Via the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s Facebook feed, I’ve been reminded that today is the 19th anniversary of the death of Freddie Mercury, due to complications relating to HIV/AIDS.
In case anyone reading this isn’t up on their rock history, Freddie was the flamboyant and immensely talented lead singer of the band Queen, from their formation in 1970 until his death in 1991. I wrote about Queen earlier this year, so I won’t bore you by repeating the same overview so soon. I’ll just note again that Queen was uncommonly adventurous when it came to their sound; they explored a lot of different musical territories, not all of them strictly rock-related, and I deeply respect their willingness to experiment, even at the risk of alienating some listeners by breaking a money-making formula.
Freddie wasn’t the first high-profile celebrity to die of AIDS — Rock Hudson’s death had brought this terrifying new disease to the world’s attention a full six years earlier — but he was the first rock star to succumb to it, and rock stars, even more than actors, have an air of invincibility about them, as if they routinely spit cheap tequila into the eyes of both Death and Aging. Or at least they used to. Once upon a time, the only way these modern-day Dionysian figures could be brought down was through their own excesses: recreational substances, driving too fast, a plane crash. Something apocalyptic, as befitting a larger-than-life character from an epic tale. They weren’t supposed to slowly disintegrate because of a mere virus. Freddie was one of the brightest flames of the rock world, seemingly very full of life, and the thought of him wasting away before our very eyes was genuinely shocking. His death became all the more shocking because he’d only publicly acknowledged having AIDS one day before it killed him.
When I was in England back in ’93, I saw Freddie paraphernalia everywhere… handbills, t-shirts, buttons. It seems like I even saw a billboard with his face on it somewhere, if I’m remembering correctly. He was, at least back then, the British poster boy for AIDS awareness, much as Rock Hudson was over here for a time. The entire country seemed traumatized by his loss. I wonder if his image still holds that particular meaning and that level of power now, just shy of two decades after the fact.
The strange thing, looking back now, is how many Queen songs seemed somehow prescient about his death. I don’t mean they were morbidly obsessed with grim reapers and visions of hell and all that silly nihilistic stuff that so many heavy-metal bands indulged in. No, Queen was downright philosophical in songs like “Who Wants to Live Forever?,” “The Show Must Go On,” “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and “These Are the Days of Our Lives.” It was as if Freddie kept coming back to an overarching theme, something he had to tell us, to make us all face up to: that we need to experience as much as we can, while we can, because no matter how strong and passionate and beautiful we may be, the end is coming.
Perhaps the best example of this is one of my personal favorite Queen songs, “Hammer to Fall.” It’s one of their harder rockers, with an irresistible guitar line that makes it perfect for listening to in the car on a balmy summer night. But if you pay attention to the lyrics, there’s something more going on there… the lines about history not caring if we stand or fall, for instance, and most evocatively (for me), this verse:
Oh ev’ry night and every day
A little piece of you is falling away
But lift your face the Western Way
Build your muscles as your body decays
That sums up the life of someone who makes a living from their appearance, doesn’t it? Or even just someone with an ounce of vanity trying to hold back time. Or how about someone who appears to be physically fit, but is carrying a deadly micro-organism in his blood? But here’s the thing: this song was not a response to Freddie’s illness. It was recorded in 1984; he wasn’t diagnosed with AIDS until 1987. Possibly he already had some inkling that something was wrong; I don’t know. But either way, I’ve long had the weird sense that this song was tapping into… something.
I hope none of that scares you away from clicking “play.” Despite the heavy-sounding themes, this really is not a depressing song. Give it a listen and tell me it isn’t sonically uplifting, even as it asks you to think about serious subjects:
For the record, Freddie Mercury was 45 at the time of his death, only four years older than I am now. That’s a very weird thought…
