Friday, 23 November 2018


It was twenty-seven years ago today. Freddie stopped taking his medication. Everything except the painkillers. He was going to be the one to decide when he should die. For weeks, twenty-four hours a day, the world's press had camped on his doorstep at Garden Lodge, Kensington. He was a prisoner in his own home. Nothing could be done about it. Except, perhaps, what he did do - which was to let go. He'd had enough. The will to live was ebbing away. His only regret at the end was that there was so much more music still inside him.
'The Show Must Go On', Queen's brave, heart-rending single backed by 'Keep Yourself Alive', had been released in October. The band, their management, their publicists and entourage, all sworn to secrecy, continued to contradict rumours about Freddie's health. EMI continued to pump out product: 'Greatest Hits II', 'Greatest Flix II'. With their frontman's life hanging by a thread, the band appeared more prolific than ever.
Freddie's friends and housemates, Peter Freestone and Joe Fanelli, nursed him through the final days. Freddie had now begun to cut people off. He just didn't want to see them. His parents, for example. They had visited during those final weeks, and wanted to come again, the Saturday before he died. But Freddie refused. 'I've seen them,' was all he said. Part of the reason for the decision had to be that he didn't want them to see him as he now was. He wanted to be remembered as he had been. It was the reason why he had turned his back on so many friends during the final year. A few really close pals continued to be there for him: Dave Clark, Tony King, Elton John; and there was help from medical staff at Westminster Hospital. Gordon Atkinson, Freddie's physician and friend, made regular visits throughout the week. Terry Giddings, Freddie's driver, still came every day, despite the fact that Freddie wasn't going anywhere. In the end, he did entertain his parents at tea, one final time.
On 23rd November, with manager Jim Beach at his bedside for a long meeting, they agreed the wording of Freddie's last-ever statement, admitting to his fans and to the relentless press that he had AIDS. After years of keeping his biggest secret, his friends now had to stand by helplessly as the truth was broadcast to the world. Less than twenty-four hours later, Peter Freestone made the call to Jer and Bomi Bulsara with the news they were dreading to hear. Their beloved son, the king of Queen, the Great Pretender, was dead.

FREDDIE MERCURY 5th September 1946 - 24th November 1991 R.I.P. 
'Bohemian Rhapsody: The Definitive Biography of Freddie Mercury' by Lesley-Ann Jones, published by Hodder & Stoughton UK, Simon & Schuster USA, and in translation worldwide.

Tuesday, 20 November 2018


LAJ's Album of the Month
Michael Armstrong

More musicians fall off the side than ever make it. More guitars gather dust in garages and spare rooms than are strummed to stardom, thrown aside as symbols of failure and dashed desire. Abandoning an ambition of life on the long ladder with the missing rungs is a tough one. The road to hell is littered with almost-made-its, who had the recording contract, the publishing deal, a handful of singles to their name, enough paid gigs and regular session work to convince themselves that their moment was nigh. For most, it never came close. The insidious 'I want it so much' culture fostered by the X-Factor and its ilk has done little to dissuade wannabes that wanting is no guarantee. Fame and fortune won by wishing is an abhorrent lie. Success takes more than talent and determination. Timing, luck and choices matter. But even with those in place, it mostly eludes.
Still, better to try and to keep on trying than to reach the end of the road still wondering what it might have been like. You could have been a contender? Why didn't you stick with it? Michael Armstrong has, against the bleakest odds. 'The difficult second album' has not proved so for him. 'Looking for the World' is a confident, cool collection of original songs which honour the golden years of songwriting brilliance. His influences are all here, from the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Joel to Macca, Steely Dan, Springsteen, Jeff Lynne and a few he hadn't even thought of. No airy-fairy pussyfooting, either: he tackles life's big subjects with grit and guts, sporting his heart on two bare arms and gargling with courage. His vast vocal ability and blatant inclination to love overflow from the soulful and spirited 'Gold Dust' and 'A Love that's True'. The title track is a stand-out hit, multi-layered and soaring, classic love pop with an unashamed Cliff vibe. Rapid, poetic 'Gypsy' reflects Dylan through its delivery and snipey lyrics. 'This Green & Unpleasant Land' is loaded with Lennonesque cynicism. His tight grip on Joel-style storytelling through song lilts loudly and wonderfully from 'The Haunting of Betty Higgins' ('..that acrid scent of sophomore' .. what a line!), biting and darkly from 'Periscope' with its magical Beach Boys trip, and on 'Rosie's Brother'. I heard the news today, oh boy. George Harrison haunts 'She's All Kooky' via a jangly Sixties string swing. 'Queen of Hearts', through playing-card symbolism, sums up both the album and Michael's entire experience of trying to make it in the music business. It also boasts what might be my favourite lyrical couplet (though the jury's still out):
'Oh loving flame, I'm blinded by your light/I surrender, I remain yours forever, hold me tight.'
I am wildly proud of Michael's co-writer, co-player and co-producer, the truly gifted Warren Bennett for his tireless commitment to this cause. Guitars, bass, drums, percussion, keyboards, handclaps and giggling: you name it, Warren contributed it. Chip off the old block, boy. Give us a kiss.
Sharp, infectious, whole-lotta-love, #LookingForTheWorld defies age, eras and genres in homage to music. Maybe you'll dance round the kitchen in your slippers to this, or round your handbag in your gladrags. Go on, we're watching. An album with everything? You bet. Bravo, Mike, Warren and Lisa. I love it. The world will love it too.

Monday, 19 November 2018


Oh Mamma Mia, Mamma Mia, I am so thrilled about this. 'Bohemian Rhapsody: The Definitive Biography of Freddie Mercury' is now Number Five on the Sunday Times Bestsellers List, nearly 13,000 copies sold. Thank you, thank you, everyone who has supported this book. I drank champagne until we could no longer say it with my mum and dad in celebration. I can't help thinking what Freddie would have made of it. 'It's only a book!', he would have cried. Just as it's only a film. Only a life. Perspective is everything.
May I offer you a song? One of my all-time favourite Freddie Mercury compositions. 'A Winter's Tale, from 'Made in Heaven', Queen's fifteenth studio album, which debuted at number one in 1995, four year's after Freddie's death. It was Freddie's swansong, written and composed in his Montreux apartment, overlooking the lake he so loved. The lyrics describe what he could see from his window. They celebrate the peace and contentment he found there towards the end. The title, whether intended or not as an homage to the romance 'The Winter's Tale' by William Shakespeare, reveals perhaps more than you might think about Freddie's early songwriting inspiration. One protagonist of the play is Polixenes, the King of Bohemia - an ancient kingdom which corresponds loosely to the modern Czech Republic. As such, it may have germinated 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. If, as presumed by many Bard scholars, this play was an allegory on the demise of Anne Bolyen, its character Perdita was based on the daughter of Anne and King Henry VIII, who would become Elizabeth I, England's Queen ... 

The band's original greatest hit laced through Freddie's final majestic offering? It's not impossible.



One of the blessed advantages of growing older is that of hearing. The glam old days were infinitely less about the music, so often lost to flirtatious exuberance and riotous debauchery. We lingered at the rear of the old Hammy Odeon most nights, backs to the wall. Gossiping, mischief-wrenching. We came, saw, listened. How much did we hear?
The rewind is the gift. The many fragments of dreams colliding. The little hauntings, the enlightenments. Rejuvenations. Evergreen in demeanour and musicality, our beloveds are stepping through autumn now. Yet they carry with them an inexorable aroma of spring.
The swarms buzz, polite at the bar. Mind how you go, want any help with that bottle? The womb-like cave of the Putney Half Moon fetches us. Born again. We're still in with a chance. A slim one, was the joke of Ronnie Lane, famed of the Small Faces and Faces, who created some of the most enduringly succinct songs of the Sixties and Seventies. The late East End troubadour was a pint-sized party. He and Steve Marriott were one of the most magical songwriting duos of all time. 'Itchycoo Park'? 'Lazy Sunday'? Come on. My favourite Ronnie songs are 'The Poacher' and his final hit, 'How Come'. The newly-reformed Slim Chance gifted us both at their album launch, as well as Townshend's 'Squeezebox' and even 'Goodnight, Irene', together with tracks from the excellent new collection, 'New Cross Road'. All that, and Geraint Watkins too. The livid Welshman from Abertridwr was on stupendous rock'n'roll/boogie woogie form, his voice a growl from the deepest colliery pits. A legend on account of all that toil with the greats - Van Morrison, Macca, Dave Edmunds, Status Quo, Bill Wyman's Rhythm Kings - Paul Sexton rated his best solo album 'In a Bad Mood' (typical Welshman) his number one album of 2008. Billy Nicholls was on pounding form. So good to hear him singing his own composition 'I Can't Stop Loving You', a top ten hit for Leo Sayer on Chrysalis back in '78, and for Phil Collins and the Outlaws since. I'd never heard Billy sing it live before. His rendition was fragile and spare. It is still haunting me.
Ronnie succumbed to MS. He continued to play and write until it claimed him, flanked by the greats, by Eric and Pete and the rest. Many A-listers were moved by his brilliance and his illness to raise money for MS sufferers worldwide in his name. the gig was all was about him. He will not be forgotten.
Hallucinations. We flag in the suburbs of our once central, sensational youth. Receding into the shadows, we peer over the abyss into inevitable darkness. Hang back, guys, we know where this is heading. Every now and then, a glimmer. The House of Love came out for the Thirtieth Anniversary of their debut album last Saturday, and stormed the Roundhouse. Oh what a circus, what a show. Alt-rock brilliance and shining on. It was spectacular. Guy Chadwick and the maverick Terry Bickers chiselled the band from ashes in the early Eighties. The debut single is a gem:
Rock journos raved about their intricate psychedelic blend, their singles 'Christine' and 'Destroy the Heart'. The band carved into America, and leapt for the stars. They fell apart before we could raise a bottle of Dom to their first decade. They slunk off to live normal lives. Didn't we. Kinda sorta. But God, what a comeback. A lesson to us all.