Читать книгу Somebody to Love - Matt Richards - Страница 16

At the beginning of 1970, Freddie was 23 years old and, having joined forces with Roger Taylor and Brian May in the band Smile, was about to embark on the next stage of his quest for musical glory. However, whatever convictions he might have had about his talents as a singer and composer, the angst over his sexuality was causing all sorts of confusion, concerns and doubts within his head.

His relationship with Rosemary Pearson had withered once she became aware of his ambiguous and androgynous feelings and, although he was to begin a relationship later in 1970 with another woman, Mary Austin, Freddie was struggling to come to terms with whether he was straight, gay or bisexual. He was not alone; despite the decriminalisation of homosexuality three years previously, any gay man in the UK in 1970 still faced hostility, abuse, and even prison. It was a particularly tough time for someone like Freddie, a young man who had been brought up with values and habits that not only reflected colonial Asia but also his parents’ strict Parsee religion, a faith that looked upon homosexuality as a form of demon worship. Consequently, he would have had imprinted on him, by his elders and those within the Parsee faith, a lack of self-esteem and a sense of shame associated with homosexuality. Freddie was, after all, a child of the 1950s when it was a widely held belief that the concept of homosexuality was a mental disease.

Between 1945 and 1955, the number of prosecutions for homosexual behaviour in the UK rose from 800 to 2,500 annually, and 1,000 of these involved custodial sentences. By 1955, 30 per cent of those prosecuted ended up being imprisoned and the irony of imprisoning homosexual men in all-male institutions seemed completely lost on the system.

The increase in numbers of homosexual men being gaoled in the 1950s was as a result of the Home Office pursuing a more vigorous policy of prosecuting offenders, which was also linked to Cold War paranoia, and homosexual men were aware that if they reported a crime and the police suspected they were homosexual, the police would ignore the original crime and concentrate predominantly on their aspect of homosexuality. One of the most well-known victims of such an incident was mathematician and Enigma code-breaker, Alan Turing, who called the police to report a break-in, yet was subsequently convicted of gross indecency in 1952, thereby setting off a chain of events that led to Turing’s suspected suicide in 1954.

Those who weren’t imprisoned were often ‘encouraged’ to undergo ‘aversion therapy’ – psychiatry’s new toy in the 1950s. This brutal treatment, in which the ‘patient’ was shown images of naked men and given a series of electric shocks or drugs such as apomorphine to induce him to vomit, was meant to put him off homosexuality forever. To make sure they were ‘cured’, the men were then shown images of naked women or films of nudist colonies to provide them with relief from the pain. Such aversion therapy continued into the 1960s and, as the decade progressed, homosexuality was viewed not only as a criminal offence but also classified as a mental illness.

When Freddie Bulsara arrived in the UK in 1964, the general social climate was almost unimaginably homophobic, and wherever he looked he could find no openly gay role models and no gay support groups. However, all around him the children of the 1960s had embraced the so-called Summer of Love and young people in the US, the UK and across Europe took the opportunity to cast off not only their clothes but also the conservative social values imprinted on them from their parents’ post-war social regimen, and to take the opportunity to experiment freely with drugs and sex. The mid- to late-1960s was a time of sexual awakening and experimentation for many, but for most homosexual men this exhibition of sexual freedom didn’t extend to them; they were seen as evidence of moral degradation and, subsequently, many tried to live a ‘normal’ heterosexual life, concealing their homosexuality.

In 1967, however, a bill to partially legalise homosexual acts was passed in the House of Commons. This followed a decade of bitter campaigning after Sir John Wolfenden’s 1957 report had stated homosexuality should not be classified as a crime and that society and law should respect ‘individual freedom of actions in matters of private morality’. It had been a long drawn-out affair to get the Bill to this stage and it had endured countless compromises. Consequently, anyone expecting the legal status of heterosexuals and homosexuals to be equal would be disappointed; the Bill didn’t even come close to achieving that. And anyone hoping that the arrests would also end was similarly let down. Between 1967 and 2003 some 30,000 gay and bisexual men were convicted on grounds of indecent behaviour, which included holding hands in the street or kissing in public. Crucially, the Bill had only decriminalised homosexuality in private (and then only between two men of 21 years or older) and any exhibition of being openly gay in public could still result in a jail sentence. So while indoors gay men could be out and proud, outside in public they were still outlawed, criminalised and generally perceived as being sick. In fact it was, in effect, illegal to be homosexual anywhere else except behind closed doors and with one other man.

For many at this time the shame attached to being homosexual was almost unbearable. Shame, it is a soul-eating emotion. Letting everyone down. Bringing shame on families, and on their faiths. It is perhaps difficult for anyone born after 1980 to comprehend what that meant, although the stigma of being HIV+ and having AIDS would later come close.

Across the Pond, Americans had taken notice of what was happening in England and Wales (Scotland and Northern Ireland would not decriminalise homosexual acts in private until 1980 and 1982 respectively). In 1969 in the US, the Stonewall riots in New York City ignited the modern gay rights movement in the US. A year later, the first Gay Liberation Day March was held in New York City, the first LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual and Transgender) parade, billed as the ‘Gay Power Parade’ was held in Los Angeles and the first ‘gayin’ took place in San Francisco. It was also during this time that the first ever cover story featuring gays and lesbians was published in the US. The 1969 story published in Time magazine stated that, ‘though they seem fairly bizarre to most Americans, homosexuals have never been so visible, vocal or closely scrutinized by research.’ It was a period of remarkable transition for gays and lesbians in the US and one that would continue into the early 1970s with an increased visibility for the gay movement. As Rebecca J. Rosen wrote: ‘The thick bottle that had contained an entire culture was uncorked in 1969; within a few years it would be shattered into a thousand pieces.’¹

In England and Wales, the movement struggled to adopt the pace of change seen in America despite the Gay Liberation Front being established at the London School of Economics in 1970. Their slogan was ‘Gay Is Good’, but prejudice did not vanish from the streets of Britain and in 1971, the Nationwide Festival of Light, supported by Cliff Richard, Mary Whitehouse and Malcolm Muggeridge, was held by British Christians who were anxious to display their growing concern about the development of a permissive society in the UK, with the corrupting influence of homosexuality being a particular focus of angst.

For Freddie Bulsara, and the countless other gay men, it seemed that, despite the passing of the Bill, they would never be able to actually come out. For a flamboyant wannabe rock star like Freddie, with a craving for success and a burning ambition to prove himself, this must have been tortuous inside. After all, his very passions were opera, fashion, ballet and art.

It was one of the reasons Freddie rarely commented on his own sexuality directly. He made witty remarks, delivered double entendres, and spoke in coded tongue to any inquisitive journalist, but he knew that, despite the change in the law, social homosexuality remained taboo and it would continue do so for the next two decades. So, like others masking their true self, he hung out with certain crowds in secure environments of ambiguity to avoid detection and discrimination. He found that showbiz as such would shield him from scrutiny, as it had decades earlier for artists such as Noël Coward, Ivor Novello, Dusty Springfield and Timi Yuro. And maybe that is what Freddie did in the 1970s: became a 1950s gay, behaving outrageously behind closed doors, but not upsetting the status quo, the establishment. Even though times were changing, he wasn’t yet confident enough in his own sexuality to make that admission, he couldn’t risk it. That would be a decision for another day, another lifetime.

In 1972 the first British Gay Pride rally was held in London and around 700 participants marched from Trafalgar Square to Hyde Park. As well as curious and bewildered onlookers, the marchers faced intimidation, hostility and an aggressive police presence. Arriving in Hyde Park there was food, booze, dope and music and camped-up versions of party games like spin-the-bottle and drop-the-hanky. There was also mass public same-sex kissing, still potentially (depending on the circumstances) illegal in 1972, but, as gay rights campaigner Peter Tatchell – one of the marchers – recalls, ‘The cowardly Metropolitan Police would have arrested us if we were lone gay couples kissing, but they dared not arrest 700 of us.’²

The year 1972 also saw the launch of Cosmopolitan, a magazine aimed at the new breed of ambitious young professional women. The magazine rebranded men as ‘vulnerable, dependent and emotional human beings’ who were also terrified of being judged solely on their sexual performance. It seemed the gloves were off as challenges to the traditional male role model were becoming apparent. The passing of the Equal Pay Act in 1970, together with the earlier Abortion Act of 1967, helped women become more equal and independent of men, and the whole concept of the male bread-winner and nuclear-family was being questioned, creating an inevitable sense of insecurity and uncertainty among men both in the workplace and in their relationships. The British male’s feelings of insecurity at the time were not helped by the fact that British manufacturing was in decline thereby creating a crisis of masculinity as man’s dominance within society was eroded.

While the younger generations embraced these attitudes, the older pre- and post-war generations struggled to adapt to the new decade of the 1970s. But now things were changing. Prehistoric attitudes that men didn’t wash the dishes or do housework were becoming less acceptable among the newer generation of younger couples, and the first few years of the decade found men from these younger generations spending time with their families and helping out around the house, be it gardening, DIY or going on shopping trips together. This was perfectly illustrated in the various sitcoms of the period such as Man About the House.

At the same time there was a seismic shift in men’s fashion, with butterfly collars, polyesters, bell-bottoms, skin-tight T-shirts and painstakingly curled hairstyles in vogue. Hats were out and facial hair and gold medallions were very much in. Advertising recognised the shifting attitudes and depicted good-looking, muscular young men, confident and proud, in high-waist pants, floral shirts and cable-knit sweaters, while commercials used celebrities to espouse the appeal of pungent aftershaves, from Denim cologne for ‘the man who didn’t have to try too hard’ to ‘splash it all over’ Brut aftershave.

Fortunately for Freddie, as style boundaries were pushed back, it was popular culture and especially the worlds of music, film and theatre that dared to see just how far they could be stretched. And this was Freddie’s world. Salvation came in 1972, in the form of the movie Cabaret (based on Christopher Isherwood’s 1939 short novel, Goodbye to Berlin). Hitting cinema screens across the world, Cabaret would shatter the ‘saccharine reputation of the movie musical with its edgy take on anti-Semitism, Nazism, abortion and even repressed homosexuality’.³ The film, set in Berlin in 1931, chronicled the hedonism prevalent during the decline of the Weimar Republic and the rise of the Nazi Party and focuses on the relationship between aspiring actress Sally Bowles and upper-middle class English teacher Brian Roberts. Sally soon discovers that, while Brian adores her personality, he’s really in love with the physique of Maximilian von Huene. The trouble is, so is she! The stories behind these characters and their relationship conflicts helped make Cabaret a box-office hit, but it was the way it looked, the performances, the score, the groundbreaking choreography and design that would take it on to win eight Academy Awards. More importantly, Cabaret was one of the first mainstream films to celebrate homosexuality. It was a film that Freddie adored. ‘I like the cabaretish sort of thing,’ he said in a 1977 interview. ‘In fact, one of my early inspirations came from Cabaret. I absolutely adore Liza Minnelli, she’s a total wow. The way she delivers her songs, the sheer energy. The way the lights enhance every movement of the show.’⁴

Cabaret would go on to have a profound effect on Freddie, firstly as a young man when he was discovering, and finding himself attracted to, the themes of homosexuality. And, watching the film repeatedly throughout his later life, other themes contained within it would become increasingly relevant and apparent: the futility of false dreams, decadence, loneliness, mortality and the centrality of truth. This is a classical Hollywood musical drawing from the traditions of theatre and literature, arenas that were attractive to Freddie, ones that he already felt a part of. The film’s style alternates between naturalism and non-naturalism, drawing on a wide range of musical influences, each one, again, appealing to Freddie’s broad spectrum of interests and his innate cultural curiosity. Given the decadence of the film, its broad cultural canvas, the themes of sexual orientation and the fact that Cabaret not only allows us to share the lives of the main characters but also places us in the audience, it is easy to see now how much it influenced Freddie on many different levels while at the same time providing him with confidence that he should embrace who he was at that moment in time and be comfortable with the decisions he was making about himself, his present and his future.

Just over a year later, and to Freddie’s utter delight, The Rocky Horror Show landed in London and in it we can see its cross-dressing elements (just one more example in a long tradition of boys playing girls, from Shakespeare’s original plays to men playing women in British pantomime to the later androgyny of British glam rockers, which would soon enough list Freddie Mercury among their members). In the musical, Freddie related to Rocky’s underlying condemnation of sexual puritanicalism and hypocrisy, something that makes the show still relevant to this day.

At the time of its release The Rocky Horror Show was a revelation. Gay men and women were experiencing a tiny degree of genuine sexual freedom for the first time. Finally, they could meet in public, could date (relatively) openly, and could see themselves represented positively in movies and books for the first time and represented as attractive, sexual, sexy people. Cabaret was one of the first films, along with The Rocky Horror Show, to portray gay men and women as handsome, alluring and visually stunning. With all of this sudden visibility, they were no longer required to conceal their sexual identity and live their lives in the closet, although many still did, or had to, as Freddie would for the rest of his life. But that aside, Freddie, like so many creatives, would be swept up by the newfound atmosphere of potential change and, dare anyone think so far ahead, perhaps even acceptance. Their reaction to this freedom was to, naturally, go crazy.

Over the coming decades The Rocky Horror Show would take on a new and different meaning, poignant and sad, but that still lay ahead. In 1973 who could possibly have known what was to come, what the price of sexual freedom would cost?

While all this was happening in the world of cinema and theatre, pop music, too, embraced androgyny through the appearance of glam rock. The first tentacles of glam rock touched culture in 1971 with T. Rex and their single ‘Bang A Gong (Get It On)’ but, in truth, it had been forming in the performances and personality of Mick Jagger through the second half of the 1960s in his video performances, dressed up as a nurse or Oscar Wilde, and in his song-writing (‘Honky Tonk Women’ has been commented on as being about a drag queen). Combining this with his unusual look, that he even carried into his acting in films such as Nicolas Roeg’s Performance (1970), it’s easy to see why Steven Simels wrote of Jagger: ‘Hipless and emaciated, possessing lips of such astonishing lasciviousness, that when you put him on stage he resembles nothing so much as some weird mixture of both human sex organs’.⁵

Suddenly, at the beginning of the 1970s, thanks to cultural icons such as Mick Jagger, androgyny was not only accepted but was starting to become encouraged. Seventy-five years previously, in the late-1890s, the very term ‘androgene’ had meant a type of male homosexual who perhaps also referred to himself as a ‘female impersonator’. Now it was back in fashion. As Marjorie Garber writes: ‘The 1960s and 1970s, like the 1890s of Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley, demonstrated once again that androgyny – at least the “bad” androgyny, the bad-boy or bad-girl androgyny – could be sexy. It was exciting in part because it was a violation of one’s parents’ certainties about gender and gender roles and in part because reading – the interpretation of signs – is always exciting. It was exciting, in other words, because it was uncertain. It connoted risk.’⁶

This androgyny, combined with the philosophy of artist Andy Warhol that anyone could be a star if they looked like one, ushered in the new fashion of glam rock and this, in turn, would draw Freddie in. All the roads, across the shifting social and cultural decades, have led us here

Glam rock, in its very first classic incarnation in the UK, arose from a number of distinct musical trends: in particular the love for retro 1950s three-chord rock’n’roll, a general androgyny unleashed by the culture wars of that same time period, and the media and technology from the time itself and of the future. Colour television was introduced. Pop in the 1960s was black and white, but burst into colour in British homes in the 1970s when you could hire a colour TV set for the new colour broadcasts. Suddenly pop was colourful, glittering and glamorous. Shining as a genre from 1972 to 1975, the typical UK glam rock song, therefore, was loud, stomping, simple and flamboyant, with big guitar riffs and repeated chants. The typical glam song of the time also featured heavy tribal beats (sometime two drummers would play on one track) and a lead vocal that blurred at least some gender distinctions. This fitted precisely with the ideas that Freddie had been forming throughout his adolescent years; all those lyrics and musical concepts he had scribbled down in his bedroom that his mother had been warned about discarding from under his pillow.

Then, in 1972, in the midst of the rise of glam rock, David Bowie created his persona Ziggy Stardust and instantly become the talk of the rock world. And no one seemed to mind, or see, the overtly homosexual overtones. Bowie was a defining cultural personality of the early 1970s, not merely because of his shifting sexuality, but because his emphasis on image, theatricality and pastiche, as well as the narcissism of his stage persona, seemed characteristic of the era. He set his own style with flamboyant colours and clothes, and it must have suddenly seemed to Freddie that anything was possible. Philip Auslander expands upon gender constructs and identity formations in his summation on the performative world of glam. He states: ‘The demand for the freedom to explore and construct one’s identity, in terms of gender, sexuality, or any other terms, is glam rock’s most important legacy.’⁷

For Freddie, glam rock was a vehicle through which he could allude to his homosexuality without having to commit affirmatively or pronounce declaratively his preference towards men. He used Queen and then creative works as a window of opportunity to liberate himself publicly through sexual innuendo and allusion.

Freddie stated: ‘I remember back in an interview where I said, “I play on the bisexual thing.” Of course I play on it. It’s simply a matter of wherever my mood takes me. If people ask me if I’m gay, I tell them it’s up to them to find out.’⁸

Singer Marc Almond recalls well the era in the 1970s after Bowie and Marc Bolan of T. Rex embraced glam rock and hid behind androgyny to conceal or allude to sexual preferences: ‘After Bowie and Bolan it was OK to flirt with androgyny. It didn’t strike me then that Freddie was actually gay. When Bowie claimed that he was bi-sexual we really knew inside it was just play acting, all part of the shock value. Bowie had a wife and child, so did Marc Bolan. Bolan was incredibly camp too, and fey and pouting and preening, and had a breathy-lispy way of talking. I liked to imagine he was sleeping with his bongo player, Micky Finn, but we knew he wasn’t really gay. So why should Freddie be gay?’ says Almond.⁹

In some way one imagines Freddie must have been envious of Bowie, whose voracious heterosexual appetite enabled him to play gay with safety and surety. Bowie of course ceased all ‘Gay Pretence’ in 1983, coincidentally at the very advent of the AIDS crisis.

But, in the real world, the fans that followed Bowie’s lead and cautiously came out of the closet often encountered hostility and violence.

‘Looking back,’ says Almond, ‘it was easy for Bowie and Bolan to say they were bi-sexual because at the end of the day they could go back to their straight lives. Gay people couldn’t. Claiming to be bi-sexual was a survival mechanism for gay men then.’¹⁰

In most places, wearing glitter and mascara was a sure way to get a beating. So was it any wonder that gay men and women, in their day-to-day lives and jobs, still felt compelled to conceal their homosexuality? It was too great a risk, not only to them personally and their families, but to their careers and their opportunities. Even superstars such as the ice skater and Olympic gold medalist John Curry, who had a long affair with the actor Alan Bates, stayed firmly in the closet. The only successful gays, though they never actually said the word ‘gay’ in showbiz, were on television: safe caricatures, grotesques and clowns. And there were no openly gay singers or musicians. It was still several years before Tom Robinson broke into mainstream culture and it was a decade or so away from Jimmy Somerville and the band Frankie Goes To Hollywood.

So, for now, Freddie had no intention of coming out as gay, even if in truth he had felt able to. And sadly he was likely right that it would have stalled any chance of a career before it began. He also found in his heterosexual band members in Queen a further and convenient smokescreen with which to confuse questions of sexuality.

A closeted gay man playing a straight man fronting a band called Queen. As they in turn adopted his images and attitudes, Freddie hid behind their normality and ordinariness.

And as Smile and Freddie began their journey, the audience suspected nothing.