Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

7.

April 1992

Wembley.

We played two shows here back in '86 and we managed to sell out both of them.  So we'd built the biggest stage, purchased the biggest screens, and put on the biggest shows the stadium had ever seen.

I remember the night of the first gig like it was yesterday. We were all on edge, a mixture of heady excitement and raw nerves. We'd rehearsed the set a billion times, but you never knew how these things would go. Fred and I had stood backstage: him taking a final sip of hot water with lemon, me flexing my wrists to keep them limber.

"Best not fuck it up," he'd said, the mustache on his upper lip twitching mischievously. 

"When have we ever fucked it up, really?"

"Ah, now you've jinxed it," he said. "The mic won't work, or the fucking lighting rig will fall."

The crowd's roar was deafening; we could feel the heat of the lights even from backstage. A crew member raised the thin white curtain separating us from the audience, and, full of adrenaline, we ran out onto the stage.

Now, today in 1992, we're about to do the same. Except there are just three of us standing here today when there should be four.

"And we're a go," the roadie says, lifting the curtain. We stride out, waving enthusiastically but without our usual energy. We pause for a moment in front of the three microphones, taking in the crowd. There are people as far as the eye can see, a sea of bobbing heads and bright stadium lights.

Brian speaks first, but I can't quite make out his words. The noise is almost overwhelming, threatening to overload my senses. Everything goes blurry for a second, the audience turning into a hazy panorama of colors before my pupils can focus once again.

There's another pause, and I realize that it's my turn. I've rehearsed what I want to say over and over, but my mind goes blank.

I walk up to the mic and take a deep breath.

"Yeah, today is for Freddie. It's for you. It's to tell everybody around the world that AIDS affects us all. Cry as much as you like..." At this, I try for a smile because, hahaha, it may be us who do the crying.

There's more that I'm supposed to say, but fuck it, I can't remember.

"And John's... got something to tell you," I finish lamely.

I step back, relieved to have that bit done. Okay, we can do this. It'll be alright. We can keep it together for a few more hours.

John says his piece, ending with a dramatic here's Metallica!, all of us gesturing towards James Hetfield bounding onto the stage just before we dash off.

After that, it's a blur. In rehearsals, all the vocalists had tried to do the songs like Freddie, then realized that it was too bloody difficult and realized they had to make it their own. So they do, and all the performances go off without a hitch.

It's during David Bowie's set that I have my first laugh. Completely out of nowhere, he kneels on the ground and starts to recite the Lord's Prayer.

For fuck's sake is my first thought. And then, Freddie would die if he were here right now. And then, strangely, I think of Cassie because I somehow know that she would get my gallows humour. 

We whiz through the rest of the show, playing all the familiar songs and wondering if this will be our last go at them. Will I ever sing the high notes again? Will I ever play the grueling but familiar beat of Rock You?

Finally, the finale. Liza comes out looking radiant, the crowd goes crazy. She's the only one we trusted to perform this song, and she knocks it out of the park. At the end, the other performers crowd onto stage to sing the chorus. It's joyous, and I shout the words into the mic with abandon and somehow know that Freddie is here with us tonight.