F.M
Munich, Germany.
May, 22nd, 1982.

Hot Space had just been released yesterday.

Usually, with the launch of a new album, the boys and I liked to celebrate, as we would anticipate future success and wanted to commemorate all the hard work we had put into another record. Brian and Roger's attitude towards the latest album was about as miserable as their current expressions whilst we all sat around in a circle backstage, bitching.

"Have you seen the critic reviews yet?" Brian whispered to Roger, who merely waved his hand as if to say 'let's not even go there'.

"Since when do the critics matter?" I butted in. "We have already established they don't get what we're trying to do."

"I find myself agreeing with them this time." Brian sighed, rubbing at his fatigue ridden eyes.

We have been on tour for almost a month after kicking off in Sweden in April. Already we had made our way across Scandinavia, France and Germany. As per schedule, we were playing one final night tonight in Munich before we were due a short break back in England. The boys and I were now at a stage where we would snap at each another if one of us were to so much as breathe too loudly. Tensions were high, and Hot Space was definitely not a safe conversation piece.

"Go on Rog," I found myself sneering, "Agree with Brian, I know you two share the one mind."

"Don't be such a twat," Roger rolled his eyes, "Nobody's blaming you for the album."

Admittedly, I was defensive. Music is a personal thing, no matter what I say to the contrary. Releasing music only to have it bashed, isn't exactly a nice feeling.

"Have the Stones released their review yet?" John asked, rather unwisely. "They usually slate us for not trying anything new, they might like this."

We all hummed rather unconvincingly in response. Rolling Stone magazine, or rather its critics, hated Queen. They loved a Night at the Opera, thought the Game was average, and then, with those two as the exceptions, they basically slated all our other work. No, I really didn't want to see what they thought of Hot Space. Three out of five stars was the best we could hope for.

"It's a critics job to complain," I reached for my pack of Marlboros that beckoned for me from the fold up table between Roger and I. "So we shouldn't expect anything less from them."

"You seem to forget the influence critics have," Brian sighed impatiently, "If someone reads a bad review of our album, that person is hardly going to skip down to the shop and buy it."

"Fuck them, we have loyal fans-"

"We lost fans when you grew a bloody moustache," Roger scoffed, "A shit album is much more of a reason for fans to ditch us."

There it was, said aloud by our own drummer. The album is shit.

I fumbled angrily at the box of matches, "We tried something different, it didn't work. That's life, we move on. Now we can say we tried it all."

"I would have been fine not trying it all and having a decent album."

My cigarette caught light, "Under Pressure was a huge hit-"

"Because it doesn't fucking sound like the rest of the album!" Roger exclaimed, "If we had just kept to our genre, things would have been fine."

"We don't have a genre."

"Rock! We are a rock band," Brian declared, "Not funk, soul or blues, it doesn't work for a full album. A song or two is fine, but just not a full album."

"Well it's fucking released now," I blew out a puff of smoke, "So can you all stop whining about it!?"

From the expression on Brian and Roger's faces, they looked as though they could never complain enough about Hot Space. With a final roll of my eyes, I stalked off to find something to help soothe my overused throat.

The boys left me alone for a grand total of fifteen minutes, before John entered the dressing room, a nervous smile on his face. With an exasperated sigh, I sipped the last of my honey and lemon tea between my lips.

"What is it?"

"The review from Rolling Stone is actually in." John murmured, "It's not good." Roger and Brian filed in just seconds later.

"How many stars?" I braved myself, waiting for John to say 'three'. It wasn't a good rating, but I could accept it.

"One... and three quarters."

I blinked. "One... and three quarters?"

John nodded and kept the magazine close to his chest as if to keep me from getting at it. "Yes, so almost two."

Almost two! I know Hot Space wasn't our finest work, I know it's different, but not even two measly fucking stars is abysmal! I tried to reach for the magazine, but John took a step back. "I ah, don't know if you should read it."

"I'm a big boy," I grumbled impatiently, "I can handle it."

"Er," John chuckled uncomfortably, "The critic, he may have singled you out."

I bristled, "Then let me see."

"Remember the review we got for the Jazz album?"

How could I forget Queen being called 'the first truly fascist rock band'? "Is it that same tart?"

John shook his head, "No, that article will make him look like a fan compared to this current one."

I took a moment to regain myself. No, maybe it's not a good idea for me to read this article right now, not when I have to go on stage soon. But I'm too curious not have a peak.

"I can handle it," I declared, "Just let me have a quick read."

With an apprehensive sigh, John slowly handed me over the magazine. My hand darted out immediately and I snatched it up. It's just an article from some random stranger, I reminded myself. The person isn't even a musician, critics never are, I don't see why their opinions matter so much! In an angry haze, I pinpointed the article and read.

___

Don't Talk!

No, Seriously. Let's Not Talk About Queen's Not-So 'Hot Space' Album.

When creating their newest album, Queen decided to throw their hat into the disco ring... only for it to be immediately tossed right back in their face. As you may know, Queen are strong advocates for the 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' approach to music, what with every album succeeding 'A Night at the Opera' being a kitsch sequel. With that in mind, I think it was a very brave move for them to try something new. Did the risk pay off? Absolutely not!

The album kicks off with Staying Power. After listening to this... 'song' , I had to take a cigarette break. Please bear in mind I don't smoke, I just wanted to kick off the process of slowly ending myself. I can't live in a world where this is what passes for music.  The overwhelming urge to pat the back of Mercury and sigh, 'well buddy, you tried' , and then send him back off to the world of glam rock, was extremely strong.

___

"You look as though you're going to explode."  John murmured.

"What a condescending- patronising- haughty- piece of shit!" I seethed.

"Don't they all mean the same thing?" Brian pointed out, and I swear I could have strangled him.

"How about you read something about one of our songs-" Roger quickly interrupted, "Go on, what did the rotter say about my tracks?"

Feeling slightly less homicidal, I scanned the article for one of Roger's contributions.

"Calling All Girls', yes it was on the B-side of the record, but the Queen boys really should have done a much better job of hiding it than that."

Roger began rubbing at his shoulder and muttered "wanker."

"And for you Brian," I hummed, "'Las Palabras de Amor'- when ruining music for English-speakers, just isn't enough."

John had already read the article, but even if he hadn't, I probably wouldn't have read the things said about his songs aloud. After that I didn't bother to read how each individual song was shredded apart, no, my gaze immediately singled out  a few lines that mentioned my name directly.

"Generally, the vocals on this album were poor. I hope you accept my basic criticisms, I wanted to put as much effort into this article as Queen did when creating 'Body Language'. Good old fashioned singing was replaced by... grunting? I don't know how to describe it really, and I don't want to spend too much time thinking about it either. All I know is that it didn't sound good, nor should it be attempted again.  Freddie Mercury is a man who would have benefitted from being told not to quit his day job at an earlier stage."

I have had plenty of poor reviews before, plenty of awful stories, and plenty of awful interviews, but this takes the fucking cake. It seemed to unnecessarily single me out and drag me through the fucking dirt. To say I was rubbed up the wrong way, would be an understatement.

My eyes flicked down, searching for the author. 'Review by Hayes Griffith.'

"Now it all makes sense!" I exclaimed, "Did you see who wrote it?"

Hayes Griffith was notorious for giving absolutely scalding reviews to every album under the sun. I don't think he has ever rated an album higher than a three out of five. He hated everyone, Bowie, Jagger, Jackson- if he wrote the article, you can be sure that he tore into them. Luckily, we have managed to dodge him for the most part, until now. Now, when we released our least popular record to date.

That's just fucking typical.

"Hates Griffith?" Roger asked to which John and I nodded. No it wasn't the most clever of nicknames that artists donned him with, but he successfully worked all of us up into a childish state of anger. Hence the nickname a disgruntled ten year old would croon.

"Well, that's that." Roger shrugged, "We need to get changed for the show."

"That's that?" I repeated, "Is that all you have to say?"

"It's a shit review, yeah, but what can we do?" Roger sighed, "You're the last person I expected to care about this."

I merely let out a grunt in response and decided to stew in silence instead. The rest of them weren't named and shamed like I was, I'm allowed to be pissed. Weren't they the ones who insisted that reviews mattered only an hour ago? They could fuck off.

"I think I'll talk to him."

"Oh god no." Brian exclaimed whilst John and Roger groaned.

"What? He makes a living off hateful words, I'm allowed have a few choice ones of my own!"

"He's a journalist, don't you think any conversation you have with him will end up in the tabloids and even in Rolling Stone an hour later?"

"Paul? Can you get me his number?"

My assistant never lingered too far away from me, so he immediately popped over from his perch where he had been conversing with Ratty. "What's that Fred?"

"I want you to find the number for Hayes Griffith, he's a critic for Rolling Stone magazine."

"Freddie," John sighed, "It's not a good idea."

"I want to have the option of phoning him." I sniffed, "I may not go through with it."

Eyes rolled all around as Paul went off to investigate. Hayes already wrote his shitty review, what more can he fucking do?

The show went on and concluded without a hitch. I swear every face in the crowd dropped as soon as we tried out any of our Hot Space tracks. We tweaked songs so that they would give off a rock-vibe, but that didn't seem good enough for them. Well, they got used to the moustache, they can learn to bloody appreciate this too.

My fury faded and returned in bursts throughout the night, even as we partied on the rooftop of the Munich Hilton to mark the end of the European leg of the tour. Paul sidled up to me about two hours in, which was probably very bad timing. I was at a stage where I had lost count of all the drinks I had, so liquid courage was coursing through my veins.

"Got the number." Paul murmured, "Had to pretend you wanted it for an exclusive interview for the Stones, said you only wanted him."

I plucked my glass of vodka tonic up in one hand and snatched the piece of paper from Paul's grasp with the other. Roger must have spotted me, because seconds later he practically barrelled over towards me.

"Are you ringing him!?" His eyes were wide, "I want in!"

"You said it- said it was a bad idea earlier." I slurred slightly.

"No! I'm with you!" Roger clapped my shoulder, making me spill half of the drink in the process.

I grinned, "Let's go get the fucker!"

So Roger and I were drunkenly bickering over who got to phone Hayes Griffith when we tumbled into my room. "Okay! Okay!" Roger exclaimed finally, "It was your idea. So you can talk to him."

I gasped softly, as if Roger had just bloody offered me the world, "Thank you Rog."

He merely flashed an impish grin, "Go on, ring him."

So I did, I dialled up the phone with clumsy fingers and waited for us to get through to... New York. "Shit, what's the time difference with us and New York?"

Roger frowned, "Er, we're ahead aren't we?"

"Oh, right," I hummed, "Well it's 4am here, so he should be awake."

"He's probably feeding off of people's crushed dreams in his lair right about now." Roger joked which had me snickering even when the line connected.

"Hello?" A luxuriously, rich voice rasped from the other end.

I wasn't expecting a posh London accent, I think it may have thrown me off. Which is why my first question was so stupid, "What time is it there?"

Roger buried his face in his hands, "Oh you twit."

A beat, "10pm... Who is this?"

"You sound like you just woke up," I pointed out, "You sleep before 10pm?"

An irritated sigh, "I'm hanging up-"

Thankfully, I snapped out of my moment of idiocy, "After analysing my voice and shredding into it for so long, I thought you'd recognise it dear."

There was a rustling sound for a few seconds, as if he had just sat up. "Freddie Mercury? How did you get my number?"

"That's not important."

A throaty chuckle, "I see someone doesn't deal with criticism very well."

"I can take criticism!"

"Clearly."

"I can!"

"Then why are you on the phone to me right now?"

"Because you're a wanker." Roger gave me a thumbs up, as if I hadn't just said the most childish thing ever. "And someone needs to knock you off your high horse!"

"I'm assuming that someone is meant to be you?" His tone was unbearably patronising.

"And Roger." I added.

A short unamused hum vibrates through the line before he adds, "I actually thought 'Action This Day' salvaged the album a little bit."

Roger snatched the phone from my grasp, "Really? Yeah, I'm kinda happy with that track! What exactly did you-"

I wrestled the phone from Roger's traitorous hands, "Who's fucking side are you on?"

"Hayes Griffith likes my song! How did you bloody want me to react?"

"Some of us have real work in the morning," Hayes yawned, "Don't phone me again."

Real work!? "Have you ever been to one of our concerts?"

"Pardon?"

"I'll repeat it, because I'm sure you're a little hard of hearing- considering you hate all music." I crooned.

"Oh nice one Fred." Roger whispered loudly.

"Have you ever been to a Queen concert?" I repeated, "You would change your mind on us immediately, if you heard us live."

"I would prefer to undergo a lobotomy. I'm sure the after effects would be the same." Despite of his voice being annoyingly pleasing to the ear, I wished someone would shut him, and his snarky mouth, up!

"Well that's a bit bloody much." Roger folded his arms.

I was insistent now, "Come to a show, we'll prove you wrong."

Roger was shaking his head furiously but I ignored him.

"You can even write a little article about it honey, but I can assure you it'll be a positively glowing review!"

Roger was now making gestures for me to cut it out, to shut up, to hang up. Of course I continued to ignore him.

"So," Hayes sighed deeply, "You are inviting me, to a concert, to write a review on it? That isn't my job."

"You review music, live shows are a huge part of it."

"You're aware that you're opening yourself to further criticism?"

"Yes, Mr Griffith," Roger quickly spoke into the phone, "Sorry, we won't take up anymore of your time. Do not come to any of our shows! Thank you!"

"What is wrong with you?" I hissed and pried the phone back to my own lips again, "Milton Keynes, we're playing a huge show there."

"Freddie!"

"You know what?" Hayes scoffed a little, "I may take you up on your offer. Only to prove it makes no difference whether I hear it live or on record, your music doesn't appeal to me."

"I look forward to it!" I declared before I clicked the phone back onto its receiver.

"You. Fucking. Idiot!" Roger exclaimed, "Why would you invite him to write an article about a live show?"

"To prove him wrong!"

"Freddie, you know how popular Rolling Stone is! An article all about how bad Queen are live? It isn't going to bode well for us!"

"As I said, we're going to prove him wrong." I said with conviction. "We have nothing to worry about."

—-

A/N-
Yup, back with one last, short, Freddie-fic. Hope you'll all enjoy it! 🤍