HOW MY DAUGHTER CLEO LOUISE MERCURY TOOK DOWN PAUL RODGERS

Essay and photos by Dave Krejci

Freddie Mercury channeled a message to Paul Rodgers last night, via my eight-year old daughter's beautiful face. I kid you not. But I realize such a loft claim necessitates explanation. If you can bear with me. . .

I got my first LP in 1976, when I was eight -- Queen's Sheer Heart Attack. At age 11, I saw Queen at the St. Paul Civic Center Arena. I took punches in fourth grade defending their honor and later fought on Freddie's behalf against an army of KISS fiends. In my twenties I painted my left-hand fingernails black in homage to Mercury and have kept a Heineken label for 15 years from the beer I had when Freddie died (his brand of choice). All the while, of course, I have listened to Queen for so many hours that the band built a small home in my skull due to their repeated visits.

Then, I grew up. Got married and had a child. It happens. We "mature." Except, I didn't entirely make that transition. Skipping to 1997, when my wife and I had our child, we named her Cleo Louise Mercury.

Why name your child after a dead rock star? Fair question. My wife is obviously infinitely tolerant of my insanity and obsessions. But for me Freddie Mercury represents the living at its highest form: exploding with creativity, love and daring. His talent was immense, but his soul was even more so, inhaling so deeply it created a vacuum in its wake. What better vibe to convey on your child than the vibe of life itself?

Cobain included a reference to Freddie in his suicide note that sums it up pretty well:

"For example, when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begin, it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy."

Bad grammar forgiven due to his poor state of mind I thought, hell yes, that's the power of Freddie. But it raises the point of my whole glorious experience last night and ultimately gets us closer to that compelling lead I introduced at this article's outset: few can love, inspire and connect with a people like Freddie Mercury. Indeed, Freddie can do it even in death.

And so eight-year old Cleo Louise Mercury went to see Queen (with Paul Rodgers) last night, with her ready-to-fight-for-Freddie father in tow. It was her first concert, to see who wrote "Tie Your Mother Down" and "We Will Rock You," and perhaps to learn a little more about that freakily dressed, mad-toothed madonna with whom she shares a name.

We started out the evening at the T-Shirt stand where she said to the man behind the table, "Do you have any that don't say Paul Rodgers on them?" Apparently my preconception about Rodgers as Freddie's replacement was concreted in my daughter's head as well. "Bad Company Makes Bad Queen," I think I heard myself saying a couple times at the house. Shame on me.

Let's sum up the problem with Rodgers as Queen frontman by using a comparative literature analysis of two of their songs: Rodgers' "Feel Like Making Love" and Mercury's "Get Down Make Love." We can agree, I think, that the two songs are about the same subject. Rodgers' song is a gender-centric ID trip and uses the music to simulate the singer's thrusting machismo during the implied act:

du dut DUH
du dut DUH
du dut DUH
I feel like making love

Clearly, the song is all about Rodgers (or, worse, a specific part of Rodgers). He feels like making love and indeed what we hear is the sound of him doing just that.

Mercury's "Get Down Make Love" takes a wildly different approach.

I suck your mind
You blow my head
Make love inside your bed
Everybody Get Down Make Love.

Freddie makes it a reciprocal act (I suck, you blow), does it in their bed and then calls for everybody to make love. A much more encompassing and communal approach to love-making than Rodgers' narcissistic pursuits. The music itself is a psychsensual joyride that makes even the dumbest gay-bashing pissant curious about Freddie's expertise.

It wasn't Rodgers' wretched bluesy-scat interpretation of "We Are the Champions" that got to me, or his unbelievable fashion mishaps, or his getting the name of "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" wrong ("this is a crazy little song... it's called 'Crazy Little Love'"), or his playing the intro to that song completely wrong on the guitar, or even his attempt at Live-Aiding the mic stand in a wife-beater T-shirt. It was his utter inability to connect with the crowd.

Even in death, Freddie was more present than Rodgers. Quickly into the evening Brian May walked to two chairs to the end of the stage runway, and sat down. Devout Queen fans knew he was about to sing "Love of My Life," a live duet he once shared with Mercury. May, an infinitely humble and precious arch of a man, spoke quietly about Freddie's absence but that he was always with us and if we joined in singing with him, Freddie would be listening.

Cleo and I were less than twenty feet from the stage and not only heard but saw the sincerity bleeding from May's face. He quietly began to play the ballad and sing the beautiful song in his hallowed voice. Next to him was the empty chair where, in a better world, Freddie would have sat awaiting his turn to sing. When the moment came, we took over for Freddie’s missing voice. Time for a cliché: it was a moment I will never forget. Whether I imagined that May looked close to tears I do not know. But it's what I saw.

About an hour later, in a completely dark arena we heard the ever-recognizable sound of Freddie's piano. A massive screen above the stage lit up to show Freddie performing in concert, at the piano. And then he sang. Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger, now he’s dead. Forget that this was a 25-year-old video recording pumped through PA speakers in a hockey arena. It was haunting, ethereal, magical... pick your word of choice.

The live band backed up Freddie through the piece, cutting to more live footage through the infamous operatic segue. Seeing Mercury's face sing arguably his greatest song, and hearing Brian May and Roger Taylor back him up beyond the grave, was stunning on every account. Even Cleo, who leans far more toward the May rockers than the Mercury melodramas, found the moment sad, happy and heavy.

For me, there could have been no better way to show my daughter who this man was than seeing him up close, hearing him loud and beautiful, and witness the way the crowd was held in his hand, even after death. If there ever was a doubt in her mind that Freddie Mercury holds a certain greatness, I like to think it has been erased.

Many other songs were nothing short of fabulous. "Tie Your Mother Down" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" blew our heads off just as prescribed. "Under Pressure" came off remarkably well without either singer present, and May's 10-minute guitar solo was everything I remembered it was 25 years ago. Cleo says her highlight was "We Will Rock You" which was certainly something to behold. Anytime you get thousands singing along with a primal beat (and not motivated by the collective desire to have a team score a goal, point or run) it raises the adrenaline high.

Brian, Paul and Roger took their final bows together at the end of the stage runway, less than 15 feet from Cleo and me. Roger looked like a gracious, handsome and tired Judy Densch -- and somehow I mean that nicely. Brian looked like he was transcended, appreciative of the crowd's affection. Cleo agreed he looked kind, a little old, and in the right place. I thought the highest thing I could think -- he looked like kind of man you’d trust with your daughter.

But Paul, he continued looking cock-sure, like he felt he still needed to prove to the crowd just how adept at making love he really was. Not really stopping and looking into anyone's faces, just superficially gliding right on by.

But then he looked our way and saw Cleo waving passively and standing on her chair as she had been doing for two and a half hours. Rodgers froze. His face instantly changed in every way, melting into the look of a father seeing his daughter. A look of complete good and connection. His eyes said hello, he smiled unlike any way he'd smiled all evening, and he blew her a kiss. He looked at her for another second and then turned away.

A girl named Mercury took down Paul Rodgers and raised him to a place Freddie would have been the moment he walked on the stage, not while walking off. And it took a girl named Cleo to remind me that love is everywhere -- even in places I don’t want to see it.

Dave Krejci is a Minneapolis-based musician and inventor of the Cleophone. He played in the experimental band Green Machine and currently leads the similarly sonic Reverend Strychn Trio