Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

17. Freddie

Look, I pride myself on knowing how to read the audience. My job is not only to sing but also to have a relationship of sorts with the crowd. I can tell when they're into us, when they're bored, and when they just want us to fuck off. And tonight, I can sense that the mood is turning on us. The air is full of overexcitement, and the energy is getting darker by the moment.

One glance at Brian shows that he feels it too. He usually takes a leisurely stroll towards the front of the stage during his guitar solo; tonight, he retreats towards the drum riser.  Deaky also keeps his distance, sticking close to the amp at the back. We're all wondering what the hell is going on, except for Rog, who's too busy making gaga eyes at a certain someone. Under any other circumstances, it would be downright adorable, but tonight I'm more concerned about the mob mentality that's fomenting in this roomful of people.

And then, it happens.

In the middle of the first encore, a few blokes jump on stage just to see if they can. Our security--all two of them--manage to right the situation while we finish the song quickly and walk offstage to re-group. Behind us, the audience gets increasingly boisterous, and I'm genuinely worried that a fight will break out.

"What the fuck is happening?" Roger brushes damp hair out of his face as he squints over to the melee.

"I don't know," I reply. "This is fucking crazy."

"Do we go back on?" Brian looks over his shoulder where the crowd is roaring for more. "I think they might kill us if we don't."

"What if we play a super-fast version of 'Jailhouse Rock'?" Roger suggests.

"We just played that." Deaky points out the obvious as he takes a huge swig of a vodka soda hidden behind the amp. 

"Yeah, well, maybe if we play it again, only faster, they'll get bored, and we can go home." Roger shrugs and turns to walk back on stage, no doubt eager to be done so he can be reunited with Skylar. The crowd goes wild when he reappears, and he gives an uncertain wave as he walks behind his kit. Brian, John, and I trade wary glances before following our drummer's lead.

"Listen, this is how it's going to work. You've got to stop throwing rubbish at us if you want us to play," I say into the microphone, trying to sound as authoritative as possible. I turn to nod at Roger, who squints into the lights, presumably to locate Skylar in the throng of people.

"Let's get this over with," I say off-mic. Roger nods and, after a moment's hesitation, starts to play.

We're twenty seconds into the song when the tide turns. All of a sudden, there's a massive hoard of people onstage. I'm talking 50, 60, maybe even a hundred people who storm the tiny stage. It's a disorderly, confused clusterfuck.

John grabs my arm, tugging me to the left. Brian holds onto his guitar tightly and makes a run for it. Roger is momentarily trapped behind his kit but manages to extract himself and hurry offstage.

I'd love to say that we're immediately surrounded by a swarm of beefy security guards ready to defend us with their lives. In reality, we're a mid-level band traveling with a small crew, so it's just us and a few scrawny roadies. Nevertheless, we hustle down the tiny staircase into a long corridor. Someone slams the stage door shut behind us, muffling the pandemonium behind us.

"What the fucking fuck?" I mutter to myself as I wipe a weary arm across my sweaty brow. We walk quickly down the corridor, hoping that someone will find us and help.

"Let go of me," Roger yells. I whirl around, afraid that the crazy fans have managed to follow us.

"You're not going back out there." Roger's drum technician, Jake, has an ironclad grip on the drummer's arm as he struggles to turn around.