievement it is said, managed to call his band Queen and strut about in a big moustache and white vest and not make people think he was gay.
Because of Freddie, I care about Aids and gay rights in a way I might not otherwise (the me versus my mum conversation on the way to Costco being one of the more notable moments). Because of Freddie I care about rock and roll. Because of Freddie I blagged my way back onto a coach in Prague that was possibly about to explode because I couldn't bear the thought of my copy of Mojo with Queen on the cover going up in smoke (long story). Because of Freddie I was literally hysterical at the end of Philadelphia- not because of the story or the death of Tom Hanks' character, but because I was suddenly confronted with the sort of thing my beloved hero had to deal with before dying.
When I was nine, I had no idea of what lay ahead of me. When I was nine I quite happily described myself as 'happy-go-lucky'. When I was nine I didn't know I would spend my secondary education desperately unhappy (a few exceptions, I must be honest). When I was nine I didn't know that I would end up in Sunderland with pictures of Errol Flynn and Dean Martin smiling reassuringly at me. When I was nine, I was a child. But when I was nine, Freddie Mercury died, and part of me grew up.
The other day Vh1's 100 Greatest Pop Culture Icons was on telly. Freddie was in the top ten, far above people like Jim Morrison (51) and Led Zeppelin (58. These people know nothing). Aside from being pissed off that fools like Emma Bunton dared to comment on what made Freddie so special, I was quite narked that he was described as having died of 'pneumonia'. Yes, this may be scientifically or technically true, but it is, as far as I can see, sugaring the pill.
Freddie Mercury died of Aids. Freddie Mercury died a death he knew was assured. Freddie Mercury died of Aids like Rock Hudson and Kenny Everett and millions of people we don't know about because they were not famous. Freddie Mercury died of Aids like still more millions of people know they will one day. That my hero died of Aids breaks my heart, but don't sugar the fucking pill by calling it pneumonia.
The one way I want to remember my hero Freddie is not necessarily as a spandex one-piece wearing glam rocker with long hair, nor necessarily as the moustached, white-vested man of the 80s, or even the grinning man with a crown cocked jauntily upon his head. I would most like to remember him, I think, as the admittedly fragile looking man in the These Are The Days of Our Lives video (in black and white and heavily made-up to hide how close to death he was) who looked into the camera and gave us his last filmed words: I love you.
The reason I will remember him best like this? Because the feeling is mutual. I've also realised that it's been the 25th for a quarter of an hour. I hope you don't mind me being a little late, Fred, but you inspired me to go on longer than I expected. I still love you.
There is absolutely no reason that I should remember the 24th November 1991 at all. Except that in the early hours of that day, a man I loved then and love now died of pneumonia.
That morning I sat down at the kitchen table, when we still had a table in our kitchen, and my mummy told me that Freddie Mercury had died of Aids. I was nine years old and did not understand Aids. I did understand 'Freddie Mercury'. Little children have always loved Queen you see, because they were noisy, colourful and ever so slightly insane. I loved Freddie then, you know. When you are nine you do not understand Aids and do not generally understand the concept of 'gay'. You do understand the concept of a boisterous, funny man on a stage or on Top of the Pops singing rock and roll music. When I was nine, you can bet your life that I understood the concept of a man with long hair singing to me from my radio/record player (I had one of those when I was nine, a big thing that took up half my room it seemed) or my television.
When I was nine I did not know who Rock Hudson was, but I knew who Freddie Mercury was. When I was nine, I learned what Aids was and what it did to people.
I will never though, forget the response my brother gave to my mum telling us Freddie Mercury had died of Aids: "What, from a hearing aid?" Most six year old boys do not understand what Aids is, and I wish I could say that none did.
I will never forget the many times I walked past the Welwyn Bookshop in the town centre (near Sainsbury's) and seeing a record cover in the window. Four men part-morphed together, with the word Queen in big red letters above. True to form, I noticed the long haired guitarist first, partly because he was on the end. By the time I really heard this band consciously at much the same time (The Miracle was released in 89) I realised that this was one of those voices I could never really live without.
Freddie Mercury was the first of my heroes to die on me. See, Lennon and Morrison died before I was a twinkle in anyone's eye and so although I mourn them, although I wish they hadn't died, although it breaks my heart, I do not remember it happening. I do not remember having to come to terms with it because I have always known that these men were not part of my physical plane. Freddie was the first. Like PP Arnold said when talking of love, the first cut is the deepest. Sometimes I think she's so very right, for although I do not listen to Queen as much as I used to, although I don't own all their albums (they're all still full-price everywhere, do you think I'm a Rothschild or Vanderbilt?) and although I might not talk about them incessantly, in some ways Queen was my first love.
You see, even the nine year old Clare loved loud guitars and over-flamboyant frontmen. I don't change, you know.
My best friend Richard and I made up a weird comedy dance called the Bogeyman Rhap at around that time. I can't recall it all, but it involved a mime to Bohemian Rhapsody, a snatch of the Bangles' Walk Like An Egyptian (his idea not mine, I'm sure) and some blue pom-poms (I do not want to know why my best friend had pom-poms). When the song was re-released for Crimbo 1991, my dad bought it for me on cassette (see, things really don't change). I still have that Bohemian Rhapsody/These Are The Days of Our Lives cassette at home. That Christmas, when it became the all-important Christmas Number One, I got serious neck-ache doing the head-banging to Brian's solo. You see, when I was nine I did not understand Aids, but I did understand rock and roll. I understood dying then too.
Christmas 1995 was spent listening to Made In Heaven and trying not to cry. It was also spent watching the taped-off-Channel 4 Queen documentary In the Lap of the Gods. I recognised Roger Daltrey (Buddy's Song had been released a year previously, making my friends goo-goo eyed at Chesney Hawkes and me notice the old rocker playing his dad), George Michael, Lisa Stansfield and Elton John, but I did not recognise a lion-maned Robert Plant at the time, although a comment of his on the show about Freddie would be repeated by me for years, never knowing that the man who said it would one day become one of my heroes, just like Freddie. One of the voices I cannot truly live without, just like Freddie.
But I am getting off the point. This is not about me, nor is it about Robert Plant. It is about a man born in Zanzibar who took over the world. It is about a man who stole the show at Live Aid without needing to even try very hard. It is about a man whose greatest achievement it is said, managed to call his band Queen and strut about in a big moustache and white vest and not make people think he was gay.
Because of Freddie, I care about Aids and gay rights in a way I might not otherwise (the me versus my mum conversation on the way to Costco being one of the more notable moments). Because of Freddie I care about rock and roll. Because of Freddie I blagged my way back onto a coach in Prague that was possibly about to explode because I couldn't bear the thought of my copy of Mojo with Queen on the cover going up in smoke (long story). Because of Freddie I was literally hysterical at the end of Philadelphia- not because of the story or the death of Tom Hanks' character, but because I was suddenly confronted with the sort of thing my beloved hero had to deal with before dying.
When I was nine, I had no idea of what lay ahead of me. When I was nine I quite happily described myself as 'happy-go-lucky'. When I was nine I didn't know I would spend my secondary education desperately unhappy (a few exceptions, I must be honest). When I was nine I didn't know that I would end up in Sunderland with pictures of Errol Flynn and Dean Martin smiling reassuringly at me. When I was nine, I was a child. But when I was nine, Freddie Mercury died, and part of me grew up.
The other day Vh1's 100 Greatest Pop Culture Icons was on telly. Freddie was in the top ten, far above people like Jim Morrison (51) and Led Zeppelin (58. These people know nothing). Aside from being pissed off that fools like Emma Bunton dared to comment on what made Freddie so special, I was quite narked that he was described as having died of 'pneumonia'. Yes, this may be scientifically or technically true, but it is, as far as I can see, sugaring the pill.
Freddie Mercury died of Aids. Freddie Mercury died a death he knew was assured. Freddie Mercury died of Aids like Rock Hudson and Kenny Everett and millions of people we don't know about because they were not famous. Freddie Mercury died of Aids like still more millions of people know they will one day. That my hero died of Aids breaks my heart, but don't sugar the fucking pill by calling it pneumonia.
The one way I want to remember my hero Freddie is not necessarily as a spandex one-piece wearing glam rocker with long hair, nor necessarily as the moustached, white-vested man of the 80s, or even the grinning man with a crown cocked jauntily upon his head. I would most like to remember him, I think, as the admittedly fragile looking man in the These Are The Days of Our Lives video (in black and white and heavily made-up to hide how close to death he was) who looked into the camera and gave us his last filmed words: I love you.
The reason I will remember him best like this? Because the feeling is mutual. I've also realised that it's been the 25th for a quarter of an hour. I hope you don't mind me being a little late, Fred, but you inspired me to go on longer than I expected. I still love you.
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 16:28 (UTC)I remember that day. I had just been released from hospital after my last operation, and the news broke on the radio when I was half-way home. Thus followed a non-stop tribute of Queen music.
Freddie was a master showman and a talented musician. His spirit lives on always though.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 16:30 (UTC)*hugs back*
It would be nicer if he was still around, doing things like calling Sid Vicious 'Mr Ferocious' and offending conservative sensibilities.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 16:34 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 16:35 (UTC)I have dreamed such things. When I close my eyes, that is how it is.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 16:48 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 17:29 (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 17:30 (UTC)*hugs back*