Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

20.

November 1992

The thing about musicians is that we spend an excessive amount of time in the studio perfecting a track, and then, once it's introduced to the world, we forget all about that version. So while you're listening to the song on the radio or on tv, we're in rehearsals figuring out how to play it live, and then we're touring it all over the world.

So, when I think of Queen tracks, I don't think of the studio versions. I might remember bits and pieces of the recording process, but my visceral memory of any given song is the live version. The drum solo that we used to sneak into 'Keep Yourself Alive' in the mid-'70s, that time my drum pedal broke in the middle of 'Rock You,' the high-pitched Looooord! in 'Bicycle Race'... you get the picture.

This is why, when I hear the opening chords of 'Champions' whilst standing in the cheese section of Waitrose, it takes me a moment to even recognize it. The store's shitty speakers make Fred's voice sound tinny, and the drums have no bass to speak of. It's been ages since I've heard the studio version, and I nearly forgot how overproduced it was compared to the more stripped-down live version. So I listen closely, blinking when there aren't the extra three seconds of guitar that would give Fred time to stand and grab the mic from Ratty.

My thoughts are interrupted when Clare nudges me with her shoulder. "You're humming along to your own song."

"I'm not!" I protest. Then, in a horrified whisper, "Fuck, I was humming to my own song, wasn't I?"

Clare smirks.

"Rog, I know you think you're ultra clever wearing that knitted hat as a disguise, but you can't prance around in public humming Queen songs; it's a dead giveaway--"

"Fuck off," I say, nudging her with my shoulder.

"Anyway," she says, looking mischievous. "They say you've really made it when your music is played at Waitrose. It's the stuff rock-n-roll is made of."

"Ha ha," I say. "I'm laughing all the way to the bank. I just earned at least 30p."

We're standing in front of a refrigerated case containing at least 20 varieties of cheese. The bright fluorescent light above buzzes softly, briefly flickers. I look over at Clare, who is watching me with a smirk on her face. A 40-something mum with two young kids hanging on the trolley passes me, pretending that she has no idea who I am. My sister rolls her eyes again.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, piss off."

"What!? I didn't even say anything!"

"But you're thinking it in your head."

"I'm not," Clare protests. "You look completely 100% at ease here at Waitrose amongst us plebes. I'm sure you come 'round every week to do your shopping."

"I do my own shopping sometimes," I reply a bit too defensively. Clare gives me a look because she knows it's a sad, sad lie. I haven't done my own shopping since the early '80s.

"Oh!" Claire replies brightly. "Then I guess you don't need me here. Right, so here's your list of ingredients, let me know how dinner goes, see you soon--"

She makes it a few steps away before I pull her back.

"You're funny. Now tell me what kind of mozzarella I'm supposed to buy. The kind that's cut up into tiny bits, or the big gloopy ball?"

Clare sighs and looks upwards as if wondering how she was cursed with such a simpleton for a brother. "And they pay you the big bucks," she mutters as she reaches into the case and hands me a bag of shredded mozzarella.