Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

43. Roger

"Try that last bit again," Mack's voice echoes through the studio. "Starting with the snares."

"The snares were perfect!" I protest, looking over at John for support.

"Humor me," the producer replies, and I grunt in reply. I stretch out my back before picking up my drum sticks, readying them over the snares. But, before I can begin, the studio door slams open. Freddie rushes in, followed somewhat begrudgingly by Ratty.

"I think I have something," Fred pants, slightly out of breath as if they've sprinted here all the way from the hotel.

"Why's your hair wet?" I ask, eyeing him up and down. He looks amped-up, his body practically humming with excitement. His eyes are bright, a scrap of paper held tightly in one hand. 

"I've just had a bath." He says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"We're grabbing lunch once we finish this track," John says as he starts to put his bass back on its stand. "Want to join?"

"I'm bloody famished; let's go now," I say, dropping my drumsticks on the snare and slipping off the stool. "We're going to that place down the way, you know, the one with the really good bratwurst--"

"Schlemmermeyer?" Freddie's interest is piqued for a moment.

"Want to come with us?" I repeat John's invitation. "There's also the falafel place around the..."

I trail off, realizing that Freddie isn't paying attention. He looks up to the ceiling and has an a-ha! moment about something. He motions impatiently to Ratty, who hands him a ballpoint pen with which to scrawl a few words on a scrap of paper in his hands.

Meanwhile, John and I continue to plot our lunch amongst ourselves.

"I don't care what you say, the sausages at Zum Spoeckmeier are better," John argues.

"But it's twice as far away!" I protest. "It'll take bloody ages, and the food isn't that much better."

"Well, Brian won't be here for another few hours anyway, so..."

Now it's John who trails off to stare at Freddie, who has raised his hand in the air. Squinting, I see that the scrap of paper is actually a slightly damp sheet of hotel stationery. It's covered in Fred's spidery handwriting, great swaths of text crossed out and written over.

"Lunch can wait," he announces. "I think I have something. And we've gotta get it down before Brian gets here."

I pull the sunglasses off my face and give him a critical once-over. "Why is everything so wet, Fred? What'd you do, write it in the bath?"

"I did, yes," Freddie says as if this too is the most obvious thing in the world.

"With his guitar," Ratty adds, looking slightly traumatized, as I imagine it was he who had to supply both the instrument and the writing materials.

"Since when do you write songs on a guitar?" I query.

"How do you write a song in the bath?" Deaky asks at the same time.

Freddie pushes a hand through his hand, frustrated as always that we're so easily distracted. "Do you want to hear it or not?"

"Can it wait until after lunch? I'm feeling quite peckish, as it were," I say. Drumming is hard work, I'll have you know. It's a real workout.

Freddie whips his head towards me, a look on his face. "Okay, okay, play it for us then," I say quickly, hands raised in defeat. John and I stand together, and Mack leaves the control room to join us.