Today is the 20th anniversary of the death of Freddie Mercury. A couple of thoughts about him, one related to reading, the other to writing.
Reading first. I’ve just finished Lesley-Ann Jones’s brilliant biography of the singer (Freddie Mercury, The Definitive Biography), and have been thinking that it’s exactly the sort of tribute Mercury himself would have wanted. Gloriously populist, never taking itself too seriously, but nonetheless full of perceptive and moving insights into the contradictions and flaws of a truly charismatic star. Jones’s status as a showbiz journalist who knew Mercury means there are lots of fascinating details. The trademark mike stand came about when a normal one fell apart during a gig … Freddie’s pet name for Cliff Richard was Silvia Disc … Queen’s legendary performance at Live Aid was helped by their sound guy sneaking out to the mixing desk and taking off all the volume limiters.
Writing-wise, I’ve been thinking (for reasons I’ll get to in a minute) about the music that authors listen to while they’re working. Not in advance of working, for research purposes, as David Nicholls did when writing One Day (for each chapter he played songs from the year in question, to remind himself what, say, 1994 felt like at the time). I mean while you’re actually at the coalface, be that a computer, a typewriter or a notepad. Stephen King listens to Metallica and Anthrax to help his novels achieve pace: ‘I don’t want to dawdle around and look at the scenery’. Or rather he used to: he now needs quiet to concentrate, and only hits ‘play’ when he’s editing. Often the same song over and over again: when it was Lou Bega’s ‘Mambo No 5’ his wife came upstairs and said ‘Steve, one more time – you die!’ That record doesn’t really fit King’s image, does it? Heavy metal is what you’d expect from him – just as Frank Skinner’s choice of music while writing his autobiography (Dr Dre, Snoop Doggy Dogg and the Notorious B.I.G.) suits him. The horror writer Peter Straub, on the other hand, listens to classical music. Haruki Murakami favours Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Others shun music. J.K. Rowling famously wrote her first book against the background chatter of Edinburgh cafés, but can’t stand music while she works as it’s ‘much too distracting’. Philip Pullman goes even further, saying that ‘anyone who says he can [write with music on] is either writing badly, or not listening to the music, or lying. You need to hear what you’re writing, and for that you need silence.’
I tend to find that that’s the way it goes. Certainly anything with words is out, as they divert me from the words on the page (or rather the screen). About the only time I’ve ever written anything to music was a scene in my first novel where a character realises something about his love life while listening to the end of ‘Purple Rain’. The mistake was to assume that the (very real) emotional power of the song would transmit itself to the reader. Of course it doesn’t – it’s just a mention of a song, albeit one that everyone knows. It doesn’t detract from the scene, but it doesn’t add anything either. I was being lazy, trying to piggyback on Prince’s genius.
No, music for me has to be a ‘while you’re taking a ten-minute break from the writing’ treat. And recently that treat has more often than not been the opening of Queen’s 1986 gig at Wembley (above). If the words won’t flow, if a paragraph isn’t behaving itself, this clip usually does the trick. It’s classic Freddie: he makes you love him because you’re simultaneously aware — and you know that he was simultaneously aware — that this is a supremely talented artist at the top of his game, and also someone who is totally, utterly, unashamedly taking the piss. Out of himself, out of the occasion, out of the very idea that this is any sort of way for a 39 year-old man to make a living.
Poignant to watch it now knowing that this was the second-last time Mercury would ever lead the band out on stage. But what a way to go.
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