Queen played at Imperial College, London, UK with Mike Grose on bass
- This is first public performance in London and first concert accredited with the name Queen -
During this show, the group announced to the small crowd (about fifty people) that the singer Tim Staffell had left the band and that their new frontman is Freddie Mercury
📸 Pic 2: In this note taken from Queen's first BBC session Freddie still using his birth name in 1973
The following day, the living room of 40 Ferry Road was almost entirely silent. Brian had been right, the scarf hadn't sold and he'd earned a few quid from Tim, who was still a bit bummed he hadn't won their little bet. The thought of Fred purposely not selling the scarf to make him lose had crossed his mind a few times, but when he brought it up, Fred shut it down and said it was 'utter rubbish, a good salesman would never lose a deal over something as trivial as you and Brian's shenanigans'.
(Fred had said that so fast he'd ended up choking on his spit. Roger, who had just been leaving to go smoking, had laughed hard enough to momentarily lose his depth perception and bumped into the door.)
As for at the moment, Roger was doing his laundry in – you guessed it – the laundry room. The man didn't fancy doing it on a regular basis, so he saved it all up; shirts, knickers, towels... all of it in a big pile. His monthly laundry was nothing short of a work-out.
One of the other flatmates, Jon Lord, had come out of his room to go for a smoke, then spotted the newly bought beers and decided a few Stella's couldn't hurt either. Tim and Fred were both drawing, by the table and on the couch respectively.
The relatively peaceful enviroment was shattered when Fred ripped the paper he was drawing on out of his book. "Anatomy is so hard", he groaned as he crumpled it up. Tim looked up from his own sketchbook. "What's up with it?" he asked. Fred showed his reference photo, a flimsy little thing he'd gotten at the college both men went to. "Love, there's clothes covering up all the parts I can't get right – how am I supposed to improve?"
From the laundry room, Roger shouted something. "Ask the naked guy at my school to pose for you, Freddie!"
A bit of rustling came from Brian's bedroom before the door swung open. "What? Why is there a naked guy at your school?" He had moved his hair out of his face with an atrocious headband and wore a concerned expression – somehow, he pulled it off. Opposed to Brian, Fred felt awfully interested. "A naked guy? Send 'im here! I could use a model." Across from him, Tim gave him a look.
A huge pile of clothing came through the door of the laundry room. "'Kay, so – y'know that one guy, right? The one I talk about, the gremlin... who sits next to me in anatomy?" the pile asked.
"Blackmore?! He's a naked guy?" Fred made a face. "I don't like him, nevermind."
"No!" Roger's face peaked out from behind the pile, looking past it. He had to do trouble balancing the big stack and looked so silly Tim burst out laughing. "One of his... friends." Fred looked even more suprised at that. "He has friends?!"
Getting tired, Roger dropped the pile on the floor. It gave a flat thud. "My arms are gonna fall of, fuck." He sighed, re-orientating himself back into the conversation.
"Well. So, uh, I was going to smoke and Blackmore – the gremlin – was screaming at this half-naked guy. Man wasn't half-ugly either, I think you wouldn't mind havin' 'im here." He took a seat on the edge of the couch Fred was sitting on.
"That floor is not clean", Tim pointed out. Roger rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Back to the naked guy!" Fred clapped his hands. "Could you perhaps charm him up to let me draw him? Maybe make it a commission? I'm dying for a day out or an evening at a restaurant."
"Doesn't sound very proper", Jon Lord yelled out from the kitchen. "You make it sound like a whore job."
"And where do you get off on being a prude?" Roger sputtered. Fred tilted his head in a nod. "Yeah! You and Judy've been caught here in the living room! Traumatizing, that was." That made Jon choke on his beer. "She's my wife, not a bloke you'd jump onto upon hearing about him!"
"Rotter!" Fred yelled.
Fred Bulsara hated it when people stole looks at his works. Sneaked glances at his projects. Nicked sights of his processes. That was something rude, a thing you just didn't do if you had any self-respect – oh, who was he kidding. Bloody hypocrite. He did it himself just as often.
The fact proved itself in fashion design class, when Fred sat next to Ringo Starr.
Now did Ringo not seem inherently mean, but better safe than sorry. Fred was pretty good at boxing (source: himself), but he'd rather not end up like that unfortunate woman.
Obviously, that wasn't his real name (or well, Fred hoped no one would name their baby Ringo), but his real name remained a mystery to Fred and digging in Ringo's business? Digging your own grave, that is! He didn't necessarily know Ringo, but in the entire district of West-London and its schools, people watched out for him. There had to be a reason for that, people don't get intimidated by someone for no reason! Rumors were that he'd once beaten up a girl so hard that no one was sure if she was still alive.
Well, back to the point. When Fred looked over at Ringo's notebook, the page was filled with something that maybe resembled a face.
"What's that supposed to be?" Fred asked. Ringo slid the notebook to Fred so he could see better. "This is my mate George, lad", he explained.
Fred looked over the table at their classmate, George Harrison. He didn't say anything, but surely... George wasn't that ugly! Poor George! In Ringo's drawing, he looked like a cow's bum! Fred kept his mouth shut, though – saying that would be rude and Ringo was someone who you didn't want to offend.
"Looks like a cow's bum to me", Ronnie Dio, who was less polite, pointed out from besides Fred on the other side. Luckily, Ringo could see the humor of it and laughed. "It's abstract, lad. George doesn't actually look like this. Good for him."
"And what are you midgets talking about?"
Fred flinched at Mr. Osbourne's sudden arrival, and the reek of drugs didn't go unnoticed to him. Ringo seemed unbothered (why wouldn't he be), but Ronnie's mouth dropped open in offense. "Midgets!" he repeated angrily in offense. He was a bit on the shorter size and Mr. Osbourne always picked on that.
You might be wondering: huh? Didn't Roger Taylor's school – the Barts and London Dentistry School, yada yada – have a Mr. Osbourne too? And Fred's on the Ealing Art College... how does that work?
Well – you see, Mr. Ozzy Osbourne was an avid diva when it came to substance abuse ('abuse?! I take very well of my substances', he'd say when the topic was brought up), and that was expensive. He worked two jobs in education (yes, the ETA between schools was about an hour) and still didn't have a solid home. He lived in a hotelroom.
"Well, aren't you quite short?" Osbourne said. "How tall are you again?" Ronnie was furious. "I'm not even in this class!" he exclaimed, stood up and left. Heaving a sigh, Fred followed. He needed to bleach his nostrils because Mr. Osbourne stank.
Art History. The most boring class in the world to many. Well, Fred didn't necesarily hate it, the board was just so far away. It was hard for him to read what was written on it. He'd noticed that for the past days, ever since he'd moved seats to sit closer by the window that was always open - in the back.
Not today, though! He was thoroughly prepared, not in for an eye-killing period. The lion-maned guy beside him – Robert Plant – squinted and looked over as Fred took a pair of binoculars out of his bag. "What the fuck", whispered Robert. Fred flashed him as much of a smile as he ever did, carefully.
And as expected, Fred could read the board with the binoculars in front of his eyes. He felt himself start to relax into his better-eyed position. No more squinting and headaches - now he could enjoy the slight breeze from the window *and* have access to education! Perhaps he'd even saved himself from a very possible headache-induced death - he was a genius. An absolute genius!
His thought process was cut short when suddenly, everything went black. The sudden scent of substances didn't go unnoticed as well. He blinked. Was some junkie blocking his view? He lowered the binoculars in wonder and was met with someone who, not unlike Osbourne, stank enough to confirm Fred's suspicions.
Mr. Bob Dylan, teacher of art history, held out his hand to confiscate Fred's binoculars. Filled almost entirely with pure reluctance, Dylan's stench was the persuasion to listen. The quicker that's done, the quicker he leaves and let's me breathe normal air again, Fred thought to himself as he pushed the device into Dylan's hands.
"What in the world?!" Brian's glass shattered on the floor as he emerged from his bedroom. He was met with the sight of Fred on the couch with a man entirely in the altogether, both turning to look at him. The pencil-sharpener stuck in his hair matched perfectly with the look of absolute flabbergastment on his face.
...
Fred was goldfishing, opening and closing his mouth and unable to produce any sound, but the naked man smiled. "Hi! I'm Ian, schoolmate of Roger, who lives here!" He didn't seem at all fazed by a stranger seeing him nude.
"I'm aware Rog lives here", Brian whispered, slowly retreating back into his room. He'd clean that glass later.
