Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

Prologue

F.M
Munich, Germany.
May, 22nd, 1982.

—

Hot Space had just been released yesterday.

Usually, with the launch of a new album, the boys and I liked to celebrate, as we would anticipate future success and wanted to commemorate all the hard work we had put into another record. Brian and Roger's attitude towards the latest album was about as miserable as their current expressions whilst we all sat around in a circle backstage, bitching.

"Have you seen the critic reviews yet?" Brian whispered to Roger, who merely waved his hand as if to say 'let's not even go there'.

"Since when do the critics matter?" I butted in. "We have already established they don't get what we're trying to do."

"I find myself agreeing with them this time." Brian sighed, rubbing at his fatigue ridden eyes.

We have been on tour for almost a month after kicking off in Sweden in April. Already we had made our way across Scandinavia, France and Germany. As per schedule, we were playing one final night tonight in Munich before we were due a short break back in England. The boys and I were now at a stage where we would snap at each another if one of us were to so much as breathe too loudly. Tensions were high, and Hot Space was definitely not a safe conversation piece.

"Go on Rog," I found myself sneering, "Agree with Brian, I know you two share the one mind."

"Don't be such a twat," Roger rolled his eyes, "Nobody's blaming you for the album."

Admittedly, I was defensive. Music is a personal thing, no matter what I say to the contrary. Releasing music only to have it bashed, isn't exactly a nice feeling.

"Have the Stones released their review yet?" John asked, rather unwisely. "They usually slate us for not trying anything new, they might like this."

We all hummed rather unconvincingly in response. Rolling Stone magazine, or rather its critics, hated Queen. They loved a Night at the Opera, thought the Game was average, and then, with those two as the exceptions, they basically slated all our other work. No, I really didn't want to see what they thought of Hot Space. Three out of five stars was the best we could hope for.

"It's a critics job to complain," I reached for my pack of Marlboros that beckoned for me from the fold up table between Roger and I. "So we shouldn't expect anything less from them."

"You seem to forget the influence critics have," Brian sighed impatiently, "If someone reads a bad review of our album, that person is hardly going to skip down to the shop and buy it."

"Fuck them, we have loyal fans-"

"We lost fans when you grew a bloody moustache," Roger scoffed, "A shit album is much more of a reason for fans to ditch us."

There it was, said aloud by our own drummer. The album is shit.

I fumbled angrily at the box of matches, "We tried something different, it didn't work. That's life, we move on. Now we can say we tried it all."

"I would have been fine not trying it all and having a decent album."

My cigarette caught light, "Under Pressure was a huge hit-"

"Because it doesn't fucking sound like the rest of the album!" Roger exclaimed, "If we had just kept to our genre, things would have been fine."

"We don't have a genre."

"Rock! We are a rock band," Brian declared, "Not funk, soul or blues, it doesn't work for a full album. A song or two is fine, but just not a full album."