Griffiths Queen in the 1970s

1. Auflage 2026
ISBN: 978-1-78952-617-2
Verlag: Sonicbond Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 128 Seiten

Reihe: Decades

When Freddie Bulsara arrived in England in 1964, fleeing with his family from a bloody revolution on the streets of his homeland Zanzibar, he already knew that he wanted to be a rock star. But before that dream could become a reality, there were three specific people he needed to meet. Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon; the other three components in what became Queen. The name is now writ large in rock legend, but its members spent their early career mired in legal troubles, critical hostility and financial hardship.
In the early 1970s, with their preening singer and arch conceptualiser now renamed Freddie Mercury, the group projected an image that was at once regal, mystical and exotic. Yet behind the black eyeliner and billows of dry ice, Queen were four sharply contrasting individuals whose dogged struggle to win success was every bit as dramatic as the ogre battles and fairy king fantasias that populated their early music.
Queen in the Seventies is an up-close examination of the band's now critically adored first ten years, the decade when they forged their unique vision, beat off the critics and became, after many epic tantrums and much violent throwing of crockery, champions of the world.

James Griffiths spent five years as a music writer for the national Guardian newspaper in the UK. He is the author of Squeeze - The Pop Music Played (Orchard Abbott Publications, 2021), and has a YouTube channel (tinyurl.com/griffyj) dedicated to music and record collecting. He has also worked as a TV scriptwriter and was a member of the writing team for the CBBC reboot of the cartoon series Danger Mouse in 2015. He now lives in Lancaster, UK, with a small group of fellow humans and animals, but tragically, he still doesn't know any members of Queen.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Griffiths, James

Leseproben

Chapter 4

1968/1969 – A Sudden Passion for Dentistry

When the 19-year-old Roger Meddows Taylor announced in the summer of 1968 that he’d decided to enrol on a dentistry course, there was some surprise within his peer group and the wider community of Truro in South-West England. It wasn’t that anyone doubted that the Norfolk-born Roger had the brains to become a dentist – unlike many British wannabe rock stars of his era, he’d prospered at school (though he didn’t enjoy studying), and there was no doubt he’d pursue a skilled profession of some kind. But until that summer, he’d never – to anyone’s knowledge – expressed the slightest interest in dentistry. A 1985 edition of Roger’s old school magazine revealed that his miraculous conversion to dentistry was triggered by the deputy head Dick Taylor, who’d advised him that there wasn’t much of a financial future in playing the drums. In fact, drumming was just one string to Roger’s bow – he’d started out playing the ukulele, then moved to guitar.

But drums became the fair-haired, blue-eyed Roger’s overriding love. Inspired by the early records of Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis, he was spurred into action by the arrival of the skiffle craze in the early-1960s. He wasted no time asking his dad for a drum kit, and soon began banging about in his parents’ garage. In 1963 he heard ‘Wipe Out’ – a seminal slice of percussive glory by the American instrumental band The Surfaris. The driving toms played by drummer Ron Wilson sent Roger’s head into a spin. Along with Sandy Nelson’s ‘Let There Be Drums’, ‘Wipe Out’ proved to be a pivotal influence.

Roger started gigging around Truro in a succession of bands, eventually becoming the drummer and lead vocalist of The Reaction, who are remembered as the town’s most legendary musical attraction. They won multiple talent contests, and even supported The Kinks at the Flamingo Ballroom: one of the area’s most prestigious venues. Not only had Roger carved a niche for himself as the most creative drummer in Cornwall, but his sparkling good looks also made him a local heartthrob. Rock-’n’-roll greatness surely beckoned.

Given that his sudden passion for studying dentistry involved transplanting himself to London – a city crowded with ambitious young musicians, managers, venues, recording studios and record labels – a suspicious soul might well conclude that Roger’s plan to move had an ulterior motive. His mother thought so, telling her son that when he got to London, he wasn’t to immediately start scouting around for like-minded, long-haired rock musicians to form a band with. Unfortunately for Mrs. Taylor, Roger was doing precisely that. Before the ink had dried on his London Hospital Medical College enrolment form, he’d begun auditioning for various bands, later remembering the unpleasant rigmarole of waiting in turn with ‘80 drum kits all in a row’. Eventually, courtesy of a note pinned up in the students’ union at Imperial College, he hooked up with Tim Staffell – a bassist/singer studying at Ealing Art College – and Brian May: an alarmingly tall, thin, pale Physics graduate who’d started a PhD on the nature of zodiacal light. When Brian wasn’t beavering away with his research, he was spending most of his time with Tim, rattling the walls with a rather unusual homemade electric guitar.

Having left his drum kit in Cornwall, Roger attended his initial Smile audition armed only with a humble set of bongos. He still managed to impress Brian and Tim enough for a second session to be arranged, this time in a jazz practice room at Imperial College, with a full drum set in attendance. It was there that Brian and Tim were blown away by Roger’s Surfaris-inspired flamboyance, and by his ability to tune a snare drum. Brian later recalled that he and Tim thought Roger was the best drummer they’d ever seen. He was also a strong singer, whose high, keening falsetto – perfected during a boyhood stint in the Truro Cathedral Choir – was underpinned by a Rod Stewart-like gruffness. Roger was also impressed with Brian. Not only did they share an evangelical passion for the music of Jimi Hendrix, but Brian was also a devoted fan of Irish guitarist Rory Gallagher. He was even playing with Rory’s exact setup of a Vox AC30 amplifier with a Dallas Rangemaster treble-booster unit. This clearly was a man who meant business. From the word go, it was evident there was a unique musical chemistry between Roger and Brian. The combination of Roger’s thunderous drumming and the jumbo-jet roar of Brian’s Red Special guitar sounded like a clarion call.

Meanwhile, Tim was a fine singer with an impressive vocal range, and was also a not-too-shabby harmonica player. The addition of music student Chris Smith on bluesy keyboards rounded out the lineup.

As Roger soon discovered, Smile wasn’t the first band Brian and Tim had played in together. Their previous outfit had been 1984 – a group formed while both were pupils at Hampton Grammar School. They’d enjoyed the honour of supporting Jimi Hendrix, Traffic, Pink Floyd and Tyrannosaurus Rex at a 1967 Christmas charity concert at the Olympia Exhibition Centre. Despite this impressive credential, 1984 never progressed beyond amateur status, and fell apart shortly before Roger’s arrival in London. However, Brian and Tim hadn’t given up hopes of rock stardom.

For Brian Harold May, playing music was ostensibly a hobby to be enjoyed in the downtime between academic lectures. He’d grown up a studious only child whose father was an electronics engineer working as a senior draughtsman for the Ministry of Aviation. Though Harold May had encouraged his son’s musical gifts by teaching him the ukulele, he also passed on his love for photography. Harold gave Brian a camera for his birthday, and later, when Brian showed an interest in astronomy, helped him build a telescope. By the time Brian began attending Hampton Grammar in 1958, he was already talking about becoming a professional astronomer. But the music bug had also bitten him, and he found himself obsessed with playing guitar.

Though he started off enjoying the strummed acoustic guitars of The Everly Brothers, Brian’s true eureka moment came courtesy of American singer Rick Nelson’s rockabilly guitarist James Burton. In a 2021 interview with Rick Beato on the latter’s YouTube channel, Brian revealed, ‘I wanted to do what Burton did on the ‘Hello Mary Lou’ solo. When he started doing that string-bending, I realised that the guitar wasn’t just a backing instrument anymore’.

Brian loved the dexterity of players like Charlie Byrd, Django Reinhardt, Julian Bream and Andrés Segovia, but he was also drawn to guitarists who used technology to enhance their sound. Brian told Beato: ‘I liked the multitracked things that Chet Atkins did, and then I got hold of a couple of records by Les Paul, who was doing stuff with sped-up tapes’.

As someone attracted to music and science, it isn’t surprising that Brian’s passion for guitar accompanied an urge to push technological boundaries. His first and grandest experiment had been building his own guitar. Wanting a Fender Stratocaster but not being able to afford one, he’d hit on the idea of making his own custom instrument. He enlisted his dad’s help to construct a unique instrument from bits and pieces, including the top of an oak table (the guitar’s body), a mahogany fireplace (the neck), and a knitting needle (the vibrato arm) belonging to his mother. The guitar had unique design specifications – not the least of which was a set of phased pickup controls which created unearthly shrieking tones which couldn’t be found on any shop-bought instrument. As his pièce de résistance, Brian elected to play his guitar with a sixpence instead of a plectrum, which lent an abrasive quality to the sound.

Even more than in 1984, Brian’s Red Special helped to define Smile’s heavy progressive sound. Another dimension was now added by Roger’s powerful drumming and strong melodic backing vocals. By autumn 1968, Smile had secured their first major gig: supporting Pink Floyd at Imperial College on 26 October. Before long, they became the de facto house band at Imperial, with a growing following and repertoire of original material. The stage seemed set for a professional career. But, as it turned out, one specific ingredient was missing.

According to Freddie Bulsara, what Smile lacked was a sense of showmanship. A friend of Chris and Tim’s, Freddie was a charismatic graphic-art student from Ealing College. He’d been on the scene for some time, having been an unofficial roadie for 1984 in their final months. Tim first brought Freddie along to a Smile rehearsal in early 1969, but it was only after Freddie saw them play live that he began berating them for their lack of visual appeal. In his view, a band shouldn’t just saunter onstage in their street clothes and play without looking at the audience – a common sight now that rock musicians had begun distancing themselves from the show-biz requirements of chart-bound pop music. Freddie said they should instead put on a grand show, project a dark, mysterious image, and perhaps even toy with a little androgynous glamour.

Though Freddie hadn’t written any songs yet, he claimed to know better than Smile how their songs should be arranged. Brian and Roger liked him, laughing whenever he began expounding his ideas – usually...