After the final take of ‘Tie Your Mother Down,” Freddie tells us all to wait in the studio for him. He has a surprise for us. He and Bowie leave. The Knobs hope it is a generous amount of powder cocaine. When they return it is with a single piece of paper in his hand, probably household chores we failed to do.
“I wrote this last night,” Freddie waves the paper, “a letter to the boys in London. I wanted to beg them to come back, but as I got started, it became the reason why we shouldn’t break up the band. By the time I finished, I realized it could be a new Queen song. It’s called ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’”
The Knobs still hope to be the new Queen. Mike, Bowie and I know how desperately Freddie wants to be accepted by his old band. I feel for Freddie, one of the biggest rock stars ever. Then I read aloud the song he wrote.
‘Tonight I’m gonna have myself a real good time
I feel alive
And the world I’ll turn it inside out, yeah
I’m floating around in ecstasy
So, (don’t stop me now)
(Don’t stop me)
‘Cause I’m having a good time, having a good time
I’m a shooting star leaping through the sky
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
I’m a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva
I’m gonna go, go, go
There’s no stopping me
I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah
200 degrees
That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I’m travelling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic man out of you
I’m having such a good time
I’m having a ball
(Don’t stop me now)
If you wanna have a good time just give me a call
(Don’t stop me now)
‘Cause I’m having a good time
(Don’t stop me now)
Yes, I’m havin’ a good time
I don’t want to stop at all
Yeah, I’m a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite I’m out of control
I am a sex machine ready to reload
Like an atom bomb about to
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, explode
I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah
200 degrees
That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I’m travelling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic woman of you
Don’t stop me, don’t stop me
Don’t stop me, hey, hey, hey
Don’t stop me, don’t stop me
Ooh, ooh, ooh, I like it
Don’t stop me, don’t stop me
Have a good time, good time
Don’t stop me, don’t stop me, ah
Let loose, honey, all right
Oh, I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah
200 degrees
That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I’m travelling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic man out of you
I’m having such a good time
I’m having a ball
(Don’t stop me now)
If you wanna have a good time (alright)
Just give me a call
(Don’t stop me now)
‘Cause I’m having a good time
(Don’t stop me now)
Yes, I’m havin’ a good time
I don’t want to stop at all
La-da-da-da-dah
Da-da-da-ha
Ha-da-da, ha-ha-ha
Ha-da-da, ha-da-da-ah’
Songwriters: Freddie Mercury
Don’t Stop Me Now lyrics © Queen Music Limited
“That’s great Freddie,” I exclaimed.
Jumping on the MOOG, I create plaintive chords that beg us to join in. Everyone is still hooked up as we create the melody to match the words. I wonder if he meant me as the ‘atom bomb’ exploding in his life. For the first time I kind of want it to be so. It is sexy and out of control.
David and Mike join him on the mic, while the rest of us sing along. After we are done, I race over and turn on the tape machine, setting it to record. We play the new song all the way to the end, all of us singing,
‘Ha-da-da, ha-ha-ha
Ha-da-da, ha-da-da-ah’
Sending the tape will be so much better than a sad, begging letter. Mike and I run around, singing, “Don’t stop me. Don’t stop me.”
We finally collapse on top of Bowie. He looks mortified, then smiles. It is after midnight. Jim brings in a platter of sandwiches and burgers, a midnight snack since we played through dinner. Bowie gets up to leave.
“Can’t we stay?” Mike begs. “We promised Amar to take him to Toots’ salon for dreadlocks in the morning.”
“Amar? Of course, he needs us,” Bowie looks at Freddie who whispers something in his ear, probably about sex or drugs. “Okay, we’re staying, only because you need to fix that one dread that Laz glued to your scalp.”
Mike and I start to run to our room. The Knobs feel left out.
“Join us. We need to decompress from all the songs we created today,” I invite them.
“It’s no longer daytime, Laz. It’s after midnight,” Billy is ready to sleep.
I cannot help and start singing ‘After Midnight.’
The Knobs all groan, then follow us to the guest rooms. Jock pulls out a joint and everyone gets toasty. Mike and I sit at the head of the bed while the Knobs spread out on the floor. They proceed to dissect our relationship.
“You boys are like peas in pod,” Billy exclaims, pointing how we are wrapped up with each other.
“So what. We like being kids,” I defend our immaturity.
“Don’t you want to grow up?” Jock asks
“And turn out like you four, all gay but not interested in each other.
They sputter but don’t disagree.
“What do you think is happening with David and Freddie?”
“They’ll do drugs all night and sleep all day,” Billy knows
Time for me to sing. The Knobs groan while Mike joins in to Clapton’s ‘Cocaine.’
“We always miss out,” they complain.
“Stop acting like roadies for life. Right now you guys are Queen. Find some groupies to provide what you want in the drug department,” Mike advises.
“They’re gay,” I remind him.
“Oh, well, find some old man to sugar daddy you,” Mike knows more than I thought about the gay underground.
“How do you know that?”
“You think there are no gays at Motown. At least no pedophiles there but Tito and Randy needed security to protect them from predators.”
“’Fame, what’s your name, what’s your name,” I sing.
“Stop singing,” they yell.
“I think its cute. You always have a song bubbling up,” Mike hugs me.
“That is so gay,” Tommy complains.
“What is gay? That we sing? That we write songs? That we love to perform? You want to be the talent in a band but worry that if you do all these things people will label you gay. But you all are gay,” I rip into them.
“We don’t care that you’re gay. But stop telling us what we are,” Mike has a point. “I’ve never had a best friend before. If you think we’re gay, keep it to yourselves.”
I hug him. The Knobs slink off with their tails between their legs.
“Com’n guys. We like you fine. Stop playing the who’s gay and who’s not game.”
We jump up and hug them before they leave. It is late and pot wears off too quickly. We strip down and climb into bed together. Our skinny teen bodies have barely enough room but that’s how we like it.
When I wake up about 5am, Mike gets up with me.
“Why do you wake up so early?” he complains.
“Time for another day in my Rock n Roll life.”
“You sure you are not a country music boy, up at the break of dawn for morning chores?”
Just to annoy him I start to sing John Denver’s ‘Country Roads,’
“Who does that song that way?’ Mike may go country.
“Toots and the Maytals, our favorite reggae band.”
“Hey, today we’re going back to Toots’ hair salon to meet our new friend, Amar.”
“Do you think he wants to be friends?
“The only living black boy in Montreux? He needs friends,” as I sing the first few lines of Simon & Garfunkel,
‘Da-n-da-da-n-da-n-da-da and here I am,
The only living Boy in New York.’
“You really push it,” as we both finish the song,
‘Hey let your honesty shine, shine, shine now
Da-n-da-da-n-da-n-da-da
Like it shines on me
The only living boy in Montreux
The only living boy in Montreux
Here I am
Here I am’
It is so sad. I just want to make Amar feel part of our ‘Young Americans’ clique. The sadness makes me squeeze Mike as we hug each other. Maybe we’re just lonely.
“How about we ask Amar to join the band?” I ask Mike “The more kids our age we have around, the less the Knobs will think we’re gay.”
Jim is up and about. He fixes us crepes with jam for breakfast. I ask him to get Bowie up so we can meet Amar at 10 am. He shakes his head, knowing how late Bowie and Freddie got to bed, but complies with my request.
David drives us (after denying my request for another driving lesson) to Toots’ salon where Amar is anxiously waiting. His eyes snap to full attention when he recognizes our driver.
“M. Bowie, êtes-vous dans le groupe aussi?”
“D’accord, Amar, et vous aussi.”
“Moi?”
“C’est possible, si vous le desire.”
“Queen?”
“Mais non, les Knobs.”
“Ah oui, tres bien. Mais je ne joue pas le guitair”
“Danser-vous?” David recruits for the band.
“D’accord. Tres bien.”
“C’est important.”
“Merci,” Amar is all smiles.
We walk into the salon where Toots is waiting for us. When he sees Bowie, he almost kowtows. Regarding Amar, not so much. When he notices the state of Mike’s dreads, there is a long discussion about keeping the locks healthy and never ever using glue again. Me and my short hair are ignored. When I inform Toots that Amar is in the band with M. Bowie, he takes charge of our newest member and after an intensive hour-long session, the boy has a definite Rastafarian look.
His shy smile, the first he has cracked, means he is pleased. Mike is quickly cleaned up and returns to Rasta approval. David Bowie is another matter. He is being a good sport. After several different comb outs, he cannot decide and is wavering on whether to make the change. Of course, I start singing ‘Changes’ and he gives in
‘Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Don’t want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes’
…
Time may change me
But I can’t trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can’t trace time’
Songwriters: David Bowie
Changes lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG Rights Management, DistroKid, Tintoretto Music
“If you hate it, you can shave it all off,” I say.
He gives in.
We cheer his chosen look which is more wavy than Rasta.
“At least you no longer look like a Nazi,” I observe.
He gives me a nasty look, Rasta with attitude.
They all pose for Toots’ scrapbook. I am excluded.
Four of us in the Aston Martin on the way back to the Lake House, is awkward. Amar and Mike share the passenger seat, while I ride ‘back of the bus.’
Freddie and the Knobs critique David’s new hairstyle. Everyone agrees he looks younger. He is 32. Amar is accepted now, his ‘doo’ a sign of membership in the Knobs. Since his dreads are quite shorter than Mike’s, Billy calls them Knobs nobs. Everyone goes into the pool to christen our new style. Amar hangs in the shallow end. Mike tries to can give him a swim lesson. They stay in the shallow end. Jim brings out Burgers and fries plus bangers and mash.
Billy asks Amar what he likes but it is obvious that his English proficiency is lacking. Jim finds out that kabob is the Mediterranean preference. He promises, “Next time. Le fois prochain.” Burgers are acceptable for today. At least he does not have dietary restrictions. It is the 70’s. Freddie and David need a nap. The Knobs are smoking weed, so I ask Jim to drive the three of us kids to the Casino. As always, he is amenable to our needs.
I introduce Amar to Claude Nobs as a professional dancer for our shows. Claude calls Miami Beach to come and explain the current London situation to me, calling me ‘le Producer.’ I explain that we want to release the bootleg copy of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ under the Knobs Records label. He is appointed Chairman and Henri the CEO. Miami Beach will draw up the legal documents which under Swiss law are extensively regulated. Claude is unsure we can call it a Queen song. I argue that since it is a bootleg, copyright laws do not apply. If the musicians complain, they have not rights as Freddie is listed as the only songwriter. Mike notes that it was originally his idea but he cannot claim any rights to the song due to his estrangement with his manager, Dad Joe Jackson. Claude avoids opening that can of worms.
“The ultimate goal is for Queen to headline the Montreux Music Festival with all the original members,” I argue. “No individual owns the Queen name, so any contractual negotiations between Freddie and the band can include the proceeds from the bootleg.”
Mike and Amar are obviously bored with all the music business talk. I suggest they check out the main Casino stage as I plan to book The Knobs there for their next show.
Henri arrives, slightly peeved that the Knobs played for free by the lake front.
“It was for kids. It started when we were going there to swim. It was a Capella and it’s part of the plan to play in the streets for free. How about we book the Knobs for a weekend show at the Casino and let the press cover it? Claude can dust off his tambourine.”
Miami Beach walks in.
“Where’s Freddie” Miami asks.
“He’s napping. We jammed late last night. We now have a 10-song set with three new songs for Queen and a new version of ’Fame’ for Bowie.
“Do you play other Queen songs?” Miami asks.
“Just songs that Freddie has exclusive songwriting credits. We are also play requests at the Lake: one request we did was a Brian May song, but it was a free performance.”
“Sounds like you’re busy.”
“Definitely. How’s the ousting of Jim Reid going?”
“He got a court order to block access to the band’s financial records, but we’ll overturn that. I told him we would get Elton John’s financials included if he keeps stonewalling. He thinks Elton will back him up.”
“He’s Elton boyfriend,” I state.
“Well, money talks while boyfriends squawk,” Miami has a sense of humor.
“I was discussing with Claude the founding of Knobs Records. I think you should be Chief Counsel, Henri CEO and Claude Chairman. We can release the bootleg that has been playing on BBC-1.”
“Do you have a distribution deal?”
“Oh, not yet,” the road to fame is blocked.
“Well, once we know when the bootleg can be released, we have to be ready to get it into stores. Do you have a flipside?”
“We wrote three new songs yesterday.”
“Well, keep it up. You really like taking charge. Reid did little for Queen.”
“You’re a great addition, too,” we continue the bromance.
“Any other rumors I should worry about?”
“Just rock gossip. We have an unnamed singer working with us and living with Bowie.”
“What is Bowie’s angle in all this?”
“Freddie asked him to help. He wants to keep Queen from breaking up. Once we started he found it fun. We go to swim at the Lake and end up singing for the local kids.”
“Queen songs?”
“Just new ones and the ones Freddie wrote. It’s without amps or instruments. No money involved. We did do one Brian May song because it was requested.”
“You are busking in the street? Just keep me informed. Should I know about this unnamed American singer? It’s not Jim Morrison, I hope.”
“I believe he’s in a Paris, Pere le Chais Cemetery.”
“Good,” we both laugh.
“We need to get Brian and the boys back here,” Claude reminds us. He has to announce this year’s Festival headliner soon. It cannot be ‘Freddie and The Knobs.”
Henri agrees the Knobs can play inside the Casino this weekend, preferably Saturday. The Press will know that it is a Queen underground show. I will make sure the kids from the Lake will be there. Henri agrees to an unlimited guest list. That will be amusing to control. Henri will get a copy of the bootleg to the local rock stations to drum up interest in this weekend’s show.
Miami Beach pulls me aside, “You wanna be Queen’s new manager? You seem to be doing it already.”
“Hell, no! Music business is no place for kids. I also play all the instruments and sing on the bootleg. I have no intention of replacing them all.”
“Fine, but if I have to do it, you have to back me up.”
“A hit man?”
“Only in the sense that you get the hits on the radio.”
I find Mike and Amar onstage in the big performance room. Mike is teaching Amar dance moves, including the moonwalk, which I will never be able to do. Mike’s French is slowly improving, while Amar sounds like he lived in LA all his life.
“You guys ready to put on a show this Saturday, right here?”
Amar looks panicked but Mike reassures him that it is only dancing. They will survive.
Mike places his hands on Amar’s hips and they do a pas de deux across and back the large stage as I sing ‘Survive’.
‘At first I was afraid, I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side
But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong
And I grew strong
And I learned how to get along
And so you’re back
From outer space
I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key
If I’d known for just one second you’d be back to bother me
Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?
You think I’d crumble?
You think I’d lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive
I’ve got all my life to live
And I’ve got all my love to give and I’ll survive
I will survive, hey, hey
It took all the strength I had not to fall apart
Kept trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart
And I spent oh-so many nights just feeling sorry for myself
I used to cry
But now I hold my head up high and you see me
Somebody new
I’m not that chained-up little person still in love with you
And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free
Well, now I’m saving all my lovin’ for someone who’s loving me
Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to break me with goodbye?
You think I’d crumble?
You think I’d lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive
I’ve got all my life to live
And I’ve got all my love to give and I’ll survive
I will survive
Oh
Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to break me with goodbye?
You think I’d crumble?
You think I’d lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive
I’ve got all my life to live
And I’ve got all my love to give and I’ll survive
I will survive
I will survive’
Songwriters: Dino Fekaris / Frederick J. Perren
I Will Survive lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
The cleaning crew in the back has been watching and bursts into applause.
Mike bows to the fans and moonwalks off stage. Amar bows next and moonwalks backwards toward him. I do not bow and just run off stage.
“Can we do that here on Saturday?” Amar is breathless but easily uses his New English to express his greatest dreams.
“Well, the Knobs have issues with disco, but maybe at the end when they leave the stage. I can play the music on the MOOG.”
“Can my sisters come up and dance, too?”
“We have an unlimited guest-list. Tell them to be ready but not to be disappointed if the anti-disco crowd finds out before it’s too late to stop us. Maybe once Freddie does “Don’t stop me now.”
Amar looks like he is about piss his pants. “I gotta go home a ma maision to practice. The sisters don’t believe I know Freddie Mercury. Now they’ll be on stage with him.”
“Us, too,” we both complain.
“My new mates.” He hugs the two of us. Once he was so shy. ‘Nevermore’ quoth the Raven’. His sisters may not forgive him his new hairstyle.
“Come swim at the Lake au lac avec nous. You can tell vos amis about your show with Queen Saturday. They can be on the list sur la liste.”
His eyes get even wider.
We have to walk back to the Lake House. Amar shows us how to take the metro bus. Neither of us has un centime. Amar has a student pass. We are both embarrassed.
“I am not going to walk,” he explains. “Trop loin. Wait at the backdoor and get on after everyone exits. I’ll distraire le conducteur.”
It works perfectly. Mike whispers to me that he and his brothers did the same in the London Tube when they escaped from the hotel and Papa Joe’s watchful eye. Amar comes and sits with us at the back of the bus. We start to giggle until he shushes us, so as to not attract attention. Another adventure to regal the Knobs.
After changing into our suits, Mike and Amar are secretly whispering.
“Let’s have a swim lesson in the pool first,” Mike decides.
It is obvious that Amar will drown if we go to the lake. I am swim instructor again with Mike reassuring Amar that he will not drown. The two of us get Amar past the sinking to the bottom problem. More lessons can wait. We depart for the Lake. Bowie decides to drive us and take Mike and Amar home after our swim. I guess I will walk home.
The crowd of fans has swelled from word-of-mouth. Many are wearing proper attire, prepared to swim. The Swiss are always prepared. When they spot Bowie, a surge of screaming female fans surrounds his Aston Martin. I crawl out from the back of the sports car and address the pressing fans.
“Well, we did not expect a crowd or that you would turn our swim into a mob scene,” I yell above the din. “Unless you back off, we’ll have to swim elsewhere.”
There is no response to my plea.
“What if Bowie sings a song for everyone?” I plead. “You have to move back and give us some room.”
David does not look pleased but the crowd applauds and opens up a space for us to get from the car to the edge of the lake.
“What should I sing, boss?” Bowie asks.
“The new version of ‘Fame?’” I suggest.
“I’m saving that for the show,” he declines.
“How about your reggae song, ‘Yassassin?”
“I thought you hate it?”
“It’s not for me to judge. The Swiss may have German Rastafarian roots?”
“Okay, boss.”
“Hi,” Bowie addresses the crowd. “I hope you like this new song. I wrote it in Berlin. It is Mediterranean reggae.”
The crowd looks confused but claps encouragement.
I start beating on palm trees with David swaying to the beat as Mike and Amar start their dance moves by swaying along.
Soon everyone is swaying. No ganja smoke wafting above the crowd. It still is Switzerland where everyone behaves. At the end, the crowd has spread out, many doing the hippie dance.
“Off we go to swim,” David announces the end to his one song set.
The crowd of actual swimmers push to the front. There are at least fifty in regulation swimsuits. I see the panic in Amar eyes as his one swim lesson is insufficient to lend him confidence in a crowd.
“I’ll take it from here,” I tell our group. “David will drive you home, Amar.”
They make a swift exit as the swimmers follow me into the lake. Without new swimmers to worry about, I stroke straight out about 50 meters and wait for the locals to catch up. We all tread water as the stragglers join us. We sing ‘Yassassin.’ The last to arrive is barely able to swim. I have him get behind me and link his arms around my neck. He puts me in a death grip. As we start to sink I use my dolphin kick to come up and use butterfly arm strokes as I pop to the surface. I swim back to shore and tell the non-swimmer to stay near the shore. The others follow me. I use backstroke along the shore, waving to the kids while keeping an eye on the swimmers following. I cull another non-swimmer from the herd and head back offshore, only 30 meters this time. One of the better swimmers clasps me around the neck and we tandem to shore. I stroke butterfly with my arms while he undulates with dolphin kicks. As we get close, the kids on the shore starting singing the dolphin chorus from ‘Heroes.” David will be pleased. The two of us do our Flipper act back and forth in front of the crowd. I count over a hundred kids cheering us on. Before I get exhausted, we all swim to the sand. I wrap myself in my towel and get besieged by our fans.
“Was that really David Bowie? I never heard that song before.”
“It’s new. He wrote it in Berlin when he met Turkish musicians there. Yassassin means ‘long live.’
“When’s it coming out?
“It is a single on RCA. We prefer Jamaican reggae and plan to do their style on Saturday. He is really happy that Montreux kids like his style.”
“Where are you playing on Saturday?”
“At the Casino. It’s a Queen show.”
“Trop cher, too expensive for us,” several kids moan.
“You can get on the guest list. We want kids there. See Amar to get on the list.”
“How do you know Amar? Why did he leave with Bowie. Who is the other Black kid?” all these questions.
“He liked my mate who’s Black. He had believed that all Americans are racist.”
“Why does Bowie hang around with you?”
“We’re all helping Freddie Mercury keep Queen together. His band-mates split to London.”
“Ils sont fou.”
“Grand spectacle aujourd’hui.”
“Merci. Venez demain a la meme temps.”
“Au revoir, jeune American.”
“Au revoir.”
I walk back to the Lake House (home?). The Knobs and Freddie are sharing a spliff by the pool. For their amusement I relate our exploits at the Lake. Freddie and I go to the kitchen where I fill him in on the business meeting with Claude, Henri and Miami.
“No wonder Bowie calls you boss.”
“Just takin’ care of business.”
“Don’t sing that horrid song, please.”
“My singing bothers you?”
“You have a great voice. How did you learn to sing so easily?”
I search for a missing memory but, nothing.
“I love singing with you,” I stroke his ego. Can I really sing as well as Freddie Mercury? “Miami should be the band manager once Reid is terminated.”
“Sure, boss.”
We bring beers back to the pool. I slip into the water. My muscles are exhausted from all the swimming. Maybe my new name should be Laz Dolphin. At least no one can call me Lazy.”
I take a short nap. Billy wakes me up to go to dinner. We are returning to le Museum. I remember that memory.
M. Iverson, proprietor of le Museum, welcomes us to his restaurant and seats us in full view by the front window. A few fans regularly stake out the spot and excitedly point at us. Freddie feels uncomfortable.
“M. Iverson, s’il vous plaît dire aux gens qui nous voient dans la fenêtre que nous chanterons après notre diner.”
“D’accord, M. Mercury.
We see him appear with hors d’oeuvres for the fans who follow him to park benches at the other side of the plaza.
We eat a tasting menu which I find to be a tease, as each plate is exquisite but not exactly filling,.The next plate appears and seems even better, a charade that is impossible to keep up. The final plate is taken away leaving me stuffed but slightly disappointed. Then the dessert cart arrives with all its choices. The whole experience is absurd. Teased to excess. With coffee and brandy to complete the exercise, we await the bill for Freddie to pay. Freddie kids us that he has forgotten his wallet. None us has the means to step in, which is Freddie’s point: we are beholden to him. The humor of the very rich; ‘they are different from me and you.’ Yes, they have money.
We expect to have a post-dinner a Capella performance. I am content to let Freddie decide which songs he wants to sing. These are his fans. He knows them well.
He starts from the beginning, ‘Killer Queen,’
“Thank you le Museum and M. Iverson for the exquisite feast tonight.”
He skips the opening verse about Kennedy and Khrushchev
‘Caviar and cigarettes
Well versed in etiquette
Extraordinarily nice
She’s a Killer Queen
Gunpowder, gelatine
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind
Anytime
Recommended at the price
Insatiable an appetite
Wanna try?
To avoid complications
She never kept the same address
In conversation
She spoke just like a baroness
Met a man from China
Went down to Geisha Minah
Then again incidentally
If you’re that way inclined
Perfume came naturally from Paris (naturally)
For cars she couldn’t care less
Fastidious and precise
She’s a Killer Queen
Gunpowder, gelatine
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind
Anytime
Drop of a hat she’s as willing as
Playful as a pussy cat
Then momentarily out of action
Temporarily out of gas
To absolutely drive you wild, wild
She’s all out to get you
She’s a Killer Queen
Gunpowder, gelatine
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind
Anytime
Recommended at the price
Insatiable an appetite
Wanna try?
You wanna try
Songwriters: Freddie Mercury
Killer Queen lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, DistroKid
The Knobs and I back up Freddie on the ‘Killer Queen’ choruses. The fans are dancing in the plaza, cheering as Freddie finishes.
“Like that? It was my first hit,” Freddie brags. “How about a new one. I love Montreux and we (he indicates the Knobs and me) are writing new songs. This one is a message to the rest of the band to get back here before we leave them in the dust.”
A few ‘no’s are heard.
Well, it’s called ‘Don’t Stop me Now,’
‘Tonight I’m gonna have myself a real good time
I feel alive
And the world, I’ll turn it inside out, yeah
I’m floating around in ecstasy
So (Don’t stop me now)
(Don’t stop me)
‘Cause I’m having a good time
Having a good time’
It starts slow but the energy jumps in the middle. The fans rush up to get as close to Freddie as possible as he belts out the new song. Again, we back up Freddie on the chorus. Many of the fans sing it back to him.
“Thanks for coming out tonight and supporting us. I love you. The rumor is the Casino is letting us play on Saturday night. Hope to see you there.”
Next:
Tim at Swim 