The Nude Sessions

1

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November 1973.

Despite the backdrop of dirt grey London, its scene of young people out on a Saturday morning was vibrant and good-looking. John Deacon was driving past it all in his well-worn Rover, their colors leaving streaks out the corner of his eyes. A soul band finally emerges after a string of radio commercials and he turns up the knob on the volume. His fingers move along with the vibe as if they had the strings of his bass guitar beneath them. The song was climbing up to a feverish chorus when he makes the turn to the street where Roger lived and he takes this as a cue to turn it off. In the nearly three years he'd known his band mate, he could already anticipate the walk out he'd be greeted with if he didn't. It was a nice distraction while it lasted, though. It made him forget that he was a bit hungry.

Roger Taylor was loitering on the steps outside of his flat when John got to him. He had his guitar as company. One could call it his mistress considering he was offically the drummer. John remembers Roger showing that to him at the recording studio and finding it more impressive than Brian's handmade Red Special because it had lipstick smudges all over.

'Alright, John!' he runs up to the driver's side and attempts to unlock the door through the open window.

'What are you doing?' he looks up squinting. The sunlight was making a golden wreath out of Roger's messy blond hair.

'Thought you said you'd let me drive.'

'Ahh yeah...,' he forces himself to recall that promise somewhere among the number of pub stories they had bartered after failing to get Roger's car out of the pound. 'Uhm...Not now. Not now though. We have to pass two campus zones and I can't risk it 'till then. Come 'round. We need to go.'

'Right. Let me ring back Mary first to see where Fred had gone off. Hold on!' Roger makes such a mad dash back to the steps that he ungracefully picked up the guitar and it banged against the door in his hurry. He didn't even notice he had stopped a preteen boy in his tracks.

John figures he better tidy up in the meantime but then he hears an Oy! directed at him.

The boy was still there with the impression that he was waiting for Roger, too.

'You with 'im, yeah?'

John nods.

'He in a band?'

He nods again. This time he fails to hide his amusement. 'Queen.'

'Wot?'

'Queen. He belongs to a band called Queen.'

He didn't even bother to add that he was also their member -- the last to join, in fact. The idea of it might confuse the child. Yes, he had the leather jacket but he's also wearing his knitted jumper underneath. Yes, he grew out his brown hair but it framed a demure, altar boy face. Musicians were supposed to be the modern deities. Their front man, Freddie Mercury made a strong point of it. To further our legend. That was the whole point of the photoshoot they were heading to today.

'Figured it'd be a poofy group,' he gave a dismissive shrug. He didn't even bother to look back when he said it.

John thought it would just be daft to ask him if he'd seen their first record in the music store. It just confirmed that hardly anyone did.

'Mother Mercury's son is attending the clothes stall, J-- Oh...' From the driver's seat, he could clearly see the question mark forming in Roger's face. Simultaneously, the kid's eyes glaze over at the sight of a man in his early 20s decked out like a fashionable wastrel. One might raise an eyebrow at his decision to leave his shirt mostly unbuttoned considering the weather. But really, who could question someone who looks like he's having fun being beautiful and making a reckless living?