Milwaukee
"It's still all fucking wrong!" Freddie stops abruptly mid-song, dangling the mic stick precariously from his hand. I continue to play regardless, keeping the beat on the snare he stalks across the stage.
"What's not right about it?" Brian shouts from across the way, his voice competing with my drumming. "Roger, can you stop--"
Freddie is silent for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling and bobbing his head ever so slightly as he works out the song in his head. In the meantime, Brian puts his palm on the snare, forcibly bringing an end to my drumming.
"Well, when we get to the, you know, the bridge--" Freddie runs a hand through his hair in frustration and pauses once more, just before the words spill out. "When I start with 'find me somebody to love' and then Rog comes in on the third round -- that whole bit is just missing something, isn't it?" He looks at me for confirmation.
I place the drum sticks down and twist my torso to stretch out my back with a sigh. We've been through this song so many bloody times, and I don't think it'll ever be perfect. We worked on it for ages back in London, not even sure if it would even translate live. And now here we are at soundcheck, two hours before our first show of the tour, and we're doing this again?
"It's missing about 500 overdubbed voices," I offer up.
"Well, I think it works," John says, handing off his bass to Ratty. He stretches his hands over his back. "It works, Fred. Let's stop fiddling with it."
"It has to be perfect," Freddie insists, looking to Brian for support. The guitarist rubs his eyes wearily, and I realize that the stress of the tour has gotten to all of us even before it starts. Fred's right: we have to be flawless.
"While you figure it out, I'm going to phone Veronica; otherwise, it'll be too late over there," John says. "Rog, want to come ring Skylar?"
"I'll do it later," I say distractedly, turning my attention back to my bandmate. "Yeah, I see what you mean, Fred. What if we..." I hop off the riser and stand in a huddle with Brian and Freddie as we try to work out the harmonies. We're there for a good twenty minutes--enough time for John to rejoin us--before Freddie looks over my shoulder and brightens.
"There she is!"
Our heads swivel to see Dominique, who has just walked into the back of the auditorium. She's carrying a huge stack of papers, no doubt the press releases that she's always poring over. She raises a hand and smiles as Freddie motions her closer.
"We need an outsider's perspective," he calls over to her as soon as she's within earshot.
"You beg me to join your tour, and now I'm an outsider?" she jokes, continuing to walk closer. Despite the jetlag and the stress, she looks unruffled.
"Tart," Freddie replies with a wink. "Sit and have a listen. Otherwise, I think one of us will quit before we even make it on stage tonight."
"I'm just here for the PR," she says with a laugh. "I'm hardly a music expert."
"Well, you have a set of ears," Freddie grumbles.
'Yeah, tell us what you think," I call over. "I'll treat you to dinner in the dressing room as a thank you. Any sort of sandwich that you fancy. I heard that tonight we can pick from ham or cheese."
"Ooooh, how could a girl say no to an offer like that?" She raises one eyebrow before sitting a few rows back. Putting down her papers on the adjacent seat, she motions for us to start, and I count off.
Detroit
"Roger."
Dominique's voice permeates my dreams, causing me to open one eye. Just as quickly, I close it and pull a pillow over my head.
"Roger."
I vaguely compute that I'm naked and either hungover or possibly still drunk. Fucking A, what's that terrible noise? With a groan, I look at the clock on the generic bedside table situated in this generic hotel room.
"Roger, open the bloody door."
I sit up, instinctively pulling the duvet over myself. I sit there groggily, willing reality to kick in. Next to me, the phone rings. Ignoring the angry woman outside my door, I reach over to pick up the receiver.
"Hey, you." Skylar's warm voice permeates my brain, and, at this moment, there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be than curled up in bed with her.
"Sky," I croak, not even realizing till that moment how fucked my voice is. Maybe she's right, and I do need to give up cigarettes.
"You alright?" she asks, concerned, even though I'm the one who should be worried about her. God, I'm a prat, I'm a fool, I'm a--
"Roger, open the fucking door," Dominique yells from the hallway, redirecting my attention back to the situation at hand.
"Fuck," I mutter, sitting up straight, eyes wide open, realizing what day it is.
"Is that Dominique that I hear?"
"I gotta go--"
"Rog--"
"I'm so fucking late, Sky, I gotta go."
Twenty minutes later, Dominique basically shoves me into the hotel suite where the interviewer is waiting. He graciously ignores the fact that my hair is still wet from a hurried shower, and I'm probably still oozing alcohol.
"I haven't done one of these in a very long time," I say to the interviewer as I take a seat across from him, offering up my most winning smile. "So be kind."
"I haven't done one in, oh, ten minutes," the bloke replies jokingly, referring to John, who is laying on the sofa a few meters away, an issue of Melody Maker in hand.
He presses a button on his recorder, and off we go. We're playing Madison Square Garden next week, are we excited? Yes, thrilled. (And nervous as hell, though I'll never go on record with that little morsel of truth). I have the reputation of being the most like a typical rock-n-roller in the band, any truth to that? I'm just as I am, really. Is the punk rock thing real or just a trend? Too early to say, but I'm not convinced it's caught on with the public.
We natter away for a good thirty minutes before he mentions last night's party.
"So who's idea was it to hire strippers?" He gives me a wolfish grin that tells me he didn't mind last night's post-gig entertainment one bit. "Off the record, of course."
"John's," I say flippantly, pointing accusingly at my bandmate. "He's always getting us in trouble."
Across the room, Deaky scoffs. "Do not print that," he mutters, his eyes still on the magazine.
"I know you all have wives and, um, girlfriends, so how do they feel about it?"
I'm about to reply when the door opens, and Paul walks in.
"Fred's ready." The interviewer's eyes light up, and it's clear that Freddie Mercury is the real prize of the day. In the hallway, I can hear Dominique cajoling him to join the interview.
"They're all a bunch of shits," Freddie grumbles, clearly audible to the journalist sitting across from me.
"You promised," she hisses. "The others have already done their bit."
I pull out a cigarette and have a smoke while the reporter and I wordlessly listen to the verbal sparring going on outside the partially ajar door. Finally, ready to be done with this, I call out: "We can hear you, you know."
Silence. Then, after a long, awkward moment, Domonique pokes her head in and flashes a polite, apologetic smile.
"Mr. Mercury will just be one more moment," she says before gently shutting the door. Two seconds later, Freddie barrels through the door and unceremoniously flings himself down in the chair next to me.
"Not a fan of interviews?" the reporter asks, hitting the record button. Freddie glances suspiciously at the recorder and takes a deep breath.
"We haven't had the best experience with the press, no," he replies. "Sometimes I wonder if the take-down pieces are written long before the interviews even happen. And then you lot take everything we say out of context just to suit your purposes--I mean, remember what they did to Roger last year, nearly broke up his relationship--"
Behind the reporter's back, I shake my head vigorously at Freddie. Why the fuck would he mention that?! The last thing I need is for all that to be rehashed in the press. Sky will murder me.
The reporter looks at me quizzically and then back at Freddie. "I, uh, I'm not sure what you mean--"
"Nothing, nothing," I say hurriedly. "Anyway, it's Freddie's turn now, so I'll just..." I trail off, standing up and reaching over to shake the bloke's hand goodbye.
As I start to walk towards the exit, I hear the reporter's next question. More precisely, I hear mumble mumble mumble Rolling Stone mumble mumble mumble.
"Oh, I wouldn't bring that up if I were you," John warns the reporter from across the room as I pause in my tracks.
"Don't get me fucking started about that review," Freddie says with a groan, his voice rising. "If we didn't rehearse the shit out of the show, we'd be accused of being sloppy. But because we're, you know, professionals, we get accused of a 'sterile' performance? An 'over-rehearsed' set? It's absolute fucking bollocks."
"Told you not to bring it up," John mutters, not bothering to look up from the magazine.
It's at this point that Dominique intervenes and smoothly redirects the conversation. With a weary wave goodbye, I continue my journey back to my hotel room. After laying face-down on the bed for a few minutes, I finally sit up to carefully dial Skylar's number. It rings and rings and rings for what seems like forever but, as if our stars aren't aligned today, no one's there.
Boston
"Do you think he's dead?"
"Of course he's not fucking dead."
Freddie and I peer down at Brian, who is passed out cold on the floor of Joe Perry's house. A raucous party rages around us: loud music and all the booze, drugs, and girls that one could ever want.
"He looks like he could be a little dead. Just a bit."
"How can one be just a bit dead? You're either dead, or you're not. And he's not, clearly."
Below us, Brian lets out a little snort--maybe a snore?--and turns his head to one side. Freddie and I look at each other with wide eyes. Suddenly, it seems like the funniest thing in the world, and we're both cackling like maniacs. As we're handed more drinks, I watch Dominique and my new drum tech dance to a Rod Stewart tune across the room. She sees me and waves a hand in the air, inviting me to join the fun.
I start to make my way over when, through the haze, I hear my name called. Whirling around, I see one of Skylar's mates whom I've been introduced to a million times, but his name escapes me. I've only seen him in a hospital setting dressed in a white coat, so it seems odd that he's here at an Aerosmith party.
"The show was..." he starts off excitedly, searching for the right word. "It was incandescent, Roger. Truly."
"I quite like the sound of that," Freddie says from beside me, his pupils slightly larger than usual. As I make hazy introductions, it occurs to me that Skylar asked me to get her friend concert tickets and invite him to the afterparty, which explains a lot.
"How's Skylar?" her friend--Jeremy!--asks. Cursing inwardly, I realize that I don't actually know because I forgot to ring her--again. God, I really am the worst. The strangest thing about it all is that sometimes I forget about them. I mean, of course I know that I have a girlfriend and daughter, but it just seems so incongruous with how things are here. Part of me wonders how John manages to stay so even-keeled all the time.
"And how's fatherhood treating you? I couldn't believe it when Skylar told me that you two were expecting. I'm not one for kids myself, but little Cadie is the cutest... "He offers an easy smile and rambles politely as I realize that I can't stand here and make small talk because I'm either going to pass out like Brian or be sick. Fucking vodka. Fucking coke.
"Good, good, yeah, it's, you know, so good," I manage before I make blurry excuses and veer off towards maybe where the loo might be.
God, what a night. I can barely feel my face, and it's so loud and, all of a sudden, I miss Skylar terribly and know that she'd hate seeing me like this. But it's not just me. It's all of us. This tour has been absolutely mad. Ever since we arrived in the States, people are treating us like we're the best thing since sliced bread. We've all gotten caught up in the rush, no one more than me. It's all just going too fast, and I can't manage to slow it down for myself.
"Roger!" I hear somewhere off in the distance, but if I turn around, I'll be sick everywhere, and that's not rock-n-roll at all. So I keep walking until I'm out the door and the cool air hits my face. I keep walking and walking, not knowing where I'm going and when this all will end.
The fact that I make it back to the hotel in one piece is a feat of wizardry, given my terrible sense of direction. As soon as I enter my room, I begin to undress rather unsteadily. Reaching into my overflowing suitcase to pull out a t-shirt, I notice a paisley scarf tucked beneath the mess. It must be left over from the last time Skylar used the bag.
I'm not sure if the feeling in my chest is the need to cry or to be sick, but I do neither. Instead, I rush over to the phone and call home. It rings 7 or 8 times before a very sleepy Skylar answers.
"Hello?"
"Hi, baby." My voice is unusually husky, and I sit on the edge of the bed, hoping that the world will stop spinning.
"Roger, it's--" I hear her fumble to see the clock next to the bed "--nearly 6 in the morning. Is everything okay?"
"I miss you."
A pause.
"I miss you too. How was the show?"
"Skylar, you have to come to New York next week." I've asked her a few times, usually off-hand, and the answer is always no. Work, the baby, blah blah blah.
"Rog, we've talked about this, you know that--"
"I need you to be here, Sky. Please. Just for the one night. I can't do it without you there."
Another pause, this time longer. I wonder what's going through her head. Is she wondering why it's always her who has to come to me? Is she wondering if all this is worth it? Is she wondering if I'm going to be a delinquent father who only sees his daughter twice a year? Is she making plans to leave me? I wouldn't blame her for any of it.
"Yeah, alright," she finally says, so softly that I wonder if I imagined it.
"You will?"
"I'll figure out a way," she replies. "It won't be easy."
"I know," I reply. "Thank you, my love."
Her alarm starts to blare, angry beep-beep-beeps that haunt my dreams because I've been woken up by them so many bloody times over the years. Skylar sighs wearily.
"I have to get up for work, Rog," she says. "And Cadie will want to eat soon."
"I love you, Sky." The world is solidly spinning, and I know that I'm probably slurring my words.
"I love you, Rog. I'd love you a bit more if you didn't spend so much time with strippers--"
"What? That's--" I start to sputter.
"--But I love you nonetheless." The smile in her voice is evident, and, for a moment, the room stops spinning, and I'm so fucking happy, and that's the last thing that I remember before I pass out.