Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: freddie mercury (Page 1 of 3)

Spot The Heineken: Glam Rock Edition

“Where your scrumptious little guitarist?”

“Ronno? He’s avoiding you. Fred, dear, you mustn’t be so forward with the lad. He’s from Hull. They don’t have homosexuals there.”

“Tosh. I was being friendly.”

“You flat-out asked if you could see his todger.”

“Did I? Sometimes, I get away from myself at parties, darling. Tell Veronica I apologize.”

“And he really doesn’t like it when you call him ‘Veronica.”

“Oh, he’s just no fun at all.”

Speaking Of Left Hands…

…where’s hers?


Both of these men were great vocalists, but only one of them could sing.


My favorite fact about the New York Dolls was that Johnny Thunders cut all their hair.


This is a battle of the accents right here. Staten Island vs. Posh. (The British “posh” accent is properly called Received Pronunciation; it’s called that because it isn’t a natural way of speaking, and must be taught, preferably by a governess.)


That’s Lisa Robinson on David’s lap, and her book There Goes Gravity is one of the best rockyroll memoirs ever written.

Jagger, Taylor, Soldier, Spy

And we welcome you back to another episode of How Blurry Does A Photo Have To Be In Order To Make Freddie’s Cock Invisible? Today’s answer: blurrier than this. Thank you, and this has been How Blurry Does A Photo Have To Be In Order To Make Freddie’s Cock Invisible? 


Why is Mick wearing Danny Zuko’s varsity sweater from the end of Grease?



Yes, Fred?

“Stoli, would you?”

Sure. Here you go.

Spaceeba. Ciggy?”


Vunderbar. Welcome backstage. Feel free to fuck everyone and everything.”


This Is Not Thoughts On Hold On

I don’t know who it was that requested Thoughts on Hold On, but how dare you? First off, I don’t even think “Thoughts on Hold On” is a concept. Second, I do not take requests. Your demand, shouted from the cheap seats and in a tone I rebuke, was offensive and aggressive. How dare you? You think me a jukebox? Shove a quarter up my asshole and press C16 for Highway To Hell? I am no jukebox. I am an artist, dammit, just like Monet or Manet or Kanye. I say again: how dare you.

Plus, it’s obvious which song entitled Hold On is the best.

This one’s from Mule Variations, which was Tom Waits’ Late-Period Artistic Resurgence Album. (All rock stars have the same career: discuss.) It’s a little song. You could put it in your coat pocket next to your Chapstick. It’s a beautiful little song.

But there’s this verse:

Down by the Riverside motel
It’s ten below and falling
By a ninety-nine cent store
She closed her eyes and started swaying
But it’s so hard to dance that way
When it’s cold and there’s no music
Oh, your old hometown’s so far away
But inside your head there’s a record that’s playing

It’s not such a little song.

Everybody else is hunting for that second-place finish. And, seemingly, everyfuckingbody else wrote a song called Hold On: Carole King, Cliff Richard, the Commodores; the Lennons John and Julian; Gary U.S. Bonds, Kansas, Chicago, Joe Tex, Good Charlotte, and the Alabama Shakes. There are also songs called Hold On from Pusha T and Trick Daddy, both of whoms’ rap names were made up by middle-aged white novelists.

But we do find a hidden gem (that’s actually fairly dire) in the pile:

That is Freddie Mercury (with the mustache) and Jo Dare (the person who is not Freddie Mercury) singing a song entitled (you guessed it) Hold On from the soundtrack of a movie (I’ve never heard of) called Zabou. Watch at your peril, as I will give you but one warning: mid-80’s synth-reggae.

And that’s that. No more requests. I will, however, take commissions for those who partake in the Donate Button.


I am an artist. Artists take commissions.

You should take a bullet to the dick.

Read the news. We live in a post-should reality.


Thank God It’s Christmas

“Happy Christmas, darling!”

Same to you, Freddie.

“Would you like to jingle my bells?”


“I’ll stuff your stocking.”

I bet you would. No, thank you.


Please don’t say–


–cock rings.


Oh, sure. Here.


“PHWOOOO. Thank you, love.”

You’re welcome. Freddie, I gotta be honest: this is the worst Christmas I’ve ever spent with a British glam rocker.


Okay, second worst.

“I thought so, darling.”

A Photo Op At The Races

This is the single most British photograph I’ve ever seen: the flat caps, the overbites, John Deacon.

Freddie is talking to–I believe–John Reid, who was Elton John’s manager and the man the band turned to for help in extricating themselves from their first, thieving, management team. (The guys Freddie wrote Death on Two Legs about.)

At their first meeting, John Reid told Queen that he was gay, and asked if that would be a problem.

Roger responded, “We’re talking about money, John.”

They had a very fruitful relationship.

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