Somehow, I have brought together the three biggest rock stars of the Seventies, David Bowie, Freddie Mercury and Michael Jackson. Now, it is up to me to meld the glam, stadium and pop rock super stars into our own Rock n Roll Circus on the shores of Montreux, Switzerland. Without any more than my last two weeks memories I am fearless about producing a grand spectacular extravaganza.
Bowie is right. Navel gazing gets you nowhere. We troop to the studio. The Knobs grab their assigned instruments. Bowie finds an acoustic guitar. Freddie grabs a tambourine. Mike decides he wants to learn keyboards. I get a Fender Mustang guitar and sit at the sound board as engineer and producer.
“Which old Queen songs have you been playing since the concert Friday night?” Bowie asks.
“Freddie’s the only old queen,” I quip.
“And you’re his princess,” Steve takes me down.
“We did a couple of reggae songs,” Billy reminds us. “We did ‘Pressure Drop,’ but found out The Clash already released their version.”
“So, really punk rock,” David mocks my bad influence. “I have a reggae song that I recorded when I was in Berlin.”
“German reggae. They’ll hang you up by your dreadlocks?” I joke.
David shakes his head at my arrogance. “It’s called “Yassassin”.
“Yer an assassin? “Billy laughs. “Sounds political.”
“It’s Turkish. It means ‘long live.’
“They have Rastafarians in Turkey?”
“No. They have Turks in Berlin who like reggae.”
“Your new fans?”
“I thought that was the point. To make new music, not retread American pop.”
“Hey,” Mike defends his genre. “Motown is new music, made by Black people for Black people.”
“Well, let’s hear this Turkish reggae song,” I decide.
David picks up the acoustic and strums while he sings. We stand there listening in disbelief.
‘Yassassin – I’m not a moody guy
Yassassin – I walk without a sound
Yassassin – Just a working man, no judge of men
Yassassin – But such a life I’ve never known
We came from the farmlands
To live in the city
We walked proud and lustful
In this resonant world
You want to fight
But I don’t want to leave
Or drift away
Yassassin, etc. (chorus)
Look at this – no second glances
Look at this – no value of love
Look at this – just sun and steel
Look at this – then look at us
If there’s someone in charge
Then listen to me
Don’t say nothing’s wrong
‘Cause I’ve got a love
And she’s afeared
You want to fight
But I don’t want to leave
Or drift away
Yassassin, etc. (chorus)’
Songwriters: David Bowie
Yassassin (Turkish for: Long Live) lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Tintoretto Music
“It is kind of a catchy tune,” I half-heartedly admit, “but you may want to visit Toots’ hairstyle salon and have your long blond locks turned to authentic dreads.”
Mike shakes his dreads to make a point about authenticity.
“Well, what do you suggest we do, some ripoff cover in Jamacian style?” Bowie argues.
“Right. We already do “Police & Thieves, originally by Junior Murvin.”
Mike plays the intro on the MOOG and sings as high as Junior Murvin. Everyone comes in with our pumped up version. Mike is rocking out for the first time, with a big smile.
I stand behind him playing guitar and echoing backup in his ear.
‘Police and thieves in the street (Oh Yeah)
Scaring the nation with their guns and ammunition
Police and thieves in the street (Oh Yeah)
Fighting the nation with their guns and ammunition…
Throw it up, throw it up, throw it up, throw it up
Oh yeah
Throw it up, throw it up, throw it up, throw it up
Oh yeah…
Police, police, police, police
Police, police, police, police
Police, police, police, police
Police, police, police, police
Police, police, police, police’
Songwriters: Lee Perry / Junior Murvin
Police & Thieves lyrics © Songs Of Polygram Int., Inc.
Everybody is playing and singing. Mike finds he only needs to play a couple of notes over and over on the MOOG.
I rewind the recorded tape and everyone listens to the playback of our first jam. Mike is so excited, he jumps around with me, our arms locked together at the elbows.
David tries to explain why ‘Yassassin,’ is more authentic than Bob Marley.
“You’re ripping off Jamaican culture. I use Turkish musicians and play their music.”
“Punk is getting off on eveybody’s music,” I explain my punk sensibility. “We just wanna have fun.”
Too late, we learn that The Clash have also ripped off ‘Police & Thieves.’ But we live for the moment. It only proves we are on to something.
Bowie decides to even the score’
“Okay, Freddie. Here’s a song for you from ‘Hunky Dory’, ‘Queen Bitch.’”
Everyone points at Freddie
‘She’s an old-time ambassador
Of sweet talking, night walking games
Oh and she’s known in the darkest clubs
For pushing ahead of the dames
If she says she can do it
Then she can do it, she don’t make false claims
But she’s a queen and such a queen
Such a laughter is sucked in their brains
Now she’s leading him on
And she’ll lay him right down
Yes, she’s leading him on
And she’ll lay him right down
But it could have been me
Yes, it could have been me
Why didn’t I say? Why didn’t I say?
No, no, no
She’s so swishy in her satin and tat
In her frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
Oh God, I could do better than that
Songwriters: David Bowie
Queen Bitch lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG Rights Management, Tintoretto Music
Even Freddie laughs at the insult to his manhood.
Time for a break. Mike and I jump into the pool, while the Knobs sit around barely getting their toes wet.
Mike forgets his fear of the deep end. He tries to dunk me. Instead of resisting, I allow him to pull me underwater. He is unsure of what to expect next. We stare at each other in the clear water with big grins. We push off the bottom. Mike grabs me from behind and I swim butterfly stroke to drag him up and down the pool.
The Knobs sit by the pool wondering where David and Freddie have gone. I assume drugs but do not care.
“Let’s go to the Lake,” Billy suggests. “You boys can swim, and we’ll chat up the fans. They’re sure to be hanging about, in hopes of our return.”
“It may not be us they yearn for,” I note.
“So what,” Steve claims. “We’ll bring bongos and tambourines and get everyone singing.”
“That’s the plan,” Billy confirms. We are now hippies from San Francisco.
We grab towels, assuming the Knobs will perform while we swim. Once we arrive at the lakefront, there is a crowd of young hopefuls. The Knobs are jealous to learn it is Mike and me (the Young Americans) who are the draw. We agree to sing Queen songs and maybe the reggae we had practiced in the morning.
“Hey. Thanks for wanting to hear us perform. We came here to swim but the guys in Queen (I promote the Knobs) are glad to throw down the beats and Mike and I can sing since Freddie is busy. What do you want to hear?”
“The new song you did on Friday.”
“It’s called ‘Another One Bites the Dust,’” I remind them. “The press decided that the song means the band is breaking up without really listening to it.”
The crowd moans.
“No. The band is fine. The song is about going out and hooking up.”
The crowd cheers. We are a hit. The boys set the beat as we wait to come in with the vocals. Mike tips his hat and does his moonwalk moves before we sing,
‘Let’s go
‘Steve walks warily down the street
With his brim pulled way down low
Ain’t no sound but the sound of his feet
Machine guns ready to go
Are you ready hey are you ready for this?
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
To the sound of the beat yeah
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone and another one gone
Another one bites the dust
Hey I’m gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust
How do you think I’m going to get along
Without you when you’re gone
You took me for everything that I had
And kicked me out on my own
Are you happy are you satisfied?
How long can you stand the heat
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
To the sound of the beat look out
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone and another one gone
Another one bites the dust
Hey I’m gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust
Hey
Oh take it – Bite the dust bite the dust
Hey Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust ow
Another one bites the dust he he
Another one bites the dust haaaa
Ooh shoot out
There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man
And bring him to the ground
You can beat him
You can cheat him
You can treat him bad and leave him
When he’s down
But I’m ready yes I’m ready for you
I’m standing on my own two feet
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
Repeating to the sound of the beat
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone and another one gone
Another one bites the dust yeah
Hey I’m gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust
Shoot out’
Songwriters: John Deacon
Another One Bites the Dust lyrics © Queen Music Limited
The kids are eating us up. Mike really knows how to entertain them. I worry a little that he is blowing his hidden identity, but no one complains as I sing and he moves around me. With no mic or amps, it is the all-Mike show.
“Well, before we wrote that song, we needed a transition from rock to electronic dance style. We played the Mayals ‘Pressure Drop.”
The kids instantly start dancing. The Knobs come through with strong percussion that drives the beat. Mike and I have our arms around each other as we sing. One boy then several jump up and join us on the vocals – the advantage of singing songs the kids know.
After we finish, Billy comes over and tells me we need to do Queen songs.
“Okay, how about a request for a Queen song?” I ask the kids.
There are several yell-outs for ‘Champions.’
“You are the Champions,” I yell back.
Everyone is singing. Mike keeps the space in front of me clear with his dance moves and poses.
The crowd sways with him; it is mellow.
“‘We will Rock You,'” is the next shout-out. Billy comes up and does the vocals. Mike and I back him up but mostly just dance. The bongos go crazy setting the beat. The Knobs are singing extra loud.
“We did come here to swim, y’know,” I complain. “Who’s going to swim with us. The Gendarmes told us you must have a bathing suit, un maillot de bain, or they will arrest you. Thanks, Montreux, for holding up standards. So, who will swim with us?
The Knobs all shake their heads. A few boys strip down to colorful briefs, but I tell them ‘Non. Non.” They laugh. Others approach the water in street clothes. Again I say, “Non.” It appears no one swims in proper attire in Montreux. I tell Billy to keep the jam going. “Play all the Queen songs they want.”
Mike and I have suits on under our jeans, we slip away and jump in the water. Most of the crowd stays with the Knobs. Some crazy fans walk along the shore as we swim parallel to them.
“Brings suits tomorrow,” I yell
“Vous etes fou,” someone yells. I knew they think we are crazy.
“D’accord,” I yell back.
We swim over to our fans. They chat with us in French. We just nod, ‘d’accord’ or ‘bien sur’ or just ‘oui.” They do not care. We are all having fun. The ones who get too close, we splash. They throw sand at us. It is a beach party. We walk back to dry sand. We are cold without towels. They try to touch and hug us. It gets freaky. We go back into the water, our safe spot. Mike climbs on my back and I swim butterfly with dolphin kicks to where the towels are. Our fans start singing ‘Heroes.’ There is one Black kid in the crowd, everybody wants to hug him. He looks petrified as well as mortified. Well, civil rights demand a price, even from those who benefit. We walk ashore again and embrace the Black kid. He looks totally relieved.
“Where do you get dreads,” he asks.
His name is Amar. Mike tells him to call Toots, explaining where the hair salon is.
“C’est près de ma maison,” he says.
We invite him back to the Lake House. Billy and the Knobs have finished playing and are ready to go.
“You need to come swimming next time,” I advise all the Knobs. “This is Amar. He’s coming to lunch with us.”
Billy just shakes his head. “I didn’t know there are Black kids in Switzerland.”
“You need to get out more.”
“Maybe we can play soul music,” Billy suggests.
“Yeah, for the two Black kids in Montreux.”
“We are non-sectarian cultural exploiters.”
Once back at the Lake House everyone is hungry. Jim prepares le dejeuner for everyone. Mike and I get burgers. Jim notices the newcomer.
“Ah, another musician?”
“He’s Mike’s only Black fan. We’re giving him a makeover.”
“Burger?” Jim asks Amar.
“Oui, c’est très bien.”
“Immédiatement.”
We walk back to the pool and wait to be served. Life is so entitled. I dive in, but Mike waits with Amar, who looks nervously at the water. More swimming lessons in the offing? Jim walks out with the burgers. Amar is saved from Black swimming embarrassment. Freddie and David join us for lunch. I can tell they are ready to interrogate Amar.
“Don’t make him feel self-conscious. He was mortified when all the kids tried to hug him after seeing Mike hug me.”
“You were hanging out at the Lake again?”
“The Knobs put on a mini-Queen performance. Then Mike and I went swimming and everyone followed us. Amar is apparently the only Black kid in Montreux. We promised to take him to Toots’ hair salon for dreadlocks.”
“I thought we were going to jam this afternoon.”
“Dreadlocks can wait. We need to decide what songs to play at these pop-up concerts. Old Queen songs are inappropriate for the new Queen.”
“Who sang the Queen songs,” Freddie fears competition.
“I just filled in for you. You snooze (or do drugs), you lose.”
“Why did you play old songs? I thought we were practicing the new ones to show that Queen has evolved?”
“We play what the kids ask for.”
“How many kids went swimming with you?”
“Just Mike and me. When we did the dolphin act, they all sang ‘Heroes’ from the shore.”
“This was after the Queen mini-show?”
“No. The Knobs played on while we went swimming. Billy sang and the others played bongos.”
“It sounds quite unprofessional.” Freddie the complainer.
“It was just for the kids. They know we go swimming there and were waiting.”
“How many kids.”
“Just a few,” I underestimate our popularity or the lack of anything for kids to do.
“I worry the authorities will shut you down,” Bowie is a realist. “Let Henri handle the Gendarmes. He can say it is publicity for the Festival. Queen is the headliner.”
“I think we need another show for this weekend. Get Henri to book it. Let’s figure out what to play, using only songs we wrote,” I put on my record producer hat.
Amar is bored with band rehearsal.
“Au revoir, mes amies,” Amar dit. “Je rentre chez moi.”
“A demain?” I ask.
“Au lac?”
“Peutre au shop de Toots pour les dreadlocks?”
“Ah, bien sur.”
“A dix heure au matin?”
“Oui, d’accord.”
“Goodbye, Amar,” Mike and I hug him.
“Au revoir,” Amar dit.
“You have one fan after playing and swimming at the Lake?” Freddie mocks us.
“Just wait. He may be the first but not the last. All the kids came to the Lake hoping to see you. We’re just the ‘Young Americans, Young Americans,’” we sing. Bowie laughs.
“Time to decide on a set list,” I am all business again.
“We’re not doing that punk song about laughing at our fans,” Freddie decrees.
“We’ll save it for an encore,” I suggest. “How about starting with reggae, ‘Under Pressure’ and ‘Police & Thieves’?”
“We can pass out joints to create a mellow mood,” Tommy is a typical drummer, just wanting to get high.
“No stereotyping our fans. They can sway and pretend they’re high,” Mike recommends.
“Then we can play the new Queen song, “Another One Bites..” Freddie has appropriated Mike’s song. “That’s what’s playing on the radio.”
“How do you know?”
“Henri told me it’s in UK radio rotation.”
“Has the record company released it?” I am anxious to get a production credit.
“Just bootlegs. Brian and the boys won’t record it and the company won’t release it without them.”
“Let’s do our own bootleg under Knob Records,” I suggest. “We can promote it on Pirate Radio.”
“That is so 60’s,” Freddie complains. “We need to talk to ‘Miami’ Beach. I’m not sailing to some derelict ship in the English Channel.”
“You’re no fun,” I start singing Iggy Pop’s ‘No Fun.”
Mike and I run around, swinging our arms and bouncing off the Knobs.”
“Jesus, Laz. Settle down,” Billy complains. “We can’t play that crappy song.”
“Yer no fun.”
I bump him and Jock socks him in the stomach.
Billy falls down. Mike and I pile on top of him. The rest of the Knobs pile on, too. David, Freddie and Jim just stare at the chaos.
I jump up, sling an arm around David, while singing the verse,
‘No fun, my babe
No fun
No fun, my babe
No fun
No fun to hang around
Feelin’ that same old way
No fun to hang around
Freaked out
For another day…
No fun to be alone
Walking by myself
No fun to be alone
In love
With nobody else
Well, maybe go out, maybe stay home
Maybe call Mom on the telephone’
Songwriters: David Alexander / James Osterberg / Ronald Asheton / Scott Asheton
No Fun lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc, Tratore, BMG Rights Management
We start bouncing up and down, which is more acceptable than thrashing into others. Freddie joins us and we sing the song to its conclusion.
The Knobs are laying on the ground watching us jump around. Mike pulls me into the pile, as David and Freddie jump away. Adults do not know how to have fun.
“No more punk rock,” Freddie screams.
We twitch and shudder for several seconds before settling down.
“You’re no fun,” Mike and I complain.
“So far, all we have is three songs to perform. We need something different,” Freddie orders.
“How about this disco song?’
“No disco,” the Knobs all yell.
“Then listen to this one; it’s called No Disco by the Talking Heads,” I yell back.
“You’re fired,” The Knobs yell in unison.
Bowie looks disappointed. Mike is sitting in the background, scribbling furiously on a notepad.
“Check out these lyrics about disrespecting disco,” he points to the Knobs and sings ‘Queen Bitch.’
‘She’s so swishy in her satin and tat
In her frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
Oh God, I could do better than that
Oh you betcha
Oh yeah
Uh-huh
Mmm’
Songwriters: David Bowie
Queen Bitch lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG Rights Management, Tintoretto Music
“That’s what we think about fashion,” Billy approves.
“Fashion, turn to the left. Fashion, turn to the right,” Bowie improvises.
“I’m not going to be in a fashion band, thank you very much,”
“Who’s I and we?” Bowie asks. “It’s not about you, Billy.”
Billy looks pleased that Bowie knows his name.
“Us, trying to create a dance tune.”
“How about we make it about DJs?” Bowie suggests.
‘I am a D.J., I am what I play
Can’t turn around no, can’t turn around, no, oh, ooh’ Mike sings.
“I think she’s dancing, what do I know?” Bowie adds.
“I am a D.J., I am what I play
Can turn around no, can’t turn around,” Mike responds.
“We are the goon squad and we’re coming to town,” Billy jumps in.
Mike adds
“I am a D.J., I am what I play
I’ve got believers
Believing me”
“Here’s part of a song I’ve been working on with Brian Eno,” Bowie starts singing ‘Let’s Dance.’,
‘Let’s dance
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues
Let’s sway
Under the moonlight, this serious moonlight
Let’s dance
Let’s dance
Let’s dance, dance, dance’
“We can mash it all together,” I know it must be edited. “It’ll be exhorting people to dance but show how shallow disco is by calling it fashion.”
Everyone agrees that disco is a two-edged sword – dancing with attitude.
“Time for a break,” I announce. The Knobs rush outside for cigarettes.
David asks Mike and me to follow him to the house porch.
“Let’s see all the notes you made, Mike. Let’s try to put them all together into a coherent song.”
After reading the pages of notes, David spreads them out and creates an order.
“Let’s start off with a song the fans already know. How about ‘Fame’ from Hunky Dory. I’ll change the ending to ‘What’s my name?’”
“How about ‘fashion, turn to the left, fashion, turn to the right?’” Mike suggests. “Laz and I can scat at the end, after ‘Dance with me, don’t dance with me.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It shows we want to dance but don’t do disco. Keeping the Knobs happy.”
“We’ll sing about being broke and being a DJ.” Mike adds. “I remember Grace Jones singing something similar.”
“Yeah,” David stereotypes musicians. “Blacks are always out of work.”
“David!” we yell. “You’re not in Berlin anymore.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll finish by telling everyone to dance. Dance. Dance. Dance.”
Mike writes it all down. I figure out a beat that is more rock than disco but will get people on their feet and dancing.
We rush back to the studio. The knobs are sitting around, tuning up. They are pros now.
“We made a song from all the argument about being disco and hating disco,” David announces. “Laz play a simple beat on the MOOG. You Knobs jump in when you feel the rhythm.”
Mike brings a mic over by the MOOG and David and he start mouth beats together.
‘Fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame
Fame
What’s your name?
What’s your name?
What’s your name?…
There’s a brand new dance
But I don’t know its name
That people from bad homes
Do again and again
Fashion, turn to the left
Fashion, turn to the right
Ooh fashion
We are the goon squad and we’re coming to town
Beep-beep, beep-beep
Listen to me, don’t listen to me
Talk to me, don’t talk to me
Dance with me, don’t dance with me
No
Beep-beep, beep beep
Ooh bop, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do
Fa fa fa fa fashion
Ooh bop, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do
Fa fa fa fa fashion, la-la-la-la la la la la
Ooh bop, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do
Fa fa fa fa fashion
Ooh bop, do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do
Fa fa fa fa fashion, la-la-la-la la la la la
I’m home,
lost my job,
and incurably ill
I am a D.J., I am what I play
Can’t turn around no, can’t turn around, no, oh, ooh
I am a D.J., I am what I play
Can’t turn around no, can’t turn around, no, oh no
I am a D.J., I am what I play
I got believers
Believing me, oh
I am a D.J., I am what I play
Can’t turn around no, can’t turn around, no, oh, ooh
I am a D.J., I am what I play
Can’t turn around no, can’t turn around, no, oh no
I am a D.J., I am what I play
I got believers
Believing me, oh
I am a D.J., and I’ve got believers
I’ve got believers
I’ve got believers
I’ve got believers in me
I’ve got believers
I am a D.J., I am what I play
I am a D.J.
Let’s dance
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues
Let’s dance
To the song they’re playin’ on the radio
Let’s sway
While color lights up your face
Let’s sway
Sway through the crowd to an empty space
If you say run
I’ll run with you
And if you say hide
We’ll hide
Let’s sway
Under the moonlight, this serious moonlight
And if you say run
I’ll run with you
And if you say hide
We’ll hide
Because my love for you
Would break my heart in two
If you should fall into my arms
And tremble like a flower
Let’s dance
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues
Let’s sway
Under the moonlight, this serious moonlight
Let’s dance
Let’s dance
Let’s dance, dance, dance.
Songwriters: John Lennon / David Bowie / Carlos Alomar / Grace Jones
The Knobs pick up their instruments and slowly pick up the chords as I play on the MOOG. The beat remains steady. We play it through several times as the music coalesces into a coherent sound. Freddie backs us up on vocals.
“What do you call this song.?” Freddie asks.
“It’s just a Fame mashup, like a medley,” David decides.
(Eventually it becomes three new songs plus the original ‘Fame’ hit from the Young Americans album).
Freddie sets up the tape player and we play it one last time to record Bowie’s mash-up.
David takes me aside.
“Listen, boss. This session is going well but I know Freddie and we better come up with a song for him pretty soon that is all Queen.”
“We can do a punk version of ‘God Save the Queen.”
“That’s been done, and the Sex Pistols were arrested for performing it at the Queen’s Silver Jubilee.”
“How about something really explicit but won’t get me arrested?”
“That new bass line to ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ is really a signature sound that says what Queen is today.”
“I’ll get Mike to come up with another bass riff.”
“And the explicit lyric?”
“How about ‘ let me fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you?”
“Off to jail you go. No f-words allowed.”
“How about ‘make love make love?”
“Let’s ask Mike what he thinks. It is his bass line which he has to come up with.”
“dum dum, dum dum,” Mike reduces the sound to one note, four beats.
“What are the words?” I ask.
“Get down, make love,” is perfect.
Freddie and the Knobs are sitting around the studio, looking bored.
Mike gets on the MOOG, playing the simple E E C E hold, which Jock picks up. I whisper the simple lyric into Freddie ears. He smiles and comes in at the next interval, “Get down, make love,”repeating it as the other Knobs come in.
Freddie adds a verse, in the same rhythm, ‘You take my body, I give you heat’, singing from G G Gflat A. Freddie improvises the rest of the lyrics.
‘Get down, make love
Get down, make love
You take my body
I give you heat
You say you hungry
I give you meat
I suck your mind
You blow my head
Make love, (make love)
Inside your bed, everybody get down, make love
Get down, make love
Get down, make love
Get down, make love
Every time I get hot
You wanna cool down
Every time I get high
You say you wanna come down
You say it’s enough
In fact it’s too much
Every time I get a, get down, get down
Get down, make love
Oh, sss, ha
I can squeeze, you can shake me (get down, make love)
I can feel, when you break me (get down, make love)
Come on so heavy, when you take me (get down, make love)
You can make love, you can make love, you can make love, you can make love
(Get down, make love)
You can make everybody get down, make love
Get down, make love
Every time I get high
You wanna come down
Every time I get hot
You say you wanna cool down
You say it’s enough
In fact it’s too much
Every time I wanna, get down
Get down, get down
Aah, ooh, make love, make love, make love, make love, make love
Aah, oh
Get down, make love
Get down, make love
Get down, make love
Get down, make love
Every time I get hot
You wanna cool down
Every time I get high
You say you wanna come down
You say it’s enough
In fact it’s just too much
Every time I wanna, get down
Get down, get down, make love
Get down, make love
Get down, make love’
Songwriters: Freddie Mercury
Get Down, Make Love lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
It is steamy as hell. Freddie loves it. David backs up the vocals, repeating the ‘get downs.’
“Now we follow with a real Queen anthem. Brian did this rocker when he was here, ‘Tie Your Mother Down.’”
Ooh, ooh yeah, ooooh yeah
Get your party gown
Get your pigtail down
Get your heart beatin’ baby
Got my timin’ right
Got my act all tight
It’s gotta be tonight my little
School babe
Your Mamma says you don’t
Your Daddy says you won’t
And I’m boilin’ up inside
Ain’t no way I’m gonna lose out this time, oh no
Tie your mother down
Tie your mother down
Lock your daddy out of doors
I don’t need him nosin’ around
Tie your mother down
Tie your mother down
Give me all your love tonight
You’re such a dirty louse
Go get outta my house
That’s all I ever get from your
Family ties, in fact I don’t think I ever heard
A single little civil word from those guys
But you know I don’t give a light
I’m gonna make out all right
I’ve got a sweetheart hand
To put a stop to all that
Snipin’ an’ grousin’ goin’ on all night
Tie your mother down
Tie your mother down
Take your little brother swimmin’
With a brick (that’s all right)
Tie your mother down – yeah yeah
Tie your mother down
Or you ain’t no friend of mine, ooh no friend of mine
No no, ow, yeah, bad guy
Ooh, your Mammy and your Daddy gonna
Plague me till I die
They can’t understand it, I’m just a
Peace lovin’ guy
Ooh, tie your mother down
Tie your mother down
Get that big big big big big big daddy out of doors
Tie your mother down – yeah
Tie your mother down
Give me all your love tonight
All your love tonight
Give me every inch of your love – ooh
All your love tonight
Yeah, gotta get my timin’ right hey
Ooh, all your love
Tie your mother down
Songwriters: Brian May
Tie Your Mother Down lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
“Won’t Brian protest?” I ask
“Fuck him. He took credit but it is still a Queen song.”
We practice until everyone is in synch. On the last time, we record a full take.
We have our set.
‘Police & Thieves’
‘Queen Bitch.’
‘Another One Bites the Dust’
‘Pressure Drop’
‘Champions’
’We will Rock You,’
‘Fame Medley’
“Get Down, Make Love”
‘Tie Your Mother Down’
Encore: “Fools Who Laugh”
Now we need a gig.
Next:
Tim at Swim 